Chapter One

Say, little star… Do you wish for freedom?

When the question arose, he was kneeled in ravels of flowers, their petals wide and happy, ashine like moonlight. These flowers— moon lilies— were the supposed tears of a lunar spirit, disenchanted with the world after she was forced to separate from her lover: a god of the sun— or so the legends claim.

… Their snow-white blossoms detested the brightness of the day, and cowered away until the eclipsing of the night, to which they would creep out and disclose all of their elusive, shimmery splendor. When he was younger, he had stolen one from the garden, bewitched by its magical incandescence. However, it had shriveled up the instant he invited it into his living quarters, and it has since been abandoned in some forgotten pot somewhere— left a withered husk of their natural luminance. 

For the sun and the moon were hopelessly codependent when it came to the other. They subsisted on the warmth the other supplied and occupied their orbit perpetually— like sunlight that feeds the fluorescence of the earth and moonlight that facilitates the tides and calls rain, they cannot hope to live otherwise, entrapped in an endless twilit tango. Together, they formulate a stable axis. Together, they embrighten, nurture, and mediate our world. 

However, that rueful idol had naught but her blooms and naught but the luminescent tears to which they were fertilized alongside the frigidities of the ever-night— a dawn that would never break as she wept and wept for a love forsaken. 

But who would hear her cry now that humans have murdered the sun?

He settled the half-assembled wreath in his lap, looking toward his companion with eyes of broad, innocent curiosity. Among the poignant luster, long wavy strands glimmered an argent silver— his eyes a lambent, brocaded shade of gold— harkening fine jewelry— and his complexion as clear as glass and pale as moonshine. 

Celestial mist pooled around them, weaving dusty stars and swirling constellations. It enshrouded this man— nay, this being— in an empyreal veil. He was truly unlike the other inhabitants of this desolate world— unlike those stardust-woven children, unburdened by their hardwired, inorganic cheer. This man was an anomaly— a hidden sublimity among the dirt and soot— a true diamond in the rough. A neoteric amongst the ennui and their merry servitude— for he was wholly— enviously— human-like. 

Momentarily distracted, his unworldly companion raised his forefinger toward the small school of fish that were paddling around leisurely in the air about them. Their translucent, opalescent fins were aglow in the permeation of the plenilune— unnaturally large, amethystine, and vigilant— a silent and deathless guardian. Like disturbed water, ripples of shock shot through its pellucid body where it had been poked on its theoretical nose, and it thus retreated in a whirlwind of scattering, damp particles. Laughing to himself, the older man retreated and lifted a knee instead to hug as he squished his cheek against it, and fixed his gilded gaze upon the eternal moon, palpably musing.  

“… Little star, this freedom I speak of… I’ve told you before, haven’t I?” He continued, his voice was wispy— both distant and near— an ethereal echo. 

“… Beneath this boundless sea of stars would opportunity and wonder await you. Boundless hills of land… vast oceans and towering mountain peaks… Art and music… Connection and love… As you are no more than just a cog to destiny’s ever-revolving wheel, a thrall to its ruthless gyrations… You do not know what it means to be human… Not truly.”  

Indeed, he was no more than a constituent. A fragment of a star molded into the shape of a boy. When Their erosion inevitably came— Their supernova— he, a mere proxy— would assume Their position at the apex of the cosmos— loftier than the sun— and brighter than the moon.  

He cannot disobey his function.  

Hoping for more— no, yearning for even the most innocuous of indulgences was utter blasphemy. He was nothing but a replacement, a substitute, a stopgap for a piece of dying machinery. He did not have the liberty to dream.

 He… could not disobey his function.  

“But there is a way,” his friend, this mysterious and meteoritic force that sidled into his world with the furtiveness of a snake and the might of a crashing wave. In that honeyed poet’s voice of his, he beckoned the boy closer— even without the elegant hums of his lyre, deposited onto the adjacent ground untouched, he was like an enticing siren’s song— and he couldn’t turn away. He shuffled closer, crown forgotten, mouth slightly ajar as he listened with rapt. The man plucked one of the delicate blooms and tucked it behind the boy’s ear.

“Oh, my sweet boy— beloved of the stars, their small and ignorant prince… You long for this freedom, don’t you? The freedom to laugh, to smile, to redden with anger, to cry tears of sorrow… to wish, to want… to have… what they have, is that right?”  

His hand was as cold as ice, almost wraithlike— and the boy involuntarily shuddered when he came to palm his small, powerless cheek.  

“… You needn’t be ashamed— there is nothing wrong with coveting that which we do not have.” 

Perhaps… yes, perhaps this is when it started— that first delectable bite of the apple, ensnared by eyes of gold and a smile of gentle deception.  

“… And there is a way, my dear boy. There is always a way… “  

Suddenly, his surroundings shifted. He was kowtowed before an extravagant altar. At the crux of the platform stood Them— Their snow-white hair and diaphanous garbs irradiated in the efflux of heavenly light that poured in through the stained glass, assorted in images of winged warriors and fragile maidens— faceless, but watching. They were haloed in a radiant, prismatic luminescence; the concentrated grandeur of the universe, curling around them in an eddying haze of stardust. They did not regard him with Their eyes of cosmic opaline— They never did, for he was a parasite, gradually siphoning Their lifeforce; Their stature strong and broad-shouldered, but simultaneously phantasmal, pale and dejected. 

And to Them, he was the personification of all that They loathed about Themself—

Even now, They will refuse to look his way. Even now, They will scorn him like one would a buzzing insect, craving attention. Incomplete. Useless—

“You are a cog, Prince of the Stars. And you cannot disobey your function,” is what They would tell him, time and time again, drilling those words into his skull like a jabbing knife, until he had no more blood left to bleed. Ensuring that he comprehended his own worthlessness. 

But is that all that he truly was, then? A mere function? He hadn’t the right to his own dictation, fixed to destiny’s script? He would continue performing for the entertainment of callous gods until his last drawn breath, his future predetermined? Then for what purpose did the stars breathe life into him in the first place? Was his existence so inherently null? 

Could he… never be human?

“There is a way.”

A way? There was a way? 

Was there truly a way to escape this suffocating euthymia? 

To see what glories lie beyond the horizon? 

To realize the dreams he could only entertain in his sleep? 

… Once again, his environment warped in a blur of color, darkness overtaking the sanctum and its holy refulgence, his other half and Their disgusted stare. Puzzled, he surveyed the tenebrosity— it possessed neither a beginning nor cessation, it seemed. There was no breeze, nor the slightest hint of movement; it was still, eerily so, and agonizingly frigid. Boundless nothingness— bereft of life like the empty horror of Chaos.  

But among the darkness, there was a single splash of something— wet, coating his hands, a sword of ceremonial filigree locked in his trembling hands. He let out a gasp of astonishment; it dropped, clanking with a ghastly echo. He stared at his palms, so tiny, so innocent at the time— painted gold with the ichor of the heavens— the death of a dynasty. His heart jackrabbited, his throat constricted; the unbearable cold metamorphosed into blazing heat, and he couldn’t breathe, like the walls of the world were closing in— and he hid his face away, a choked sob ringing out—  

The distance howled; a cacophony of desperate prayers and the destructive crackle of flames. Their voices, shrill and anguished, broken and deafening wails— they wormed into his flesh like voracious maggots, setting his veins afire. Hands came over his ears, but the distortions only intensified, demonical in nature. He felt the bile rise, overcome with gut-churning guilt and fear— fingernails ranked downward, leaving dark streaks of blood as he toppled onto his knees. Globs of tears cataracted down his cheeks as flashes of devastation flitted by his vision— marble towers upended, hellish flames tearing through the streets, mutilated corpses abounded. Shouts and cries for mercy ignored by the compassion of the stars— but enjoyed thoroughly by the malevolent light of the scarlet moon. 

It was the end of paradise, reduced to a tomb of regret and despair. His people but rubble beneath the ash of blissful ignorance. And he— 

He was alone.

Alone to shoulder the weight of their remorse and his own, portentous sin. Because he was the nexus of the storm— the harbinger itself who foolishly disobeyed his function and shamelessly reached for impossible ideals. 

Within the endless dark, he could not stain another soul with his evil. Torturesome as its tortuous unending-ness was albeit, it was better this way. These hands would not harm anyone else. This lonesomeness would infest him like a plague but at least his clumsiness and his insolence would be contained— at least he would not be selfish. 

Then, he detected a faint light. Sparkling somewhere afar, like waning candlelight. And, as usual, curiosity compelled him to act, inhibitions notwithstanding. He approached the phenomenon with the hesitancy of a frightened fawn, his eyes squinted reflexively— for the closer and closer he drew to it, what was originally a fragile, flickering fireball transformed into a burning sun, purifying the long night. 

And from the blinding whiteness, a gloved hand outstretched. Veiled in luster, he could not make out the person’s expression; however, there was something warming about it— like basking under the summer sky. Distantly, he could hear the hiss of waves as they lapped against the shore, and the subtlest tickle of sand beneath his barren toes and the acute squealing of the gulls. The tempest of his heartbeat seemed to calm, and he was transfixed, like a lost ship to the luminosity of a lighthouse. 

 The darkness was comfortable, the darkness was safe— 

… but ever the fool, he could not help but chase the radiance of the dawn.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

… He awoke to something nibbling on a strand of his hair. Once the initial fogginess faded, he descried spotted plumage and a pair of beady eyes. When he shifted his elbow just slightly, it startled the creature— and it retreated in a zoom of feathers, exiting through the partly opened window. He hauled himself upward and hastily brushed away his dribbling drool, pinching the spot between his eyes as he sought to meditate the last dregs of a migraine and readjusting himself to reality.  

His documents were askew and somewhat damp, whatever sentence he was in the process of scripting before he was spirited into his dreamworld reduced to smudged ink, his now-dried quill knocked aside. Midday light suffused his surroundings, illuminating fluttering dust and enveloping him like a warm blanket. 

Velvety curtains swayed gently in the lukewarm breeze— it was midspring, so the unbearable heat of the Mediterranean summer had yet to fully manifest graciously enough, allowing him to relish the quaint weather.

He then stepped away from his desk, a jumbled clutter of books and scrolls and half-completed reports, and approached the window, large and arched. From where his office was positioned, he had the most wonderful panorama of the ocean— royal blue waves against a cloudless sky. With a deep intake, he reacquainted himself with the ever-rejuvenating aroma of saltwater— and there was something distinctly homelike about it— something that stirred his soul in a way that nothing else did. He could feel his pain lessening, momentary peace eclipsing him and the ghost of a smile just barely reaching his eyes.   

Still…  

… It was that same dream again.

It began as a simple ripple, but when his traitorous brain began to replay those gruesome images, his anxiety became a roiling typhoon. He permitted himself only a handful of grounding breaths, however. One hand cradling his chest while he crutched himself with the other, using the wall for leverage, head hung lowly. He had only just returned from his eastern sojourn and there were heaps of unfinished work that still required his attention… but those nefarious shadows along the walls— they would stalk him regardless of how many exercises he plowed through. He merely had to cope with it.  

He gave his head a firm shake, then proceeded to sweep back his sweaty bangs. He pushed himself forward— as if wading through a pit of tar, each step he took was heavier than the last. His body was achy, enervated, unalleviated by what he could barely consider a “nap”, but fraught and restless. 

He checked himself momentarily in the mirror of a rather plain vanity— it had come furnished with the office— but it usually did not go any use. Fixing his disastrous bedhead was tantamount to writing with your eyes closed, so he left it untouched. It possessed a unearthly likeness to that of fresh snow, bangs slicked back but incurably tousled, and trimmed to his earline— a spontaneous decision, and he was still growing accustomed to the coldness at his nape that his outgrown ponytail used to shield.  

On the contrary, his ensemble was the pinnacle of decorum. A black, high-collared undershirt with an overlaying white garment with a deep V, the ends of the voluminous sleeves adorned in zigzagging patterns of gold. Overtop he wore a navy robe that functioned as a sort of overcoat, the sleeves slitted with their corners crowned with intricate golden emblems. The white overshirt was tucked into a pair of form-fitting dress pants, which, in turn, were tucked into a pair of knee-high boots with an elegant gold trim. He wore a myriad of different accessories too, including a gold, diamond-shaped brooch affixed to the area between his neckline and chest, silken black gloves and a singular earring adorned by a dangly, sapphire teardrop. Priorly, he wore the official uniform, but since he was promoted, he was given free rein— which was a blessing in disguise for him, as those aforementioned uniforms were far too tight and stuffy for his liking. He preferred loose and casual, but equally sophisticated.  

A subconscious hand rose, caressing the expanse of damaged tissue that ran along the right side of his profile, spanning from the crest of his jawline to his forehead, a scarred, pinkish-red against a medium tone of brown. That particular eye, in juxtaposition to his russet-colored counterpart, was tinted a grayer tone and pressured into a somewhat squint by the presence of the marring. Hidden beneath his rather modest attire were patchworks of similar scars, such as the palms of his hands and spotted across his torso— but he was not as ashamed as them as most people would be, he supposed. He was hardly confident to begin with, so it would be useless to fret over it. 

And besides, there was once someone who told him that scars were representative of triumph, and one should “wear them with honor,” so to speak. He was no hero, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.  

Well, he looked presentable enough, he concluded. He made a brief return to his messy desk, once again reminding himself to tidy up, but knowing him, that likely will not come to fruition. Instead, he just grabbed what pertained to his current assignment and arranged it into a neat enough bundle. He was already well-over his deadline— he may as well submit what he has already completed… but even then, he foresaw a lecture from his notoriously strict manager. Oh boy.

He exited his office. It was a compact but gloriously private space, tucked away in the farthest reaches of the building, and per his egression, he was introduced to one of its grand, capacious corridors. Vaulted ceilings and marbled floors alongside rows of great, arched windows, of which he spotted a blur of unbound, white feathers zipping across. Beyond he could espy the distant outline of the capital: a wondrous, seaside metropolis— christened Alirense— the indefatigable crown jewel of the legendary Kingdom of Igerene and a bustling melting pot of innumerous cultures and ideologies— attracted by the allure of thriving commerce and sleepless tourism. 

And this place— it was the third and highest tier of the sweeping metropolis and the royal domicile of the sacred bloodline that has governed the land since its inception: Castle Montague.

… Specifically, the Diplomatic Relations division within the abutting Senate building, wherein he worked as an ever-busy diplomat under the jurisdiction of House Hermia, who oversaw the country’s social affairs. After generations of feuding and bloodshed and long-standing traditionalism, with the enthronement of the current monarch— King Raphael— Igerene has since reopened its channels, and now are striving to restrengthen their relationships with the surrounding powers.

Technically, he worked directly under one of the throne’s innumerous scions— House Montague consisting of an infamously large family that encapsulated more than a dozen competing heirs— but more specifically, after his promotion, he was elected as the right-hand agent to the princess that was about a year his junior, Noemi— but she was currently on a diplomatic survey with her brother, Prince Vincent, halfway across the sea.

And as a diplomat, the facilitation of these negotiations was the primary duty that was entrusted to him. For instance, he also recently returned from a trip that took him beyond their waters to an archipelago located in the eastern portion of the immense continent of Senju. A diminutive but long-lived country known as Amano in order to liaise with the reigning household of the Aomi province, Clan Mizuhara— a prosperous family of successful and highly revered merchants. 

… However, with Amano entangled in a countrywide political struggle after the untimely demise of their erstwhile emperor, who left neither a will nor child to inherit his obligations. Therefore, what was originally planned as a three-month-long sojourn was reduced to a mere twenty days as the bureau ultimately decided to prioritize his safety amidst all this unforeseen mayhem. 

As a result, he was redirected to Clan Akatsuki of Akamatsu— the smallest and poorest of the four— more so a cardinalate of priests and teachers as opposed to government officials— who were striving to meditate the pandemonium, but their endeavors to alleviate the situation and pacify their fellow clansmen have proven… relatively inefficacious thus far due to their unpopularity and limited resources. 

Nonetheless, they were incredibly hospitable. While he was a bit ashamed to leave empty-handed, due to their kindness, he was able to indulge the little things that usually made these otherwise humdrum trips worthwhile. Sampling the local cuisine, basking in the breathtaking landscapes… Amano was a truly enthralling place. But with hostilities between the clans steadily rising, he feared that its heavenly beauty would end up buried underneath a crucible of war and hatred.

Well, it was not as if the situation in their country was any more excusable.

A pair of maidservants happened to pass him while he was making his way down the hall, mired in flippant gossip as they went about their rounds. Albeit it was hardly your typical scuttlebutt appertaining to harmless scandals and flights of fancy. The conversation topic in question was one he ordinarily went through hoops after hoops to circumvent but alas, to do so would be like avoiding the need to breathe. 

“Codoslia certainly has put up more of a fight than we’ve anticipated, but they are also being unduly stubborn. I mean, they already lack sufficient military strength to sustain a formal opposition against us in the first place… forbidden magics or not, we already have them backed into a corner… the real question is whether those egotists in the College is going to take that humiliation lying down, but it has been mostly radio static on their end.” 

“At this point, they must have already exhausted their avenues,” the other maid suspected. “If this goes on any longer, and College continues to act neutral while the king arms their civilians and drains their materiel, it will be the end of their kingdom as they know it… it’s almost a bit heartbreaking when you look at it from the perspective of their residents… the lower classes are already forced to endure the maltreatment they receive at the hands of the nobility, and now they have all been but abandoned by them.”  

“I don’t know if it’s pure stubbornness or just sheer stupidity. The College must feel pressured… it wouldn’t surprise me if they simply decided to drag the rest of the country down with them. But… regardless, it isn’t looking good for them… especially with His Royal Highness on the battlefield, doom is all that awaits them.”  

… His Royal Highness.

Allegedly, the Crown Prince— Roximus Avraham Montague— was less of a soldier and more so a ruthless cyclone that was dead set on terminating everything that dared to obstruct his warpath— an unavoidable death knell. The fate of their paltry resistance might have been sealed the instant his burning grudge convinced him to join his subjects on the frontlines personally. 

Codoslia used to be a tyrant in its own right. At its genesis, it was the opposite of the “meek,” unpresuming power that it is today. But due to its insubstantial military funding, it was ultimately doomed to fall behind as it were when juxtaposed to its easterly neighbor. The Codoslian people— ambitious was a good way to describe them as dyed-in-the-wool intellectuals, pioneers of the sorcerous arts and indisputable masters of their craft. 

Although the people of Codoslia were mostly pacifistic, that truly only applied to the common people. Scholars, physicians, and bona fide connoisseurs of progression and science spanned the bulk of their talents while having claimed themselves to be above notions of violence. Albeit due to the people’s disinclination toward warfare, with global mandates on magic severely curbing the limits of their potential, they were susceptible to numerous invasions, many of which coordinated by Igerene’s own greed throughout the years, which left this once grand nation but a shadow of its former influence. 

Codoslia’s government was overseen by the Council of Sages, who in turn took direct orders from an elected Grandmaster, and both bodies were intrinsically interconnected with the College of Alchemy— a learning institution devoted to the edification and cultivation of magic notwithstanding its widespread infamy and borderline taboo nature, it was nonetheless looked to as a benchmark of unequaled genius that in turn fostered some of the most reputable intelligentsia of the current era.  

However, many cite that the College has been at the forefront of the class issues that have more or less placed Codoslian society on the road to total upheaval even before they found themselves tangled up in this ruinous conspiracy that preyed on their long-held, deep-rooted contempt for Igerene… and vice versa. 

Igerene provided the necessary protection for Codoslia who, and many would peg the sages of the College as underhanded as an unscrupulous strategist who only ever incurred the dirtiest of tactics— would withhold important resources not found in the eastern continent, so much so that Igerene had no choice but to provide their sworn aid in exchange for survival. Both parties benefited from this arrangement and have appropriately performed throughout the course of many a year now to meet the other’s demands despite their barely concealed aversion to concord… But naturally, that was no longer the case.  

Moreover, the Kingdom of Igerene had contrastively humbler beginnings: situated on the eastern edge of the vast continent of Aeron, it was a pitiful fledgling of a country that was beset by infertility, desolation, and unending fighting. It was mandated by avaricious suzerains who mistreated and exploited the common people for their own convenience. Under their rule, it had become a nexus of brutal serfdom and unjustness. Although many uprisings have occurred before, it was ultimately a young farmgirl who managed to overthrow their oppressors and bring light to their dying land by marshaling the victimized working class under a bloody flag of revolution.

It had been nothing short of a miracle, the people say. How a single audacious woman— a child, no less— was responsible for completely overhauling the status quo within the nation, transforming it from an insignificant speck of land— a hub of exploitation, grief, and rampant famine— into one of the most powerful and feared empires the world has ever seen. 

And she would become the first ruler of this newly established superpower: Emperor Drucilla, otherwise known by her much-feared moniker, Drucilla the Conqueror— and she would continue to expand her reach, ruthlessly squashing any who would foolishly challenge her crusade. Legends even insist that she had been handpicked by the stars themselves to rule and that she was the mortal incarnation of a glorious war god— whom the Church of Igerene would eventually come to adopt as their resident patron deity: Antares, the Scorpion Star. 

… And as House Montague were the technical descendants of the original Emperor, they were thus, in turn, blessed with the blood of the divine flowing through their veins. 

That, of course, also applied to their revered Crown Prince— who, like Emperor Drucilla, was also endowed the grace of the heavens. At the beginning, he criticized his country’s brutality and did not wield a sword for the sake of bloodthirst or honor— rather, he was hardworking and tender soul who placed the needs and wants of his people above all else. He was undoubtedly the physical personification of sunlight that shined fortune onto every single person his generous light was fated to touch— including Jevon.

… Ever since their fateful encounter by that twilit shore, he treasured every moment they spent together henceforth like a priceless gift. The prince— he had been the one who taught him about the value of connecting with others. He gave him adventure and a reason to smile and filled each and every one of his days with uninhibited joy. Gazing at the stars, reenacting grand scenes of triumph from their most treasured fairytales… counting the clouds as they rolled past, sharing their prospects for the future under the starry heavens… attending school together, studying fervently for exams or, in most cases, goofing off and playing mischief on their long-suffering professors. It had all been so simple— so uneventful, yet astoundingly special all the same. 

It was living. He hadn’t known what it was like before— or truly, he was not sure if he had been born until the day fate tied their thread.

… And he had been the rainbow. A scintillating, breathtaking quasar at the center of his galaxy. Even the brightest of supernovae failed to compare to his sheer elegance and beauty. Nor could the sun hope to warm him as much as his presence did.

… And yet, now… he was unsure if his dearest prince was alive or dead. Since he departed on that dour morning to pursue his platoon into battle, they have not spoken nor seen each other, for he had been too much of a coward, even when he once promised that he would escort him into the depths of the underworld if necessary. 

When he thought of this devastating war— of the countless lives lost to wrath and greed— it only served to fuel the ravenous demon tucked away in the crevasses of his being, tied down with fraying restraints. A demon that wholly would have relished the downfall of humanity, and one that would have liked to play the part of its catalyst had it been given the luxury. His pomp and circumstance was little more than a palatable cover-up for the possessed carcass of a self-centered narcissist.

The prince had given him the stars, the moon, and the sun. In return, he offered no more than a pair of averted eyes. 

… His ruminations came to a screeching halt when he found himself clashing with some sort of destructive mass, ricocheting him onto his rear while paperwork scattered.

“Oh, my sincerest apologies,” And when his eye flickered open once more, he discovered that the mysterious mass was, indeed, a man with a tall and toned physique, or, at least, from what he could determine based on his loose apparel. Long, straight hair a deep shade of brown that cascaded down the middle of his back like a gentle river, spare tresses pulled up in a high bun by a flowy, red ribbon. It was haloed by a straw hat adorned with flowy, ornamental red ribbons and a translucent red veil, accentuating his handsome features like a fair-faced bride. 

His eyes were a deep chestnut that contrasted elegantly with his sand-colored skin, outlined in sharp, red eyeliner and bearing an analytical, wise demeanor about them hidden behind those round, gold frames, decorated with a train of dangling, butterflylike ornaments. There were two identical moles placed vertically on the skin of his upper neck as well as the upper corner of his mouth but otherwise, his face virtually bore next to no imperfections, like it was something stainless and godly. The center of his forehead where his bangs parted stamped with a marking of a red, upside-down crescent moon.

 This state of professionalism and elegance was exacerbated even further by his exquisite robes, consisting of a deep brown hanfu draped over his inner layers depicting patterns of golden, swirling clouds and exquisite, floral embroidery, held in place at the shoulders by crisscrossing, gold beading punctuated by red tassels. Underneath lay a purplish brown inner robe and a buttoned, white high-collared undershirt.  

A yellow sash sat around his waist and was adorned with a gold pin that appeared to resemble that of a sparrow, adorned with a dangling, decorative tassel. Mostly hidden were the simple pants he had paired the robe with that were tucked securely into a pair of leather, brown boots with looping, gold chains. His sleeves were long and fully encased his hands, which in turn were covered by simple, brown gloves. A single ear contained a gold earring in the shape of an elegant flower, suspending a dangling, red pearl. Well, it was undoubtedly the attire of Kouka, at least.  

Kouka was located in Senju, taking up the vast majority of the eastern continent. An archaic, rich nation with an expansive history filled to the brim with innovation and epic conquest. A highly industrialized nation and a major spearhead of the world’s latest, groundbreaking leaps in technology, their advanced machineries purportedly powered by the specialized ore native to their lands, otherwise known as “Eternite.”  

Jevon has not visited in some time, at least not prior to the New Moon Commission’s rise to power and the economic boom that ensued, but he has heard plenty of stories from his fellow diplomats who have worked with the Sun Clan’s Commission firsthand and learn all their priceless trade secrets. With Codoslia revolutionizing applied sciences and Kouka pioneering the industrial age, it felt like old-fashioned nations like Igerene and their neighbors in Seploeen to the north were bound to be left behind by the new world in due time.  

“… Ah, forgive me,” Jevon mumbled in apology while hurrying to recollect the dispersed papers, purposefully avoiding eye contact. After a contemplative beat, the other man lowered himself onto his knees and proffered one of the papers to him, smiling kindly.

“No, it was my own mistake; I should have seen where I was going,” said the Koukan man— he noted that there was something pleasant and sophisticated about his timbre, like gentle birdsong. However, other than that— and perhaps it had been due to the initial shock of it all, behind this compassionate visage, he could detect… an oddity, almost.

Distinctly otherworldly— as if he was steeped in the very essence of starlight.

 “Is there something wrong?”  

Realizing that he had been staring, he snapped back to his mission— and with the assistance of this obliging stranger, it was reassembled in no time, climbing back to his full height. Jevon was considerably taller than the other man, which appeared to visibly baffle him, eyes blinking slowly in disbelief.  

“Goodness, me… Erm,” the man cleared his throat, reapplying his composed face. “Actually, now that I’ve gotten a better look at you… Oh, you must be indeed,” the tips of his fingers came together, and his chin lifted as if it would grant him a bit more height. “Hair as white as snow, a facial scar, and a hulking stature… You are Jevon Sebastian Fulbright of Diplomatic Affairs, yes? I’ve heard tales of your exploits.”  

“Of… my exploits?” Jevon was taken aback; he did not consider himself to be some— celebrity, nor were any of his accomplishments particularly noteworthy. Typically, he was bound to his cramped office and only scarcely ventured beyond the boundaries of the palace, even though traveling in order to cultivate his knowledge of the world and the various cultures, ideologies, and people within it had been his primary reason— amongst… other things— for pursuing this field of work in the first place. 

Though his outlandish appearance did have him standing out more than he would prefer, he still did a good job at merging with the general crowd… Jevon was about to ask if, perhaps, he had the wrong person— but then again, a head of solid white hair at his age was a rarity, let alone his uniquely scarred countenance.  

“I’m… afraid that I haven’t done anything that commendable,” he settled for instead, his voice soft and sheepish. “Ah, and you are…?” 

“Oh, my! Now, wherever are my manners? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ser Fulbright,” the brownhaired man performed a long, diligent bow. “I am Sun Enlai, chief ambassador of the New Moon Commission and the current head of the Sun Clan. I do believe fate must have put you in my path on this fine day,” the man— Lord Enlai— stated afterward as he lifted his head and resecured his hands into the opposite sleeve. It was only then when Jevon at last recognized the golden insignia on his sash as well as the meaning of the mark on his forehead: the moon that represented the Commission, of course, as well as the sparrow which acted as the long-held symbol of his famous clan. 

The New Moon Commission was not only Kouka’s main governmental body, but also directly oversaw the Federation of Merchants, which was the most prolific trading guild in all the Nine Realms, as well as poured significant funding into construction, agriculture, industrial expansion, and the local military. In short, the Commission had their fingers in many pies, but they were philanthropists devoted to extending their generosity to the unfortunate first and foremost. 

… Its leadership has varied throughout, but throughout the last several generations, it has witnessed the rapid growth of the Sun Clan, who have acted as palace officials, governors, and chancellors in the past, sharing a close-knit bond with the royal lineage— and now views the clan as its central face. Furthermore, it has only been a handful of years when a then-young Enlai— who should now be nearing his thirties— was rendered the position by his late predecessor, Sun Junfeng, who died in an unexplained accident, although rumors insist that it was likely the result of political sabotage. 

Their base of operations was headquartered, of course, in Kouka’s glorious capital city, Xinyue. The organization hosted entrepreneurs, artisans, merchants, and aspirant engineers from all corners of Eden: an esteemed consortium of talents selected by his hands to pioneer the “revolution of humanity,” or as their slogan foretold. A respectable man described by his many admirers as multitalented, charismatic, and warmhearted. Jevon almost felt like he needed to flinch away from the sheer radiance the man emitted, like a blinding sphere of light. 

“Oh… Oh, I— please pardon my insolence, Se— Ser Enlai,” the whitehaired man stammered and quickly dropped his head in respect. This man’s stature was leaps and bounds ahead of his own, after all— but a lowly office worker to a man perceived as near-divinity by his people. 

“Ah, please— there is hardly any need to stand on ceremony,” Enlai rebutted with a wave of his hand and an unfaltering smile. “… Please, just call me “Enlai.” I may have come to this nation for business, I also intend to sample your wondrous culture… Igerenian cuisine is simply marvelous. Ah, but I’m getting off topic— Sir Fulbright, you need to give yourself a bit more credit, hm? You’re so young and yet you have achieved such a sought-after position! I know that there are many who pine for what you have… Just recently, weren’t you sent out East?”  

“Indeed… I was ordered to open possible negotiations with Clan Mizuhara of Aomi… However, I’m afraid that the situation over there is far too dire at the moment… For my own safety, I was requested to return only after a few weeks… If… If nothing is done, they may find themselves in a civil war…”  

“Disorder seems rather commonplace these days, does it not?” Tucking his arms behind his back, Enlai approached the adjacent window, fixing his eyes on some unknown distance. 

 “… Even my country is enduring its lion’s share of inconveniences. While the Commission has managed to maintain general order, the populace has become divided— the older generations are reluctant to change— while the young campaign for it. Not to mention, our Lord Emperor is rather inexperienced; he was born and raised in a family that prioritized their own greed over the lives of the people, and his predecessors died when he was only an adolescent… Furthermore, I believe that the power of kinghood has gotten to his head a bit. Additionally, the Asterian Empire is still recovering from that heinous insurrection from a hundred years prior… and Rauska, the great Empire of the Sun… the discord within the palace due the recent disappearance of Prince Ravi… and… to add insult to injury, the light of their god has vanished, which has left the general masses feeling abandoned and lost…”  

Enlai shifted his gaze toward the other man, his brow furrowed with knowing, and his profile illuminated by the streaming sunglow. “… And here… the Kingdom of Igerene and the Kingdom of Codoslia have become bent on destroying the other after eons of steadily brewing hostilities. Part of me cannot help but wonder if this is some sort of… ill omen, but I’m not exactly the superstitious type. This world is evolving, whether the people are willing to accept it or not… but before new life can take root, sacrifice is necessary.”  

“An… ill omen, you say.”

Jevon lowered his eyes to the floor as a bubble of nausea crested in his abdomen, though did his best to ensure that his uneasiness did not translate on the surface. Enlai, however, seemed to be the perceptive type— his eyes narrowed in scrutinization, but he did not commit to any extensive probing before he straightened his posture again and plastered on an amiable expression.

 “Well, we are all prone to failure every once in a while, Sir Fulbright. It is what motivates us to try harder, hm? And your previous feats far make up for this inconsequential blunder. If I remember correctly, you were single-handedly responsible for closing a deal with the Kingdom of Seploeen— and they are infamously rigid— as well as fiercely independent. I’ve heard comments on how you smoothly and intellectually managed to sway them to your side in spite of your ideological differences. It’s people like you that allow a country to truly thrive… I would go through hoops to acquire such genius for my team.”  

Unaccustomed to praise, Jevon drooped his skull to focus ardently on the insignificant lines and designs across the floorboard. “I… you flatter me… Though, I don’t think I really did anything all that awe-inspiring…”

“Nonsense— you are the foundation of this institution, Sir Fulbright. If anything, I think you ought to receive triple the amount of remuneration that they’re currently paying you… Oh, but this isn’t me trying to recruit you! That would be awfully presumptuous of me, would it not? I’m merely speaking from my own experiences,” though there was certainly something bizarre about this man, Jevon did not believe that it was in a disingenuous sense. Firstly, Jevon could tell that he was modeling a splash of makeup, which he presumed was meant to conceal his exhausted wrinkles, which he was able to pinpoint just the slightest of beyond the cosmetic veil. 

… And even without that nugget of foresight, given how passionately Enlai spoke about his work, anyone could tell how earnest he was. But the aspect that threw him off… he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it other than that he, again, had sensed it somewhere before. His very mien seemed to be suffused with this eternal light— wax that refused to melt. But what was it, exactly?  

“… Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to hold you for so long; you were in the middle of your duties, were you not? I ought to get going myself— I had hoped that I could squeeze in a bit more sightseeing, but I fear that my vessel home will leave without me if I dawdle any longer, haha,” Enlai chuckled warmly. “… I’m grateful to have had this encounter with you though, Sir Fulbright. It does indeed feel like a stroke of destiny… if we ever cross paths again, then let us gather for tea. How does that sound?”

“Of course… it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Enlai… I sincerely hope the stars do bless our path and we are able to meet again,” Enlai cupped his hands and bowed, which Jevon returned with a polite nod. He watched as the other man maneuvered past him, his gait poised and exquisite, like the surface of a lake— accompanied by a trail of stardust chased his wake like a bride’s veil. And yet, as eager as Jevon was to unravel this puzzling existence—

“Oooooooh, Jevon— my sweet little sugar cookie!”

In his startlement, his paperwork went flying again as he let out a maidenly screech. Clutching his thundering chest, the newcomer laughed piggishly and chastised him, waving a perfectly manicured finger in reprimand. “… Goodness me, Jevon! How on earth did you manage to work your way up the corporate ladder like this when you still flinch at the sight of your own shadow?” 

… Of course, Jevon would recognize that obnoxiously flamboyant timbre from a mile away. “Glamorous” was a complete understatement when it came to their appearance— a proud fashionista or a jewelry store with legs, there was more sparkle and glam ornamenting their person than he had seen in the last twenty-two years of his life.

A predominance of black with gold accenting— it consisted of a ruffled corset interlapped with large bold bows with a rather flagrant chest window and loose sheer sleeves complemented by a train of ruffles that fanned out around their skintight trousers— which doubtless served their purpose in highlighting their sleek curves. They were paired with boots augmented by freakishly tall heels that cut off around the plush of their thighs and were tied together via intricate laces and bows. In terms of accessories— there were plenty— such as lace fingerless black gloves with intricate floral patterning and gold dagger-like earrings embedded with red jewels.

Their signature dreadlocks came in a deep shade of charcoal black and were arranged partly into a thick bun nestled atop while the rest poured untamed over lithe shoulders. Their sole eye pierced through in a mesmerizing, vermillion-esque hue— narrowed and somewhat catlike in appearance. Its missing counterpart was sealed over by a black eyepatch with an aureate, detailed roselike trim accompanied by a chained, dangling red crystal. 

“Jevon, you little fuddy-duddy— look at the mess you’ve made! Goodness gracious, you are absolutely helpless without me, aren’t you?” Though despite their complaints, they bowed onto their knees and aided Jevon with the regathering process. 

“You know,” they dropped one of the articles onto the steadily developing pile, their head lolling and bottom lip protruding in a childish pout. “Somebody promised that he’d tell me whenever he returned from his trip… you had your dear old friend going gray with fear! I thought that your ship had sunken to the bottom of the ocean— or worse, you found some dashing stud muffin overseas and completely forgot about me!”  

“Of course not, Xolani— I know for a fact that you would hunt me down and drag me back against my will if I ever considered leaving for good. Besides, there are few in this world that compare to your irradiant beauty,” when he descried the instance of a blush develop on his friend’s features, Jevon smiled to himself triumphantly— knowing he had won this battle of tongues. “I… I am sorry, though… I haven’t had a chance to sit down and catch my breath since I’ve returned… the moment I walked through the door, I was immediately saddled with… well, as you can see here that I’ve got plenty I still need to go through… and let alone finding a moment to catch my breath and reach out to you.” 

“Oh, I could never actually be mad at you, my love. You’re our sweet little Jevy baby, after all,” Xolani proceeded to squeeze his cheek in the same sense that a doting grandmother would, and Jevon couldn’t help but flush with embarrassment. He ought to be accustomed to their antics by now, but Xolani was a bundle of unbridled energy and panache that someone as reserved as himself found it a bit struggling to keep up with… Still— he appreciated their dazzling presence like one would sunlight after the rainy season— they never failed to tickle his soul, regardless of how troubled it was.  

The Kingdom of Igerene was split into four distinct territories. While the venerable House Montague possessed absolute rule over the entirety of the state, overall governance was divided between a quartet of dukedoms. Of the four, House Tybalt was the largest and arguably the most influential next to the royal bloodline for they were charged with trade development and general agriculture, which was in turn monitored by Lady Titania and her wife, Oberon.

 House Hermia, as he mentioned earlier, was entrusted with domestic affairs— it has recently suffered the loss of its erstwhile head and was thereby succeeded by his youthful and fumbling heir apparent, Lord Julius. In other words, these were his superiors; albeit he has yet to officially introduce himself to their newfound successor, given how jam-packed his schedule has been.

House Aldemar, on the other hand, is a bit of a story: they previously handled military affairs and housed the Ministry of Defense, but around twenty years prior, they staged a coup and plotted the assassination of King Raphael after rallying keen adherents of the former king— a notoriously tyrannical warlord who plundered and killed for no other reason than to sate his own bloodlust it seemed. 

… However, they were ultimately subdued and promptly stripped of their status, in which House Alexis thereafter assumed their former duties. Though they were the smallest in terms of scope, House Alexis possessed a time-honored bloodline of honorable knights who have diligently served House Montague since its very inauguration. Sir Mercutio, retired captain of the Royal Guard and certified right hand to the current monarch— was the current leader of House Alexis… and his sole successor happened to be none other than Xolani. But due to certain… circumstances, Xolani has long since rescinded their ties with their family. 

Nevertheless, they were a close confidant of the royal family, particularly the Crown Prince— and while he himself was an outsider, they have all known each other for a little over a decade now. To say that Xolani was merely a simple friend was an understatement: they were the eldest of their trio and has always acted as somewhat of a mentor to him, helping him with acclimating to his new life.

Not to mention, they were a source of unending excitement in his otherwise humdrum routine. He was extremely grateful that, in spite of everything that occurred, their friendship has remained intact— in fact, he would even say that they have gotten even closer in the last few years.

Additionally, he had them to thank for his wardrobe: he has always been awful at selecting clothes for himself, but Xolani— as a self-proclaimed fashion connoisseur— set him up with more than he could possibly wear for the rest of his workable lifespan… along with, again, a baffling amount of flashy accessories.

“… I saw that you were getting all friendly with the head of the Commission, eh?” When Jevon failed to respond in the nanosecond of time that he was permitted, presumptions sparked and Xolani clapped his back fiercely, snickering playfully. “Atta boy, atta boy! You’ve gotta strike the iron while it’s hot, as they say! I mean, you aren’t getting any younger, after all. Get yourself a pricey silver fox like that and you’ll be set for life, right? I suppose he could pay for your costly sweet tooth, anyway…”

“Xolani, we both know it wasn’t like that,” he deadpanned, unamused.  

“Well, don’t go resting on your laurels yet, Mr. Bigshot,” Xolani continued as if they hadn’t heard him, waggling their forefinger back and forth. “I will find myself a good husband yet! But honestly, trying to find a capable man in this day and age is a fool’s errand,” their hands outstretched in a shrug as they sighed deeply and despondently. “They’ve got the looks for sure, but once you take a peek at what’s lying underneath the surface… Eek,” a bodily shiver ran through them. “One too many bad experiences have severely cramped my expectations… but I know for a fact that my soulmate is waiting for me… somewhere!”  

“Maybe you ought to take a gamble with Lord Enlai, then,” Jevon joked as he straightened out the papers and at last returned to his feet. 

“Oh, somebody’s getting sassy on me, huh? Well, rhetorical or not, I’ll go right ahead and say this so you know for future reference: heavy coffers or not, he is definitely not my type,” Xolani chronicled as they followed his example and meticulously dusted off their pants. 

“… Too much of a people-pleaser, and too immersed in his work. Commendable, but I’ve got needs, and if he puts his job before everything else… well, it’s almost certain that we wouldn’t get along. I’d prefer someone who’s intelligent, but not boastful… someone who is kind, but not a complete and utter pushover. Oh, oh! Someone who’ll cook you breakfast in bed and give you massages when you’re having a bad day,” they sighed like they were in a particularly fruitful daydream— a hand clapped to a cheek each.  “… Just… someone you can look at and see the entire universe in their eyes… and handsome— but that’s more so a bonus as opposed to a necessity. True beauty comes from the inside, after all!” 

Xolani’s lips curled into a mischievous smile when they caught that faraway look in Jevon’s eyes— ensnared by their domestic delusions and joyful what-ifs. “Oh… I know exactly who you’re thinking about… Does his name happen to rhyme with moxie—?”  

“Xolani, please…”  

“All right, all right… I’ll stop bullying you, dear. However… to make up for the fact that you so rudely skipped out on our promised lunch date, I will be dragging you away from that stuffy little office for a while—” 

“Huh? Wait, I still have to—”  

Xolani grabbed Jevon by his collar and, in an impressive display of unexpected strength, began to drag him as if he weighed no more than a feather.  

“Come on, come on! You’ve been away from our darling little city for far too long!” 

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Both he and Xolani knew the city like the back of their hand; they were able to exploit a myriad of different shortcuts, ones that graciously guided them away from the maddening rabble. When he was younger, Jevon was the very definition of a nervous wreck— but working in diplomacy has at least challenged him to work on his social comfortability. Though he innately reveled in the brief quietude the peopleless backstreets offered while he pursued his friend down a somewhat cramped alleyway. There were interconnecting clotheslines between the eclipsing balconies, dapples of sunlight sliding in through the gaps and dotting them in irradiant patches.

 There was a stray dozing on one of the abandoned crates, a grizzled thing with a shredded ear— which flicked in acknowledgment when Jevon’s hand approached. It bounced to its feet— its hoary fur stranding straight at the arch of its back as it swatted at him before making a swift retreat. Jevon chuckled softly to himself before scurrying to catch up with his friend— a mirthful skip in their step, fingers interlocked behind their person.   

“So,” their honey-like timbre almost reverberated through the vacant backstreet. “How was your little trip, hm? I’ve heard that things are rather… turbulent over there.”   

“Yes, it was… indeed pretty hectic… but in spite of it, I was offered hospitality. The young master of Clan Akatsuki was a kind soul; I enjoyed our talks together, as brief as they might have been… I was shocked when I learned that he is even younger than I am— I thought it was admirable that he’s managed to keep everything up and running,” Jevon explained as an unbidden smile curled onto his lips, fondly recalling his adventures in Amano— as much of a roller-coaster as it had been, he had managed to enjoy himself in the end.

Clan Akatsuki’s youthful commander had hailed from a bloodline of accomplished warriors— apparently, since the moment he first began to train himself in the art of bladework, he demonstrated unimaginable potential. 

And he unquestionably believed it— he was granted the honor of sparring with him on one occasion, and he had not even so much as taken the first inch forward before the world was spinning and he found himself on the ground, weapon kicked out of reach and his defeat all but ensured. Despite his peaceful disposition, Jevon was quite the combatant himself— and yet, he had been completely and thoroughly quashed in a matter of seconds. 

“… Since negotiations have been suspended for the meantime, I mainly just treated myself to their cuisine and immersed myself in the culture while I had the opportunity. I think you’d like it there, Xolani— it is a truly captivating place,” scarlet forests and splendid rivers and lakes— Jevon experienced a pang of an emotion that vaguely resembled nostalgia, even though he had been no more than a glorified tourist. 

“Is that so? Well, perhaps whenever the hostilities have calmed down a bit, I will happily indulge a rather overdue vacation,” Jevon was about to retort, “you’re always indulging yourself, though,” but decidedly kept his mouth closed. 

Occasionally, Xolani will drag themself to what they’ve outspokenly described as a “humdrum war meeting”, or even commit themself to penning an important missive or two— but most of the time, their routine consisted of two or three naps per day, splurging on futilities, and complaining to him about their topsy-turvy love ordeals.  

“Well, even if you weren’t successful this time, it’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over, love,” they continued. “The Commission has been tentatively cooperating with us thus far… but that is, of course, liable to change if resources are drawn too thin across the board. Since we aren’t receiving any exportation from Codoslia, the auxiliary equipment they have endowed us with has been the saving grace of our ill and wounded… but the market is in absolute shambles all around. I just wish this accursed nation would get with the times already… but people are always hesitant to accept change.”  

Without the assistance of the Commission, history may indeed feel liable to repeat itself. When Igerene was yet a infantile, developing nation spearheaded by the acclaimed Conqueror, hailed as a king amongst kings— her imperious tenure was ultimately cut short when a ravenous, uncontrollable plague ripped through the continent— exterminating a grand proportion of the overall population… and that merely occurred because the people of Igerene— their shameless ruler included— were too stubbornly haughty to consider requesting aid from their more medically-advanced neighbor. While the world has yet so see a calamity of that scale resurface again— due to Igerene’s almost primitive mindset— they were exceedingly overdependent on the trade system to accrue necessities, primarily of the medicinal variety.

After all, this was a nation that outlawed any usage of alchemy or equivalent magic outside of those select few who are licensed because the statesmen will only accept it for its “inherently” destructive nature while refusing to acknowledge its pros. 

… At the end of the passageway was a small clearing— the backs of townhouses blanketed in thick layers of moss and jumbles of various materials were bestrewn about. There was a looping staircase of weathered stone, and Jevon watched as his friend— with a hand gliding up the railing— hopscotched until they reached the final step— cocking their head back to him and gesturing with their chin. Once Jevon was in their propinquity, they began to speak again; however, Xolani had taken on a dourer tone as their one-eyed gaze fell on the diamond-dazzle of the encircling sea.

“… When it comes to this silly little war, I do believe there are white flags in Codoslia’s future. I mean, they cannot afford to continue this bitter struggle when they’ve made absolutely no progress in the last half of a decade. But that king of theirs is a lackadaisical, good-for-nothing swine— he’s just laying around in that cushy little castle of his while forcing his people to fight in an unwinnable battle… and for what, pray tell? Honestly, I have no clue… when it comes to rich, gluttonous governments like that, they’d much prefer to not think about the consequences of their actions and sit back while the rest of the world burns… but since they’re our leaders, that makes them infallible, right? Well, not that I can say that our side is any better.”  

He agreed wholeheartedly. When it came to matters of bloodshed, there was no heroism or glory to be found. For a country that worshiped the incarnation of said slaughtering, again, perhaps it was but a source of entertainment to them… However, if one were to light a wildfire, devastation on a widespread degree was simply inescapable; if it was believed otherwise, then the person in question was blinded by their own hypocrisy.  Indeed, the only thing that generated from war was more hatred, more resentment, and more misery. 

Jevon would know— for he has stared such a wildfire in the face before. It left its searing touch on him and charred both him and his soul a deep indelible black.  

And yet at that calm moment before the storm of war trumpets rang out when his words could have left a genuine impact, he had been too cowardly to raise his voice.

“There’ve been mutinies, revolts, petitions… the whole nine yards due to the negligence of their king— but silly signatures and protests won’t be enough to bring this futile fighting to an end,” added his friend as they slipped out of the alleyway— a broad, thronged road unveiled before them that was hemmed by a yawning canal interspersed with passing boats. 

“Of course, the dissenters were quickly curb-stomped by the College. As far as I can tell, they have a bad habit of… silencing anyone who dares to openly disagree with the parliament. If King Faust believes himself to be a saint incarnate despite his insolent ways, then the College must think that they’re gods administering what they believe to be righteous judgment… but hey,” they outstretched their arms. “… If this keeps up, the integrity’s going to come crashing down and Codoslia will lose their foundation. You can’t hope to quiet a whole people forever, after all.” 

He was then imparted a smile— although it contained not even an inch of their customary cheer. “… And our beloved Crown Prince shall be hailed as a hero once he snatches the evil king’s head from his shoulders… and only then can we shut the book on this bitter tale.” 

Their body slackened as they let out a huff of rancorous laughter. 

“… If only that were the case indeed, right?”  

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“Oh, wasn’t that simply wonderful? I told you— that tiramisu is heaven-sent!”  

The mood was still rather heavy even after visiting the café, of which they spent the majority of drifting between meaningless small talk and uneasy silence. Well, they hadn’t exaggerated about the café’s lineup— complete with a picturesque backdrop of a gorgeous waterline separated by a decorative guardrail, Jevon vowed to return in the near future in order to sample more of their mouthwatering specials. 

Now, they have returned to the Noble District. Xolani had intended to drag him around until sundown, undoubtedly, but Jevon still had plenty of unfinished work and he was unsure if he could mentally stomach another lecture.  

They intended to part ways for the time being once they regrouped at the central plaza— the Square of the Saints. Said plaza was rather famous in its own right— it featured an absolutely exquisite fountain— Beatus Fountain— a touchstone of impeccable artistry. It was more so an overelaborate pool with clean, greenish-blue waters, the bottom sprinkled with dozens upon dozens of coins, as rumor has it, it could grant wishes and provide providence.

It was festooned with great marmoreal effigies, all accordingly naked with the exception of loose-fitting togas and valiant capes, and seraphic in appearance. Representations of their patron deity, Antares, could be found throughout the city in various formats, and universally, they were depicted as a tall, muscled, androgynous individual with flowing hair who wielded a gigantic blade with a fiery halo— and, of course, that applied here as well. 

However, at the center of the piece was a laureled man with curly hair enwrapped in a high ponytail— posed partially robed while his expression was painted far gentler than his solemn cohorts— an artistic rendition of the Saint King himself— Alirense— supposedly.  

A nameless, sour taste filled his tongue when he met the ancient monarch’s dead— stone eyes.

The burbling of the fountain intermixed with the ongoing ruckus of the crowd, coming and going while he and Xolani remained rooted in front of the plague. After a few moments of unresponsiveness on Xolani’s behalf, Jevon considered excusing himself with a promise to treat them once his schedule was cleared. However, before he was able to open his mouth, Xolani interrupted him with an unexpected bow. 

“Oh, Jevon Sebastian Fulbright, my dearest and kindest of friends, I beseech you! Please, assist me with my debacle!”  

Jevon blinked his eyes a few times in mystification. “… Your… debacle?”  

Xolani nodded rapidly. “Indeed! I’m afraid that it is a matter of life or death, my dear… Listen close,” they curled an arm around Jevon’s shoulder and gave their surroundings a haste once-over— as if checking for potential eavesdroppers. They then leaned up to whisper into his ear while using their unoccupied hand as a sort of soundproof barrier. “… Do not relay the contents of this message to anyone else. Understood?” 

“Xolani,” he deadpanned, unamused. “What is this about?”  

Xolani smiled cheekily and withdrew, their hands coming to their hips instead. “All right, all right— tomfoolery aside, I have an important mission for you, cookie. You know how there’s going to be that ball in a few days, right? Don’t ask me why they’ve hosting one at such a precarious hour— House Montague loves wasting money on the stupidest of things. Anyway, so I was put on the committee… I assume they’re shorthanded because why else would they choose me of all people? Ahem… well,” they began to pace back and forth in a cycle, finger wagging in tandem with their words. “Here’s the thing: our harpist sort of rain checked… something about a fatal illness or whatever, I dunno, he might be back later… or never—” 

“What—”  

“—So, we’re in desperate need of a replacement… but on such short notice, I mean… it’s practically impossible, right? I’m only one person, Jevon! And yet the entire fate of the event is sitting on my tiny and beautifully sculpted shoulders! But then!”  

Xolani came to an abrupt stop and thrust their finger in his face. “I had an epiphany! Why, I just so happen to have a certain ally who also just so happens to be a musical genius! And thus, the day is saved!”  

Jevon pointed at himself with incredulity. “… You… aren’t referring to me, are you?” 

“Of course, darling! Who else?”  

Indeed, among the various arts that Jevon adored, he was the most passionate about music in particular. Ever since he was a child, he has employed it during times of grief and stress to appease himself; however, it was an activity that he pursued in the comfort of his own privacy… or for a select few ears. Needless to say, this proposition was simply out of the question.  

“No, Xolani… I… I can’t possibly— I can’t play in front of that many people, Xolani,” he argued, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, but a stammer or several still managed to sneak out. “I mean… I mean, I’m out of practice— I’ve rarely played since… since…” He trailed off, an interim of hesitation preceding a furious headshake. “… Either way, I can’t do this Xolani… you’ll have to find someone else—” 

“Nonsense, nonsense— I can’t think of anyone else more suited for this task than you, my love. And besides, nobody’s going to pay a lot of attention, anyways— they’ll be too busy intoxicating themselves or engaging in frivolous gossip, right? All you’ve got to do is stand there and look gorgeous for the most part.” 

“Xolani, I really don’t think…”  

Realizing that their cajolery was ineffectual, Xolani resorted to downright begging, clapping their palms together and bowing their head. “Please, Jevon! Just look at it this way: if you do this for me… that means I owe you a favor, right? And when I owe someone a favor, I make sure to repay them with double the expected amount. So… please! I’ll get you as many delicious treats as you want! You’ve gotta help me out here!”  

Jevon brought his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose and gave it a few rubs, sighing deeply. That sweet deal was certainly enticing, but he wondered if it was worth the indubitable embarrassment… Ah, well— it was honestly the least that he could do after untold years of service on Xolani’s behalf; they’ve helped him out of numerous rough patches, and managed to bring light to his life in spite of the angry demons wrestling inside of him. He shouldn’t be selfish.  

“… All right, I suppose… but—”  

He was scooped into a tight embrace before he had a chance to finish— Xolani was about the same level as his chest, so they proceeded to bury their nose into it and giggle happily, and Jevon awkwardly patted their head in return. Xolani eventually broke away, grinning from ear to ear with delight.  

“I’ll go and put in a good word for you with my personal tailor— you’re absolutely going to blow their socks off, darling!” 

“What’s wrong with my standard attire?” 

“Oh, hush you! That plain old thing won’t swoon anybody. Right, right… oh, there’s so much prep work to do… I’d better get on it. Er, the party’s the day after tomorrow— make sure you’ve reserved some time in your o’ so busy schedule for me, love. You better hold up your side of the bargain,” Xolani then turned on their heel, shooting their friend a mischievous wink over their shoulder and a two-fingered salute. “Until then! Ciao!”  

Alone with the bubbling of the fountain, Jevon exhaled and shook his head.  

Well, a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he seated himself on the edge, observing the frantic to and fro of the crowd.

If it was for his dear friend, though… well, he did not mind that much.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The foreman was in a particularly benevolent mood today, it appeared. Well, he still tossed in a few less than kind words while he was lecturing Jevon for who knows what, but he ultimately relented and allowed him to head home for the evening— the first time since he returned from his overseas excursion.  

Despite his governmental position, Jevon was indifferent to opulence. His home was a diminutive and humble one that resided on the outskirts of the Common District. Of weather-beaten and overgrown stone, shaggy roofing, and a swerving cobbled path engirded by colorful and tangled flower beds. Situated on the edge of a seaside bluff, accompanied by the occasional squawking of passing gulls and the gentle hissing of waves as they licked up the sides of the crags and rocks. From his front porch, he could distinctly make out the ever-busy port, with its rows of moored ships and specks of sailors hulking cargo or fishermen advertising their latest catches. 

The ocean was tinged a deep scarlet shade in the dying luminance of the descending sun; and for a moment or two, he dithered at his doorstep, rapt. He would be lying if he claimed that the primary reason he settled down in this particular spot was not for the rich scenery. It provided a harmonious ambiance, one that was detached from the rest of this world and its unending babel.  

Jevon was then assailed by a whining zephyr and erupted in gooseflesh, and his trance shattered by frigid reality, and thus embarked inside. He pressed his back into the door to shut it and exhaled wearily, then proceeded to survey his surroundings. Like on the outside, the interior was equally compact, and was shrouded in darkness, except for the few strands of sunlight that snuck in through the drapery.

 It came furnished with basic commodities— a living area, though it contained only a sofa, some bookshelves, and a tea table. A kitchen, which he seldom employed; he usually dined out due to his lackluster cooking abilities. There was a short hallway that connected to a mostly empty closet, a restroom, and then lastly: his bedchamber, which was perhaps the only room within the space that he put to any use, in the end— and it was merely for resting… whenever he was blessed with the chance to, anyway. Otherwise, he spent the predominance of his time toiling away at the office.  

The landlady appeared to have tidied up for him while he was away, though. Usually, it was a mountain of disarray, barely navigable; it hardly suited his personality, in which he strove for elegance with everything, but in between his consuming career and an overall lack of motivation, he has admittedly let himself go. Thankfully, neither Xolani nor his colleagues have pressured him about it, for this unchanging state of misery, he was oddly content with. Perhaps he was merely afraid of confronting the war both within him, and outward, comfortable with these delusions of mundanity and all-devouring loneliness. 

Well… he would have to thank the landlady next time they crossed paths, especially since she offered to look over… as if on cue, a chirp signaled his attention— within the murk, the creature had taken him by surprise, an anomalous mass that headbutted his leg. 

He lowered himself onto a knee and combed his fingers through her thick though exceedingly fluffy coat. She was solid black all over, a purring shadow with a set of piercing eyes. Their hue reminded him of the winter sky, a milky sort of blue. Thus, he named her “Aurora,” though he usually referred to her exclusively as either “Your Highness” or “princess” since in his professional opinion, she was nothing short of pure royalty. 

After refilling her bowls, Jevon expertly navigated the gloom, maneuvering down the hallway to his personal chambers. He lit the oil lamp that was situated on his writing desk, casting a dim radiance over the space. It seemed that the landlady had avoided tampering with his room, which he appreciated; however, it was just as much of a mare’s nest as he had left it. Bedclothes askew, tomes and scrolls strewn, wardrobe disorganized. Otherwise, it was exceptionally sparse; there was no distinguishable décor or traces of personality to be seen. Really, it was quite depressing, for one who endeavored to see beauty in all facets of life— even during his ugliest and the saddest moments. 

… He shucked off his outermost layers, leaving him in naught but his turtlenecked undershirt, and heaped them on the mattress, uncaring, his boots following thereafter. His bones ached with tiredness, impelling him to rest— but instead of throwing himself under the sheets, he seated himself at his writing desk, deciding that he ought to at least make an attempt to complete some of his remaining work. He rummaged through his bag and fished out a few stacks and brushed aside the clutter. Dunking his quill in the inkwell, Jevon did a brief once-over of the memorandum before going to draft his response. 

However, the instant his quill made contact, he was overcome with a wave of lethargy. He thumped his foot against the ground a few times, desperately sifting through his brain in a mad hunt for words, but all he found was that pestilential buzz— a buzz that seemed to siphon his knowledge and drive. Ultimately, he had no choice but to yield to his ennui and sat the quill aside, thrusting his face into his palms and letting out a frustrated, but mostly miserable, exhalation.  

Indeed, he has been foolishly and steadfastly clinging to a fallacy of equanimity. He thought that he could outrun those ravenous flames— thought that he could muffle the sounds of their cries— thought that he could unfetter himself from his own strangling guilt and function as a true and cherished member of this community. He managed to escape the villainous clutches of that eternal night and entered a paradise of vibrancy and unflagging cheer following the strong back of a boy who inveigled him with promises of happiness and idyllicism, neither impossibilities nor products of desperate fantasies.  

But then it was stolen— stolen by demons of hate and vindictive temptations. If Jevon could, he would’ve shouldered the burden of his grief alone— he would have offered himself to those fires of despair unhesitatingly if he thought he could have saved him. But even in his avid self-destruction; he was valueless, unfinished, and void; he had nothing to give in exchange.

He was an interloper, an anomaly in this world— a soulless thespian trying to play the part of a human, when he hadn’t the talent nor the right to replicate their beautiful monstrosity; their sincerities. 

… Then, he spotted something through the gaps in his fingers— something he had disregarded earlier while clearing his desk. He reached for it as it balanced itself on the edge, and brought it underneath the lamplight to scrutinize it. It was a finished letter— but not an official one, rather… It was addressed to the Crown Prince, a survivor among the dozens he had scrapped, some crumpled up outside of the nearby bin from when he missed his shot. 

Immediately, he planned to add it to the ever-growing trash heap; however, it was as if something had possessed him, invisible shackles rendering his arms immovable. And unbiddenly, his eyes moved from word to word; it was messily written, without a semblance of his usual eloquence to be found, and there were numerous splotches, signifying shaky hands. But it was mostly intelligible, if not a bit circumlocutory.  

To my treasured friend:

How have you been recently? Well, I suppose that’s not exactly the best question to ask. Sorry. 

 Perhaps it would be wiser to talk about myself… I mean, not that I have a lot I wish to say. I’m not as adventurous as I would like to be… not like you were, anyway.

I’m still trying to figure out how to take the reins on my own life since I was comfortable with just following your intuition. But I’m an adult now— I can’t have you coddling me anymore, can I?  

That’s what El said, anyway… though her wording was a bit… er, crude. It’s a little surreal getting lectured by someone who is nearly half your size… I would appreciate it if you didn’t relay this to her— you know how short-tempered she can be. Hah, short-tempered.

By the way, she wrote to me recently— you’ve been receiving letters from her too, right? Whenever you can, please find the time to respond to her. She has been rather worried… well, all of us have.  

Xolani took me shopping again the other day… Admittedly, I do not harbor the same… eye for fashion as they do— I honestly don’t know what looks best on me… but I have resigned myself to trusting their word. 

I just wish they wouldn’t blow so much money on me, though— I don’t believe I’m very deserving of it, and every time I’ve attempted to repay them, they would shoot me down and say something along the lines of:  

“Jevon, my little honeycomb, my tender blossom, you needn’t worry about a thing— is it not Auntie Xolani’s job to ensure that all of their little goslings are taken care of, hm?”  

But I suppose that’s just the kind of person they are… someone who is loyal and devoted to their friends. Don’t get me wrong; I find it very admirable, if not brave… something that I could only aspire to replicate.  

Ah, I recently brought a stray into my home. I found her while I was on my way back from the office— the poor thing had injured her leg; she wouldn’t be able to protect herself in such a state, so I only intended to nurse her back to health initially… but she ended up taking a liking to me.  

She’s quite a beauty— pure black fur and a pair of beautiful blue eyes. I decided to name her “Aurora”, though she usually only responds if I humble myself and roll out a red carpet for her… Haha.  

Once again, on cue, Aurora had sauntered into the room and sprung onto his lap, and he momentarily paused to scratch her ear. When Jevon returned, he noticed he was approaching the coda of the letter, for his past self seemed to acknowledge its length. 

Forgive me, I didn’t mean to rattle on. 

My friend, I have so many regrets. 

I once told you that I would follow you anywhere. Through driving rain or sweltering flames, I vowed that I would repay the endless kindness and patience you have shown me since the day I fell into your arms.

Yes, I should have pursued you to the very edge of the earth. But instead, I allowed my fears and self-doubt overrule my better judgment. I became completely rooted.

And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for abandoning you, my beloved friend… My savior. My light. 

I could bow my head for an eternity but I will never be able to wholly repent for the heartbreak I must have caused you when I refused to take your hand back then… And I know that these apologies must sound horrifically hollow… even though I swore that I would become a better man for you. A man… worthy of loving you.

Truly, I really am no more than a lousy sycophant looking for undeserved redemption.

But I had a comforting thought recently.

No matter how many seas and deserts span between us, we still see the same sky. The same moon.  

In the past, I used to spurn the moon.  

But now, as I gaze upon it… I wonder if you are searching for me within it.  

With eternal love, your little star. 

Aurora hopped away when he maneuvered out of his chair— the letter clutched firmly against his breast. Jevon unclicked the door leading to the small veranda, the chill of the night winnowing through his hair, the paper spasming briefly. He approached the parapet and settled his unoccupied hand upon it, his eyes heading moonward. It was round and clear tonight— an argent and mesmerizing shade of silver. 

He indeed loathed the moonlight once upon a time— for its searing, unavoidable presence in the night only harkened memories of torturesome loneliness— endless days prisoned by a dense— unflagging darkness. 

Though it simultaneously felt like something akin to an old friend— an omnipresent echo of the bygone divinities he has long since abandoned.

Whenever his battle has taken him— was his prince looking upon this sight as well?

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“Jevon, dear! Are you quite finished yet? I understand the appeal of being “fashionably” late, but right now, we really can’t afford it!

“One moment!”  

He could practically hear the impatient clicking of Xolani’s heels as he gave himself another once-over in the tall dressing mirror. Even then, he could only judge the bottom half of his ensemble— it was not exactly designed for people of his… immensity. Well, that contumacious lion’s mane on his head was a bit of a lost cause anyhow, no matter how many products— per Xolani’s recommendation— he slathered into it.  

He must admit that he was not overly enthusiastic about the outfit Xolani had chosen for him. It was stuffy and far too tight for his liking, not to mention horrendously gaudy… but he supposed that these events were all about ostentatiousness and fanfaronade. He was dressed in a corseted tailcoat that ran in shades of navy blue— hemmed with a superfluity of obnoxious frills, lace, and delicate ghosts of ornamented gold, wrapped around a common dress shirt.

 It was matched with a crisp pair of trousers and a set of laced boots that climbed up to the height of his thighs— augmented by sharp platforms that took care to add a monstrous inch or two to his already staggering physique. He was bedecked with a myriad of unnecessary accessories, importuned and thereafter dispensed by his fashion-crazed friend. Namely, a feathery jabot that was affixed to the bottom of his neckline alongside a pair of satiny white gloves and a pearlescent earring that formed the shape of an oval— hitched and dangling from his left lobe— moonstone, Xolani had informed him unprompted.  

After a few more moments of brainless fiddling, Jevon sighed, dissatisfied, and lifted his fingers, rubbing the lingering weariness from his eyes. Several sleepless nights of scripting reports and mindlessly sifting through paperwork have left him understandably fatigued, which were unduly accompanied by an unrelenting onslaught of grotesque nightmares that plundered every instance of rest he was scarcely offered. But in spite of his prevailing exhaustion— and ever the man of his word— he fully intended to carry on with his vow. It was merely a single night, he told himself: he would waltz in, duck behind the rabble, sneak onto the stage, and wordlessly provide their superfluous background music.  

At the very least, Jevon was well-acquainted with the general topography— even if those halls have felt emptier, colder— without the prince and his brimming, all-encompassing zeal.   

He appended his diamond-shaped brooch— a long-held and cherished gift that he tended to incorporate into all his apparel one way or another— to the crown of his jabot. Jevon then donned a white mask that was earmarked by ornate, golden patterning and exquisite swirls— albeit it only cordoned off the charred half. Once it was determined that he looked palatable enough, Jevon abandoned his reflection and made for the door— however, he spotted something— something glinting in a laceration of dark sunlight, sequestered behind the dark plane nestled beneath his mattress. In a moment of subconscious curiosity, he kneeled down and investigated. Thereunder, he would uncover a certain object that, he wagered, has been collecting dust for the better half of a decade.

His lyre, another precious bequeathment— was engineered of ethereal silver and festooned with firm, undaunting strings and carvings of constellations and stars while the base was inlaid with a cerulean gemstone cut to resemble a crescent moon. Where the instrument curled delicately, it almost echoed the folded wings of an angel. Jevon traced a gloved thumb along the ridges of the decorative etchings; he flicked the strings, producing a low groan in reply— but though rusted after years of disuse, it still sung clear and true. And something in his soul stirred— a heart-pang of sentimentality and fearsome longing— for both the mourning of a sincere passion long-abandoned and the eager set of ears that once hounded him for performances day in and day out.

… But since that undue departure— since fate cruelly wretched him out of his arms— needless to say, his pen has not dared to move; his compositions and rhapsodies unwritten; his drive— his natural desperation as a dedicated artist to wreathe those private monuments, to reinterpret the beauty of his muse by inking ballads built upon flowery verse and idyllic wondering— Jevon has only opened himself to seeing nothing but the stale, reclusive walls of his home. Life all but drained of its delicate wanderlust since he was forced to let him go.

The thrusting of the door and the subsequent flounce of heels dispelled his fleeting daydream. He placed the dusty instrument on the mattress then shifted his attention toward the direction of the outburst. “Goodness, what’s holding you?” Barked his friend. “Unlike the rest of us, you were born with natural beauty! There’s no need to loiter around and fiddle with your lapels until dawn… oh, my! Look at you!”  

His friend, as expected, had gone all-out with their own costume. A sleeveless form-fitting dress that was shaded an appliqued, enthralling black. The dress flared out just below the knee, creating the elegant illusion of a mermaid-like tail with waves of ruffles. Their usual eyepatch was traded in for one of dainty lace and ornamented roses. Additionally, they wore a frilly choker and a pair of elbow-length opera gloves that were purfled with ornate lacework, of which came over their mouth as they suppressed their surprised squeal. Their diaphanous shawl was worn loosely, partially sagging off their barren shoulders. Their hair was untouched and allowed to cascade freely along their shoulders. 

As expected, they impressed. Jevon knew a thing or two about beauty, as a self-proclaimed poet— but among his corpus of romantical knowledge, he could not find a single adjective that could accurately describe his friend’s radiance.  

“Oh, how quaint, darling! You look absolutely spectacular! I must say I was a little concerned— it is so difficult finding clothes for a man of your… stature. But hey! It all worked out!”  

Of the two, Xolani was the one who deserved panegyrization; however, the wholeheartedness of their tone painted his face pink with gratitude as he shyly scratched his cheek. “You flatter me…”  

“And you doubted me. Go on, go on— admit that you were wrong,” they urged with a flick of their hand, the other posed on their hip. 

“Of course, I never should have questioned the impeccable wisdom of the Great Xolani.”  

“That’s right… oh, is that sarcasm, I hear? You cheeky little thing; you’re lucky that I adore you so,” Xolani laughed, lightly tugging his cheek. “Now!” They brought their hands together in a thunderous clap, then hastened for the yawned entranceway. “Let’s hurry! We haven’t a moment to lose, darling!” 

 Xolani tossed him a wink and a roguish smile over their shoulder. “I mean, the show can’t very well begin without their lead performer, now can it?” 

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

When they arrived at the ballroom, twilight had already usurped. The bleak radiance of the dying sun chasing after their tardy figures as they fast-talked their way through security and sashayed arm-and-arm through the colossal doors. The smothered revelry he had distinguished down the corridor gradually crescendoed into a reverberated percussion of laughter and chatter. A vast concourse of bloated, purfled skirts; crisp waistcoats and the silkiest fineries foregathered under an empyreal plafond of ethereal muses, plump cherubim and gilded chariots, encompassed by walls of gold stucco and foregrounded by marbled columns inscribed with delicate acanthi.  

Enormous candelabras permeated the vast dancefloor in a warm glow. He roughly estimated that there were at least a hundred or daringly more attendees that hailed from this esteemed household and that. With the unrest and uncertainties of the ongoing war afoot, Jevon questioned if the merriment was in poor taste. Although the rich in their ivory towers were perhaps too desensitized and, you know— they will take care to flaunt their infinite wealth whenever the opportunity arises.

Not to mention, the Montagues themselves were practically obsessed with organizing these grand, over-extravagant galas of theirs— hells, in quieter times of peace, there were balls hosted just about every other week for no particular reason other than the nobility to mingle and waste taxpayer dollars. He has been associated with the likes of the higher class since he quite literally descended into the arms of one of their unfortunate scions, but he doubted he would ever be able to understand their hedonistic proclivities. 

“So, Xolani. Where should I set up?”  

“Jevon,” his friend abruptly interrupted as they dislodged their steadfastly linked arms to wind around their own chest in lieu. A sole vermillion eye scampered around the commodious ballroom as their lace-gloved fingers rapped a nervous cadence against the jut of their elbow. “… So, ahem… here’s the thing, my sweet summer baby… I may or… may not have told a teensy-tiny little fib…” 

“What do you mean?”  

“I truly wasn’t expecting it. I mean, it was one hell of a plot-twist. Perhaps a bit of divine intervention? Anyways, it would seem that our dear harpist has made a miraculous recovery. Hooray. So, there’s no need for you to, ahem, stand in on their behalf. Or that is to say that there was never anything to worry about in the first place?”  

A snow-white eyebrow furrowed with suspicion. “Xolani,” Jevon delicately rephrased his wording with sterner emphasis. “What is going on—” 

“Ah, let us not sweat all the fussy little details, all right? Too much stress is horrendous for one’s skin,” Xolani magicked the uneasy tension with a forced laugh as their forefinger swooped to poke him squarely on the edge of his nose. Although when it became obvious that their evasive jollities had little to no effect on their target, Xolani deflated like a popped balloon and they retreated to their proverbial shell and curled in on themself. 

“All right, look— this certainly wasn’t my first choice, trust me. I entertained my lion’s share of potential options, but they weren’t getting me anywhere anytime soon. Do forgive this loathly one for taking advantage of your gullible nature— I simply had no choice. But for the love of the Fates themselves, you have got to help me out here, Jevon. My blasted future is on the line,” they were scrabbling for his sleeves now and Jevon would have amounted this spiel of dramatism to their usual theatrics, but their words and ministrations came accompanied with an undercoat of uncharacteristic urgency— their round-eyed expression reminiscent of a pleading, starving beggar on the side of the road. Obviously, there was something dire amiss. Gently, he prodded them for answers. 

“Xolani, I implore you to properly elaborate.” 

Before Xolani had the chance to explain, a sudden exclamation shattered through the festivities— mirroring the spontaneous ferocity of a thunderstrike on a calm day. A silencing roar that seemed to shudder the earth off its axis. And its aftershocks rattled his spine in an electrifying chill; the hairs on the back of his neck rocketing upward. He did not recognize that booming timbre instantaneously. However, he did notice that his companion’s features had gone a ghostly shade. They shrunk like a small animal catching sight of a predator’s silhouette prowling through the underbrush, and quickly ducked behind the taller of the two as though he were a shield.  

The crowd partitioned; the trees sundered by a brutish gale, and the roiling tempest stalked forth. He was a colossus of a man with a tired, ashen-brown complexion with profound circles accenting the edges of his obsidian-black eyes. Flagrant exhaustion notwithstanding, his gait was full, broad-shouldered and overwhelming— a skyscraper emboldened by hefty, powerful assets. His regalia harbored the national palettes of dark purples with ornamentations and furbelows of irradiant golds. 

Albeit it contrasted the standard-issued military uniforms— bulkier and seemingly tailor-made for his fathomless physique, and notably more stylized. A threadbare cape was draped around his armored shoulders, emblemed with an extravagant shield-like crest with crisscrossing blades in its backdrop, and it trailed behind him like an oppressive shadow of might. It and his features alike bore telltale signs of age— whittled down by decades of persistent service. His beard and hair were outgrown— a deep hue of black that was frosted gray at the roots, and it was let down in waves upon waves of unkempt curls and knots. 

“… Lord Mercutio,” Jevon kept his voice level and his back straight as he shuffled in front of his cowering friend protectively when the man drew precariously close. “A pleasure to see you again,” he diligently masked the derision that threatened to poison his collected tenor while his eyes narrowed by reflex, carefully monitoring the mountain of a man like an enemy on the advance. “It’s been some time, I’d say. I heard you were on a reconnaissance mission in the south. Some trouble over in the Isles of March, correct? For the sake of my own workload, I certainly hope that His Grace was able to make some leeway with our negotiations with the de Regans.” 

As anticipated, his comment was completely overlooked, as was his presence altogether. Mercutio may as well not have even spotted the other man even if he was one of the few in their particular quarter that could compete with his mammoth stature. “Benvolio,” dead eyes were fixed on the hideaway at his rearguard, crouched and clinging firmly to the back of his suit like a stubborn barnacle. 

“Stop mousing away and come and face me properly, Benvolio. Do not make me repeat myself,” his sharp command left little room for argument, to say the least. Jevon noticed how his friend had given his garb a brief squeeze, hesitating to peek out— but ultimately, Xolani tentatively reemerged, enfolding themself with their arms like a stand-in barrier. 

“Aw, shucks. Now, what could the exalted Sir Mercutio want with a— a mere plebeian with little to no social standing like mine humble self?” Although Xolani was attempting, at least, to weave in their usual japes and cajoleries— it was as glaring as a blob of black ink on a piece of parchment that they were— scared. And Xolani was not the sort to take easily to fear, needless to say. 

They were unabashedly bold and a benchmark of confidence— and a more reclusive, withdrawn person like Jevon often caught himself envying, pondering about the identity of the secret to their unchallengeable charisma— but even gods were not purely invulnerable, and lauded Achilles still had the fault of his pesky heel to trip him up. Furthermore, he has known Xolani since he was still a wee thing— while he was not privy to the full extent of the details, he was there to witness it firsthand when they chose to cut ties with House Alexis— even if it had yet to hit the official records, they have not set foot in their erstwhile estate for years now. 

 Evidently, Sir Mercutio himself was hesitant to accept their personal exile as hard fact as well. He continued to antagonize them to this day, reportedly. Of course, as the chief of the Ministry of Defense and head of House Alexis, who were debatably second-in-power to that of the Montagues themselves and the Church of Antares, although he was supposed to have retired, without an expendable heir he regrettably still commandeered a sizable chunk of national power.  

Devout to the throne unquestionably, but one could suggest that Sir Mercutio was a product, or perhaps a repercussion, of the old faith: although conditions in Igerene have steadily been improving (or were, but then all their progress went up into proverbial and literal flames with the incitement of the war—) there were still many of those within the highchairs who were enslaved by their roots. The root of evil and the pulpy mountain of carnage and hate that Igerene was founded upon, that is— and many yet fought for their “damaged” pride, incapable of accepting or facilitating change or Igerene’s purported descent from preeminence.  

Sir Mercutio was one of those nonbelievers, to say the least. As the commander of the Ministry of Defense, the growth and needless financing of military strength, and the ultimate violation of nonaggression pacts was practically his bread and butter. Jokes aside, the Ministry was partly responsible, if not wholly for the conflict within the senate. 

The divided council; the preachers who celebrated the usurped regime like pure gospel versus the tentative acceptance of the new: it was steeped and ultimately went back around to the Ministry’s poorly concealed corruption, silently but steadily mushrooming— a pandemic that would no doubt take thousands if left unchecked. There were even various rumors appertaining to foul play in regards to the fair and pallid lady whose assassination originally gave rise to this pathetic war— but it would take no private eye to deduce that this was an internal issue at its core.  

It was unsurprising that Mercutio was as hardened and borderline unfeeling as a roughened drill sergeant. His track record was nearly as concerning. Of course, the powerful could get away with murder if they so choose, so these splotches on his pristine profile were merely denoted as simple mistakes by the superiors to Mercutio’s superiors and effortlessly swept underneath the rug and out of the public gossip spheres, but Jevon has seen his cruelness in effect and has been on the receiving end of it himself. Of course, nothing compared to the horror stories he has overheard from Mercutio’s subordinates— knights who foolishly enlisted to be whipped into shape by the king’s veritable sword-arm— and naturally, those who were forced to share a living space with him.  

… Xolani hardly took pride in being a “survivor,” though. When a hand inched a shy too close to their face, they still could not keep themself from flinching. Jevon saw the welts that they kept stealthily hidden underneath long sleeve and perfectly crafted lie alike— and at the time he had been determined to stage a political assassination. 

A flick of the wrist, a curated public speech commissioned by a standby manager— and some hush money on the sly would shush outcry, and abuse will continue to thrive unpunished as maintaining the status quo, of course, took priority over personal justice. Even when casualties inevitably arose, and in Mercutio’s case, there have been— his legacy precedes him, a veritable hallmark for the country and if he so willed it for his campaign, he could come up with a valid reason to excommunicate his doubters outright. He was surprised that Xolani managed to escape unscathed— mostly at least. 

 But Mercutio was as possessive over his surviving heir as a moth to the flame— he had been humiliated and became hailed as a laughingstock when they packed their bags and flashed him and his conditions the middle finger. 

But above all else, he was a delusional man. Jevon might have pitied him in another life, but whatever his mental state, his actions should not be forgiven or readily condoned: Xolani’s scars suffered scars because of his vitriol— yet Xolani had chosen to grow and become kind instead of spiteful whereas Mercutio was more or less a fussy infant trapped in the body of a man grown— throwing a prolonged and vapid tantrum. Clinging to the headstone of a phantom name: and not in the matter that one may presume. Xolani was christened after their biological mother, after all— and they decided to preserve it in her honor. But Mercutio never saw them as the orphan from the church he tenderly took under his wing.  

To the old, blinded fool: they were merely a handy substitute for his own sins. 

“Disloyal. Disobedient. It baffles me,” Jevon reflexively maneuvered in front of his friend when Mercutio dared to infringe further. He searched past him as if he was nothing more than a meddling fly— a lost look of fuddled, distracted hatred and superiority tucked betwixt tired creases. The ghost of a proud general who hung up his sword long ago yet kept the armor as a delusion of forgotten, rusted grandeur. 

“I raised you with my own two hands. I formed you into a perfect warrior. You were to inherit me— our storied legacy— the fate of all House Alexis— and you would damn me, your father. My father before me— centuries worth of pride and lineage substituted for this clownery. Wearing that shameless ensemble— behaving promiscuously— acting like less of the man that you are. That I sculpted you thoroughly to be. Where is your sense of humility? Your honor?”  

“I received your letters, Sir Mercutio. But as I’m no longer affiliated with your renowned menage, it was well within my rights to pass it on to the correct personage. What do I have to offer to the Ministry of Defense, anyhow? I’m just a dirty, uneducated commoner,” Xolani matched his haughtiness with their polished cheek, but however much they tried to suppress it, Jevon could feel the tremor of their body against his— and he wondered if he was roped into this purely because Xolani tactically foresaw this encounter: that Jevon was to act as their mortar and boulder if necessary. Jevon personally wished that it was possible to write up a restraining order against an archduke.

 “Anyway, haven’t you drawn on this little charade of yours long enough? I severed my ties with House Alexis many years ago. Sure, I’m officially considered your heir presumptive till… but I’m sure I made my point abundantly clear: I’m not going to bend myself sideways to indulge your petty fantasies any longer. You need to move on already, Mercutio. Smell the roses. Tell someone they’re wanted. Get a niche little hobby. Or better yet, fuck off and leave me alone already.”  

“I will not tell you twice,” Jevon noticed Xolani’s eye dilate with fear as their former liege launched out to retrieve them, but Jevon swiftly intervened and crowded them back behind his back as he glared the other man down like a guard dog on duty. Mercutio clicked his tongue like a spoiled teen and strategically retreated as he tucked himself back in the safe fluff of his cape. 

“You will return with me to Avirin whether you wish for it or not, Benvolio. If you think that I will sit by and allow you to make a mockery of yourself and everything our bloodline stands for, then it seems like I will have to beat the notion into your stubborn head one way or another. How foolish,” he idly rested the heel of a large palm against the pommel of the greatsword sheathed at his hipline as his dark, imperious stare flicked between his rejected scion and their contracted bodyguard. 

“… Ducking behind another man for protection is the very pinnacle of weakness. And you were to become a soldier like no other: sword-hand to the future king like I was before and savior of our house… and now you insist on lowering yourself to the likes of some… degenerate trash.”  

“Watch your mouth, Mercutio,” Jevon hissed as he kindly dropped any such formality from his dialogue. The man was lower than the scum underneath his sole, let alone his superior. “You can act all you like that I’m not here, but I can promise you right now that I do not intend to stay my tongue if you intend on harassing them any further, my position be damned. Or would you prefer it if I took this up with the king personally? I’ve been meaning to treat him for some time now: we can make your insubordination the highlight of our discussion.” 

“You are an outsider, Fulbright. Do not involve yourself with the affairs of my family. Better yet, why don’t you refrain from interacting with Benvolio outright? I’ve no doubt that your debauched lifestyle is the reason why my son was led astray in the first place,” a white-hot flare of rage ignited in his belly as undisguised hate seeped past his calm front. “I’ve warned him about fraternizing with the likes of you… and failing to heed my warning has resulted in this disreputable attitude. But attitudes can be easily remedied with a firm hand. Now, leave so that I may speak with him without the unneeded audience.”  

“Say that shit about him again and we may have patricide on our hands, father,” self-preservation notwithstanding, stubborn anger erupted in a windstorm of verbal lacerations as Xolani marched out to fearlessly confront the eye of the storm.

 “Harass and deride me all you wish, but I swear I will tear that weathered, balding scalp of yours off your damned shoulders if I hear the merest whisper of his name fall from your degenerate lips again. And besides, I’ve told you before: honor, family, chivalry… if that’s what you deign to call the hell you subject your subordinates to, anyway, I want nothing to do with it,” they folded their arms and puffed out their posture in an effort to shorten that chasmic gap. “All that inane bullshit means as much to me as scrap on the roadside. I’m sick and tired of you projecting all your petty little insecurities onto me just because you’re envious that I and I alone have managed to free myself from this cycle of blind obedience. Can you get it through your thick skull already that I would rejoice if all the Alexis Dukedom abruptly caught aflame?”  

Mercutio’s hand twitched at the scathing vivisection. Xolani let their lips fall upward in arrogant triumph. “And besides, I wouldn’t be of much use to you any longer, I’m afraid. Of course, I’m not interested in swordplay, or wordplay, or fraternizing with crusty old men and drinking cheap wine over cheaper statecraft. But as a footnote, I’ve already kickstarted my own little career in the background and it is thriving, I’m telling you. Why, my dear subordinates would mourn the day they lost their impeccable leader— there has never been more order amongst our depraved little bunch before I swooped in and evened out their tempers. And I sacrificed much to get to where I am today— do you think I’d trade it all away just so I can stroke daddy’s ego? Besides, I know you’re immediately going to pawn me off to the next poor unwilling suitor should I ever dare to step through those doors again— but I’m afraid this body, too, is no longer… viable in regards to, ah— entertaining the option of selling it away for political points.” 

Xolani suddenly swirled around and wrapped their arms around his own python-tight. The fury within Jevon quelled in an instant as he cast his companion a confused look. “Why else would I have had the idea of coming to one of these asinine galas than to brag about my dazzling fiancé?”  

Huh.

Speechlessly, Mercutio glanced between said fiancé and his former scion as if he had been beholden to the secrets of the cosmos. “You cannot be serious, Benvolio,” a so-called fellow man— is what the incredulous disgust on his face openly articulated. He performed some form of meditation by flexing and unflexing his hands. “You were devoted to your studies. I kept you in line— and because of this—” He shared a look of equivalent befuddlement with Jevon. “Interloper… do you intend to dishonor us all, Benvolio?”  

“Pretty sure I dishonored you way back when I picked out my first skirt. Ah, but with a truly woeful heart, I’m afraid you’ll have to forego your plans to wed me off. I simply cannot exist in a world without my dearest Jevon in it, you see? I’m not a cheater, gods forbid. And he’s my soulmate,” a skip of fingers darted up across his chest before sweetly giving the tender spot betwixt his brows a playful flick. “Isn’t that right, honeybun? Tell daddy dearest how you valiantly whisked me off my feet like a knight in shining armor!”  

Ah, so this was their game. Honestly, he would have played along if Xolani had foregone the deceptions to swindle him out this way, and it certainly would have been nice if he had a script to memorize in advance. Silence may be preferable for now, given that he was unsure how far Xolani wanted to take this little gag— so he awkwardly laced his arm around their lithe shoulder to play with strings of dark hair while keeping his chin high; it would be best if the opposing party did not smell the hesitation on him. 

“If this is some practical joke,” boomed the knight; the leather of his gloves squelched as his hands tightened into a pair of tight fists. “Then I will take care to inform you that I am not particularly humored. You are above this, Benvolio!”  

“I’d never lie about true love, dear ol’ Mercutio. Isn’t that right, sweetie?” A flutter of their eyelashes and a subtle nudge to his shin kicked Jevon to action, script-less or otherwise, he considered himself semi-adept at improv and cleared the nervousness from his throat, posture straightening. 

“Indeed. Since the moment they first graced my line of vision, I have been devastatingly enamored. These last few years have been… trying, but they have been an irreplaceable crutch for me throughout it all— through hell and high water… I certainly would have drowned in my own self-pity had they not stubbornly broken down my reinforced walls and forced me back out into the sunlight again… and I mean that in only the most grateful of ways. Now, I have a preference for men, of course: but they are an exception like no other. The way that the world seems to pause to rejoice in the light of their laughter… or how their dark hair is perfectly encapsulated by the moonshine… and their sweet tenor like birdsong whispers only the most encouraging tunes… a beacon for the crucible of my constant struggle, guiding me with a firm but nurturing hand… Why, how could one blame me for falling prey to their wiles? They are beautiful inwardly and outwardly.” 

He gave their shoulder an affirmative squeeze— and of course, this was all the truth, if not a bit embroidered with a dash of a more romantic aftertaste, but it was also a sneaky excuse to pamper them with overdue appreciation, given that they have given him more than he honestly deserved. “Simply put, I cannot imagine my future without them at my side.” 

“Ah,” Xolani squeaked unprofessionally as a rose-red tint shaded their cheeks. Jevon peeked over at them obliviously as they placed their hand up as a makeshift screen to hide the swell of embarrassment. “I… I see… you always have such a way with words, my little sonnet… you’re going to turn my legs to jelly at this rate!’ 

“I’ll carry you, then. It is the least I can do for a princess.” 

A sharper kick to his poor kneecap, and Jevon repressed a mix between a yelp and a chortle. All right, he shouldn’t tease too much. In the background, he could have sworn that Mercutio was replaced with a very angry turnip with the hue his face took as he watched them toss flirtations back and forth like candy. Jevon bit down a smirk and bowed his head in faux respect. “I’ll admit that I can get a bit carried away at times, but I hope you acknowledge that my feelings for Xolani cannot so easily be dismissed. I can assure you that any attempt to pry them with me would be met with… less than pretty consequences. I am admittedly possessive with what I love.”  

“Yes, yes. Like a dragon hoarding his treasure. Heavens forbid, Jevon, that’s too much,” Jevon snickered as a very abashed Xolani shoved his cheek away when he leaned in to deposit a kiss, or at least give the impression of one. “I think he gets the idea. Any more of this and he might just implode on the spot! Gosh, poor Mercutio. Shall we tell him how you proposed to me next?” 

“Why, it was next to the seaside, of course. You were in your lace gown with the evening sun fanning your splendid features… it was a little over a month ago— you chased me to the docks before I left for the East and between our heartfelt goodbyes, the moment felt precise. So, I dropped onto one knee and presumably you can fill in the rest. I swear, I was about to cancel my trip outright— I could scarcely keep my hands to myself after they gave me their answer…”  

“A winter wedding, right?” Xolani chipped in as they lazily traced their fingernail in a circle where his heart would lay. 

“Of course. You look beautiful in white, my dearest. With the falling snow accentuating the train of your gown, I’m certain you would compete with the gods in their splendor.”  

“That is enough,” the thunder split and all was silent. A well-honed blade to rupture the mirth. Xolani winced and Jevon immediately returned to their guard, teeth practically bore as Mercutio clasped his scabbard— the threat of a counterstrike as they teased this volcano toward its inevitable eruption. An escalating bushfire threatening to engulf everything, gossiping spectators included, in its wrath.  

“You are coming home with me. Now. I will not accept anything else, you insufferable, intolerant brat. Feel free to indulge your crude fantasies in private if you truly cannot keep your hands to yourself— but I will not allow any further debasement to fall on our reputation. Come,” Xolani instantly shrunk as that large hand shot out like a whip; however, Jevon loyally jumped to the frontlines and caught his wrist in a bruising stranglehold; the red of his undamaged eye a burning inferno; lips peeled back in a draconic snarl.  

“Lay a hand on them if you so dare, Your Grace— but don’t expect me to sit idly by. Stop trying to gatekeep their life. You don’t have the authority.”  

“Insolent… the Montagues might have taken pity on you, but you are nothing—”  

“Oh, go suck a dick, you senile old bastard. I will live however I wish,” Xolani articulated with a slower inflection as if they were educating a misbehaving child. “With whomever I wish. I don’t need your fucking permission. You may frown on my “choice of lifestyle” and all those purportedly beneath you like some kind of god in your throne— but you aren’t even worth a quarter of the respect. I am not your damn heir, and I am not your replacement. I’m through with that shit.”  

Mercutio snatched his wrist away. Xolani tentatively circled out in front of Jevon; their expression deadpan. Unafraid. There were too many witnesses, anyway. In front of Jevon at least, he would dare not discipline. He looked positively mortified, enraged— but Mercutio knew better than anyone that there would be irremediable consequences if the primmed and pristine head of the Ministry of Defense outraged and caused a scene like a coddled brat. He flexed his fist. “You’d prioritize this over family,” he remarked and Xolani made a disgusted face. “Your own selfish needs… over Orlando— your brother’s corpse. You disrespect his memory— what he died for.”  

“Delusional idiot. You’re the reason why the bastard offed himself. Couldn’t handle daddy’s expectations. Besides, he more or less deserved it; he was a carbon-copy of you in the worst of ways,” Xolani shrugged impassively, and Mercutio’s stewing fury fulminated; his blood pressure doubtlessly escalating to dangerous heights, which was perhaps hazardous for someone at his age, but if he spontaneously dropped dead of a heart attack, he would be doing the world a favor, honestly. 

“You didn’t even show up at his funeral. You’re an emotionless bastard who has only ever cared about furthering your own legacy. You knocked some helpless soul up to breed little Mercutios that you could mold to your whims— desperately trying to perpetuate the tainted lie that is your legacy before it falls into obscurity.” 

“Keep mouthing off like that, Benvolio. See what happens,” Mercutio’s poorly curated coolness fractured; he growled. Jevon readied himself to leap back into the fray if necessary. 

“No, maybe what you need is a good reality check. When dear Orlando took this eye of mine as compensation, you didn’t bat a fucking lash. When he slit his own throat, you only mourned the fact that you would be heirless after I promptly got the fuck out of there and thank the gods I did! You’ve only gotten more delusional over the years. Age hasn’t been good to you, has it? I mean, you still see me as a dead man,” Xolani burst into a peal of explosive, mocking laughter as they palmed their eyepatch; however, there was a tinge of undeniable bitterness to it, and perhaps a smattering of self-appointed resentment, too. “Two birds with one stone! You sent both of your sons to an early grave, and you’re too full of yourself to see the root of the problem… which is you of course, my dear! I forgot that I have to spell these things out for you because you’re too fucking dumb to get a hint.”  

“Silence! You… you ignorant child!”  

“Nope, I’m not done! You want me to rejoin the family? Be your pretty little bargaining chip? I mean, with devastating looks like these, I’m sure thousands of potential bachelorettes would just lap it up, but I have an even better idea,” they clapped their hands together as a wicked, if not quietly pained grin spread from ear to ear. 

“Why don’t you go out and dig up Orlando’s bones— ship them off in a fancy little envelope as a peace offering? That, my friend, is a fantastic idea— perhaps one of my best, in fact! I’ll be sending postcards and merry wishes when the big day arrives. Maybe they’ll even pump out a royal baby for you or several? That should sufficiently tie you over until you finally croak,” they sneered, fists balling up. “You greedy old fuck!”  

His delicate honor was injured. A good knight should always rush to defend it. Mercutio reached for his greatsword but halted when he took notice of the accumulated crowd. He was mocked and stomped into the earth verbally already, and he must have realized that it would be easy to cut his losses before his frangible renown was sullied any further. He passed a look of pure, undiluted hatred between his scorned disciple and an impossibly calm Jevon, huffed poignantly and released the hilt, withdrawing and disappearing into the rabble with a pointed flourish of his cape.  

“Good,” Jevon called out to him, hoping that his naturally deep voice carried above the festive din. “Hasten back to whatever filthy gutter you crawled out of, you rat.”  

“Goodness… laying it on a bit thick, are we, my dear?” Xolani still seemed a bit ruffled from their not-so-surprise encounter with their whilom liege, exhaling a long-held breath as they settled a hand on their chest, recuperating. “I didn’t think you had it in you to be so… authoritative, Jevon. I’ll have to pocket that little pearl of information for later,” they displaced the lingering trepidation from their face and repainted a flippant smile and leaned their elbow against his bicep.

 “… You do have my thanks, though. You… did me quite the kindness back there. I knew he was invited tonight, and truth be told, I was getting a little tired of being paranoid in the comfort of my own home, so… I thought it would be best to face him directly. The perfect layout for a duel, right? He can’t talk back or else he’ll drag too much unneeded attention toward himself… but having you here gave me the push I sorely needed to properly defy him to his face. Oh, and five stars for your performance: I really thought he was going to have a stroke! This will certainly make him think twice about bothering me again… I hope.”  

“I wouldn’t have minded helping you, I just… wish you would’ve told me in advance, that’s all.”  

“Oh, but what sort of master coercer would I be if I laid out all my cards outright, huh?” Xolani threw him a trademark wink— and Jevon fondly shook his head as he automatically reached forward to resecure a fallen strand behind the security of their ear. It could have gone plenty worse, he supposed. “… I really do owe you one though, love. Sweets simply aren’t enough; if you need anything, and I mean anything, just ask me and I’ll fetch it in a heartbeat: through hell or high water, as you so eloquently put it.”  

“After that, I think all I’d really like is to go home already.” 

“Oh, come now. I don’t want all these pearls to go to waste. Your outfit was quite expensive; you know,” Xolani released his arm to step back and extend a hand instead, and once Jevon noted the kickstarting cadence of the orchestra, he realized that it was an invitation. “A single dance— then I’ll stop hounding you; I promise.” 

“Won’t that fan the flames, though?” 

“Oh, they’ll get over this drama in about a week or so. That’s how it always is in these noble circles,” they reassured. “This is merely a platonic affair between a pair of very good friends; nothing more than that. Trust me— you aren’t exactly my type.” 

“You’re breaking my heart here, Xolani.”  

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure.” 

Jevon accepted the offering without much of a fight, ultimately. He lifted their knuckles to place a kiss and a smile on the back of their lace glove like the gentleman he would like himself to be. 

“… Well, I hope you can make do with me for the time being, then.”  

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“… My, you’ve become quite the dancer,” commented Xolani— as a temporary noble, the art of dance was a staple practice that was taught as a part of basic etiquette— so, they were able to expertly match the swift and knowledgeable glide of his feet. “In the past, I recall that you had a particularly bad habit of stepping on your instructors’ toes…”  

“I’ve practiced,” without elaboration, he guided his partner into a twirl in harmony with the triumphant crescendo, before dropping Xolani downward, ropes of long hair just barely kissing the floorboard. With a trusty hand on the small of their back, he pulled them onto their feet, drifting back into the waltz with ease, but Xolani’s head remained bowed, and a mirthless laugh dropped from their lips. 

“… A lot about you has changed, it seems. It makes me a bit melancholic… I’m just as listless as I’ve always been, so it feels as if I’m getting left behind…” 

“I… I haven’t really changed,” he argued, clenching harder on their hand. Xolani lifted their head curiously. “… I’ve been… working to improve myself… in order to atone for my mistakes… but even then, I… I don’t think that I’ve… I’ve made any sort of difference. I’m still…”  

Still wondering if he even has a right to be here.

“… This… is about His Highness, right? Are you… still blaming yourself for what happened on that day?”  

“I…”  

As their movements came to a pause, the jollification went on uninterrupted, dresses billowing around them and percussions moaning; however, at the same time, it was as if a sheet of frost had settled over the room, freezing all but he and his friend, who drew their hand away from his grasp to cup his face instead. It was an almost motherlike gesture, one that caused his gut to seize, spurring emotions long-ignored. 

“… Listen to me, Jevon. Nobody blames you for what happened back then… quite the contrary, I must add. The prince always talked about how you were his little miracle. You came to us in a shooting star and brightened our lives… but when he… when His Highness lost…” Xolani trailed off briefly, as if their throat had tightened up around that taboo of a name, for Jevon knew. For Jevon knew of the mutilation and the scarlet-painted walls and the dagger protruding from her weak chest—

With a composing breath, Xolani purposefully circumnavigated the— bloodied elephant in the room and rephrased their former statement in accordance.  “… When all of that happened, the prince lost himself to his hatred. I can’t exactly blame him, of course… but as a result, we were all thrown aside so he could pursue his mindless revenge. It wasn’t just you who failed to stop him, Jevon… I am just as culpable, if not more. I’ve been watching over him ever since he was just a boy… and yet, when he needed my protection the most, I simply… I stood out of the way. I let him go. And I still regret it to this day, Jevon. I do.”  

“I… I understand. I do as well.”

“We haven’t been in contact with him nor his platoon in over a month, as I’m sure you’re well aware. Whether he’s alive or dead… I honestly can’t say for sure,” there was an ineffable depth to their countenance— like the pristine surface of a lake picturesquely enshrouding the ruinous underbelly of a dormant eruption. There was debatably no other person that he felt closer to than Xolani— and yet simultaneously, he has never quite come to know their undiluted truth. “It’s funny,” a miserable chuckle. “How it all seems to loop back around to this… the fear of the unknown… meticulously arranged so that we’re forever chasing our own tails… as if dancing along to a playwright’s rotten whims.” 

“Xolani…” 

“It gets lonely up here on this stage… alone,” they tucked their face in the hook of his throat and exhaled deeply— as if any functional airway had been closed off until now. “… I wish I could have you experience just a tiny bit of my suffering… just for a moment.” 

Just then, he felt a twinge of something that was vaguely like recognition. He spotted something strange in the corner of his vision. It was translucent, almost ghostlike— dressed in gossamer negligee, trailing behind like a chasing cloud as it waded through the crowd. Xolani seemed to have called for him— but it was canceled out by the fervid roaring in his eardrums. This sensation was undoubtedly—

Jevon took off, dashing after the spirit. His friend refrained from giving chase astonishingly— still as water as they expressionlessly watched his fleeing form breakneck across the dancefloor. One of the guests yelped in surprise when he burst onto the adjourning veranda that was upraised over a vast outlook of the residential gardens— a vibrant network of varicolored flowers, man-made waterfalls, and decorative follies of marble.

 He identified the elegant specter in the distance, waiting under a flowered tree, a pair of radiant eyes flicking up to meet his own— as if goading. Needless to say, he took the bait— stumbling down a short flight of stairs and speeding onto the mossy path, embarking into the tangle.  

He paced across a small bridge, built over a winding stream, and through a series of overgrown pergolas. A pair of grazing deer scampered away upon his approach, and a large toad that was resting on a dormant lily pad disappeared into the water. No matter how fast he ran, the apparition managed to outpace him. At times it would flicker out of existence, only to reappear a few yards ahead, pausing briefly, as if offering him a moment to catch up, before continuing onward— a shimmery tail of stars seeming to follow it in its wake.  

When they reached the heart of the garden, Jevon found a gazebo suspended in an enormous pond, encompassed by swathes of hydrangeas. As he bent over to recapture his breath, Jevon took a moment to refamiliarize himself with his surroundings. He has visited this specific place before, alongside a more youthful prince— sharing tales of valor and fire-spewing dragons while munching on delicious treats that were swiped from the kitchen. The untouched serenity had been an inexpressible comfort to him, at the time— back when he was a timid child yet, clinging to the back of his aforementioned friend like a bastion. 

Cornered, the spirit lingered on the arch of the bridge, a phantasmal hand settled on the fencing. She was a woman with a lofty and strong stature, dressed in a white gown-like garment with short sleeves that possessed a billowing sort of effect, befurbelowed with golden filigree. Her hair of raven springy curls that almost melded into the darkness of the night. Her complexion was an umber shade and adorned in long-held, faded lacerations wherever loose-limbed fabric could not conceal— and she walked barefooted. 

Shimmering, though— he spotted an ornament, swaying like a pendulum along her rightmost lobe— a begemmed earring that featured a stunning intermixture of gold and violet. 

However, the feature that initially seized his attention were her eyes: they were practically glowing, a bright, unearthly shade of gold, enshrouded by the bluish moonglow. And for an instant he thought of— them— that reproachful past life— waves of cosmic-white hair and an empty, broken stare— flashes of gold ichor tainting his guilty palms. 

 His tongue felt too large for his throat. When opened his mouth, at first— he struggled to find his voice. After multiple failed attempts to reteach himself the local vernacular, Jevon practically had to push his throbbing heart out and past his reluctant lips— his tenor strained and dubious.  “Who… Who are you?” 

“… You have sensed it, have you not?” The being stated ominously in lieu of a proper response, releasing the parapet and beginning to approach him. He noticed that the ancient bridge creaked as it accommodated her leisurely stride despite her almost spectral-like appearance— but even then he could not identify flesh from transparency— corporeal and tangible or already long-gone. “… This disturbance in the cosmos, a lapse in the annals of fate… a destructive anomaly…”  

She came to a stop before him. It was almost surreal how she nearly matched him in height— there were very few out there whom he has encountered that have achieved that feat. But even with those very few inches he bolstered between them, Jevon wanted to shrink into himself notwithstanding— a trembling rabbit before the ferocious maw of a lion as she openly lambasted him, her austere tone underscored by a ghostly aura. “No, that’s not exactly right: you have known about these abnormalities for some time, haven’t you? And yet you’ve been cowering with your tail between your legs, even though the essence of the Great Mediator still slumbers within you.”  

“Tell… Tell me who you are,” though, in truth, Jevon already had his answer: he merely wanted to confirm if this was merely another hallucination— a figment of his disavowed past.

“… Well, I suppose it would be the polite thing to do. Very well, then… I am the current incarnation of Antares: Patron God of Igerene and Principality of War—

… And you… you are the descendant of the Great Mediator— the nucleus of the cosmos… the Prince of the Stars… though you have since descended from your former heights…

… sequestering yourself behind a piteous veneer of mundanity.”