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The key was confidence.
He had it all planned out. He would slam the doors open dramatically and announce in his most authoritative voice that they needed to talk. And then he would demand answers, and he wasn’t going to leave until he got them. Until he finally knew what was going on once and for all, and all his fears and doubts could be put to rest. There was a good reason for everything that was happening, he was sure. A misunderstanding or miscommunication that had sent his entire life spiraling into disaster, and once it was cleared up things would make sense again. He would finally feel in control again, and not like his sanity was slipping from his fingers with each passing second of fear and uncertainty.
The Director would tell him the truth. (Unless she didn’t. Unless she was a murderer.) (But she wasn’t, of course she wasn’t.) They’d clear up the misunderstanding and Bal could come back (unless he couldn’t. Unless he was guilty.) (But he wasn’t, he couldn’t possibly be.) This would work. (They couldn’t both be telling the truth.) He just had to be confident. (He had never been less confident in his life.)
It was a good plan, he thought, and it probably would have worked if every coherent thought hadn’t flown out of his head the second he heard Ballister’s voice as he approached the door.
There was a rush of emotions almost too fast for him to register. Relief, overwhelming and irrational relief, at first. Bal was back - he was alive - he had come back to clear things up after all, and soon everything would be back to normal. But that instinctive relief was quashed immediately by confusion and anxiety as he remembered the attack earlier. That girl, taking out an entire squadron like it was nothing - Ballister, attacking him - what if he’d come back to finish off the Director?
(He wouldn’t, of course he wouldn’t.) (Unless he would.)
The muffled voices rose and fell, but it was hard to tell what emotions they contained through the thick wooden door. Glancing around surreptitiously, Ambrosius slowly eased the door open.
“ - why me?” Bal was saying. “You could have framed anyone. You could have made it look like an accident, or an assassination. Why did you frame me?”
“You truly don’t realize, do you?” The Director said.
“Realize what?” Bal asked.
“That you’ve always been the greatest threat to the security of this kingdom.”
That’s ridiculous, thought Ambrosius.
“That’s ridiculous”, said Ballister.
“Not you, personally,” the Director said. “It’s what you represent. The first weakening of the system that has kept us safe for a thousand years. To allow a commoner to become a knight might seem insignificant to some. But it’s not what Gloreth wanted.” Ambrosius’s eyes widened. She couldn’t be implying what he thought she was. Even having come here to confront her, even with all his doubts, Ambrosius reeled at the apparent confirmation. Ballister was right. He’d been right all along. If he’d just listened - if he hadn’t been so stupidly, foolishly blind - rage bubbled up inside him, and he prepared to charge in, to denounce the Director and stand with Ballister like he always should have.
The Director fiddled with something in front of her, holding something Ambrosius couldn’t see. “Gloreth knew how to keep us safe,” she said, voice hard. “And as long as you’re around, Ballister, I’m afraid none of us are safe.” And she turned, and rammed a familiar black blade through Ballister’s chest.
The world went white as Ambrosius watched the blade sink home, a high pitched ringing filling his ears. All the rage drained away in an instant, replaced by nauseous shock. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. He watched numbly as Ballister looked down in shock and confusion at the spreading bloodstain, shaky hands coming up to grasp the sword as he stumbled backwards. He needed to move, needed to do something, but he was frozen to the spot, heart pounding wildly, eyes fixed on Ballister as he slowly collapsed to the ground.
“So yes, Ballister. I framed you. I killed the queen,” the Director said, stepping gracefully over Ballister’s outstretched hand. “Gloreth did whatever it took to keep the monsters out. And so will I. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to report that at least one threat has been neutralized.”
It took a moment for him to realize that the Director was heading towards the doors. He couldn’t stop staring at Ballister’s still body, at the blood spreading from his motionless form. He only managed to rip his eyes away from the scene moments before the Director threw the doors open and just barely managed to dodge behind the swinging door as the Director passed him. She continued down the hallway without ever looking back, elegant and graceful as ever. As though nothing had happened. As though she hadn’t just murdered a man - murdered Ballister - in cold blood.
No, not murdered. That couldn’t be true. There had to still be time, there had to be. Ambrosius’s legs finally responded to his frantic pleas, and he dashed across the room, falling to his knees beside Ballister, heedless of the blood staining his armor. “Bal,” he choked out. “Bal - please -”
Ballister didn’t move, and for a heart-stopping moment, Ambrosius was sure he was too late. Bal was dead, and it was his fault. His fault for watching it happen and making no move to stop it, his fault for not believing him in the first place, for not supporting him, for ever believing that the man he loved more than anything could be a murderer.
He could have cried in relief when Ballister opened his eyes with a groan. Still alive. He could make it, he told himself as the pool of blood continued to spread beneath them, he had to make it. He pressed his hands against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay, just hold on. Please hold on.”
Ballister winced and hissed. He fixed Ambrosius with a cold stare, disdain written across his face, and Ambrosius felt his heart drop. Ballister had never looked at him like that before. “Goldenloin,” he said. “I suppose you were in on it the whole time too?”
“No,” Ambrosius said, horrified. “No, I would never, Bal, you have to know -” he stopped, the irony of the situation dawning on him. Ballister merely snorted and rolled his eyes.
“You know there’s no point in lying to a dying man, right?”
“No!” Ambrosius said, hands spasming against the wound. “You’re not - you’re not dying. And I know I don’t deserve it but please, please believe me. I didn’t know. You were right, you were right about everything, I should have listened to you in the first place and I’m sorry, Bal, I’m so, so sorry.”
Ballister didn’t respond. His breathing was shallower, Ambrosius was sure, and the blood flow was slowing under his fingers. He was too late. There was nothing he could do. This was his punishment then, for betraying Bal so deeply. To watch the man he loved die, and to know he died hating Ambrosius. Tears slipped unheeded down his cheeks as he pushed harder on the wound, as though it could possibly make a difference at this point. “Come on,” he said desperately, voice cracking. “You can’t - I know, I know you hate me, and I don’t blame you but please, I can’t lose you. I love you, I love you so much, and I don’t - I can’t -”
“Holy SHIT you’re in love with your NEMESIS?” Ballister shouted, sitting bolt upright.
“ . . . what?” Ambrosius said faintly.
“Oh, this is good. This is so good! What a tragic tale! A knight pining away for his mortal enemy! A love that could never be requited!” Ballister jumped up, pacing and waving his hands animatedly as he talked, the sword stuck through his middle waving unsettlingly with every motion. “How long have you been in love with him? Does he know? Would you be willing to renounce your knighthood and join him in villainy? I don’t know if we’re accepting applications at the moment but I can check. How up to date is your resume?”
“What is happening,” Ambrosius said helplessly.
“Nimona we gotta go, the guards -” The voice stuttered to a stop as its owner skidded around the corner, freezing as he took in the scene. Ambrosius was sure his own face mirrored the look of shock on the newcomer’s, because the newcomer was Ballister.
Stabbed-Ballister turned to face New Ballister, apparently unbothered by the doppelganger. “Boss!” he said. “I got all the footage, it’s perfect! Did you know this guy is in love with you? And look, I got your sword back!” He plucked at the hilt of the sword, causing it to bounce up and down.
“Please don’t do that, that’s very distressing,” Ballister said, a sentiment Ambrosius agreed with wholeheartedly.
“Ugh, fine,” the other Ballister said. With a casual motion he ripped the sword free of his chest, and then in a flash of pink light -
Of course. The shapeshifter. Ambrosius was slightly embarrassed about how long it took him to catch on, but in his defense, he was having a very rough week.
“Here ya go, boss!” The girl said, tossing the sword to Ballister. The real Ballister, who was alive and, judging by appearances, not stabbed at all. His knees nearly gave way under the wave of absolute, dizzying relief, and in two strides he’d crossed the room, taking Bal by the shoulders and looking him up and down.
“It’s really you? You’re alright?” he asked, frantically checking for any sign of hidden injury. “My god, Bal, I thought - I thought you -” He was shaking, he realized, bloody hands clutching at Ballister’s shoulders so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
“Ambrosius? What -”
“No, wait,” he said. This might be his only chance to say it, before Ballister told him to get lost. Before Ballister told him how disgusted he was, that he never wanted to see his face again. And maybe he didn’t deserve the chance to say it, but Ballister deserved to hear it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about your arm and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry I tried to arrest you. And I know it’s too late, and I know you must hate me for - for everything, but . . . Bal, I thought I was going to watch you die. I thought you were going to die because of me. And it would have broken me. So please. Even if you can’t forgive me, even if you never want to see me again, please believe that I love you, and I’m sorry.”
He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground between them, unwilling to look up and see that look of hatred and disdain on Ballister’s face again, no matter how much he deserved it. He braced himself, waiting for the recriminations and accusations. But the voice, when it came, was warm and fond.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Look at me.” A gentle hand touched his face, tilting his head up to meet Ballister’s eyes. Ballister held his gaze for a moment with a soft smile, and then pulled him into a tight embrace. And Ambrosius broke.
He collapsed into Ballister’s chest, choking out more apologies as Ballister stroked his hair and whispered assurances. He clung tightly, tightly enough that he could feel every inhale, every beat of his heart. Ballister was alive. He was alive, he was okay, he didn’t hate Ambrosius. Everything he’d been so sure he’d lost only moments ago, returned to him like a miracle.
It was a moment that was only very slightly ruined by the girl making exaggerated retching noises behind them.
Ballister pulled away far too soon, face regretful. “We need to go,” he said, “the guards will be here any second. Nimona, you have the footage?”
“Sure do,” she said. A pair of wings popped into existence behind her. “You ready?”
Ballister looked at him uncertainly. “And . . . Ambrosius? Are you coming?”
“Of course,” Ambrosius said immediately. “I’m not leaving you. Not again.”
Ballister smiled and reached out to take Ambrosius’s hand in his, gripping tightly. The smooth slide of metal fingers sent a spike of guilt through Ambrosius even as he squeezed back.
They had a lot to talk about. There was going to be a lot to work through, and it wasn’t going to be easy. But it would be worth it. Ballister was worth it. And if he could offer forgiveness, then Ambrosius would work every day for the rest of his life to be worthy of it.