Chapter Five

He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since he was incarcerated.  

Within this aphotic prison cell, the movement of time was about as speculative as the origins of the universe. Needless to say, the fluctuation of day and night held no dominion here— for only the meek candescence of the waning firebrands offered him the slightest bit of reprieve from the otherwise asphyxiating darkness. 

The smell was simply indescribable, unspeakably odoriferous— a thick, stomach-churning miasma of disease and death that curled itself around his very lungs and clogged up his nostrils. The floors were unwashed, replete with feces and puddles of unidentifiable grease. The bars of the cage were rusted, but the chains that bound him were exasperatedly solid— coiled unbearably around his long-bruised wrists, rubbed raw and bloody. His hollow stomach gave a pathetic groan of hunger. Overgrown bangs fanned his worn, grimey front, his countenance downturned and morbidly exhausted. 

His hair came down in uncontained, bedraggled waves that waterfall-ed out around and over his shoulders in disheveled waves. His underclothes were well-shredded— areas of his chest and his thinned-out abdomen, divulging protuberant ribs and scars scarcely healed from battle— how long has it been since he last had something edible?— left exposed to the biting temperatures. His royal armor— well, it had been stolen, he reckoned— hung up on display as a victory trophy in a fancy glass case somewhere within the castle, he guessed— so that wretched king of theirs could point and laugh to his retinue and boast about his success after conquering the unconquerable Warrior Prince.

Even though that dastardly swine did nought but quietly sit away and laze around in his studies, pursuing some ingenious line of research that was evidently more important than the welfare of his subjects. Not that he had much right to speak as the opposing party— but as a future king (future king, what a joke— as if that destiny of his shall come to fruition now that he was sentenced for death—) but he must have a heart too large, for as much as he loathed them— 

No, he did not loathe Codoslia. But he hated them. But he never wanted to hurt anyone—

… From what he has noticed, he was currently the only pawn in their deck. The only opponent worthy of their regard. While he and he alone was hauled down to the gloomiest recesses of Castle Laurent and fettered up like a bloodthirsty manslayer on trial— his comrades had been executed heartlessly, each and every one of them— no matter how much he had screamed and begged to his enemies for the slightest tittle of mercy— to Lord Antares— in the end, he could do naught but watch their bodies rack up one by one. And with zero insight as to what was transpiring on the outside, all he could do was kick at his chains and wallow in this rat-infested cesspool of despair. 

— Until he could scarcely even gather the resolve to keep himself upright. And he could only question why he had to be pardoned— why he could not bear the brunt of their vexation on behalf of his men— fair-hearted knights— no, what was fair about war— what was honorable?— they should have returned to their families and loved ones instead of dying in a place like this. They should not have drawn their swords to begin with and chosen to fight for his decrepit banner. This war should not have escalated as it should. He should not have given into his barbaric blood. 

… Rationally, he recognized that Codoslia could not afford to lose him quite yet. He was their bargaining chip for the time being— his father was too compassionate of a leader and too good a parent to overlook the dangling of his life like the most appetizing piece of bait, and Igerene was certain to lay down their arms and perhaps perform a few ditties if that was what Codoslia desired. 

It was unethical, illogical and unlike Codoslia— even from the College’s standards— but as was their unanticipated ruthlessness when they deployed an envoy to see his mother— everything about this reeked with suspicion, and he wished jailtime hadn’t offered him this groundswell of clarity but that he could have kept his fury in check before he decided to arm himself for meaningless melee. Strapping the common people up with weapons— legislating brutal executions— and… murdering a sick woman, it paralleled the Igerene of the past. It paralleled Eligor’s foul regime. It felt like a conspiracy but as deeply as he considered it, the more and more walls he ran into, and more frustrated and helpless he became. Why—

… why had it turned out this way? This rashness— it cost him the innocence of his youth and potentially his kingdom an emptied throne or worse— utter annihilation. He was fighting in a war that he recognized was unjust and needless— he knew that from the start, and yet— he could not ignore it. That enthralling, demonic voice— like an undeniable addiction, he devolved into a senseless, hungry beast— and now his hands were coated thickly. Just like the Conqueror. Like Eligor. He would die a violent, warmongering fool— just like every king who has occupied the seat before him. He couldn’t change in the least bit. 

And now, all he could do was struggle bitterly against the constraints of Fate— as it ever permitted a choice in the first place. 

His broodings were interrupted by the recognizable moaning of a rusted door as it was unlatched, followed by a heavy reverberance of marching footfalls— multiple people this time, it would seem. Perhaps they had bumped up the date for his well-awaited execution— or perhaps they intended to hold him down so they could force-feed him that disgustful slop before his intestines could devour each other— eyeing that regrettable tray that he had pointedly overlooked since that hapless servant clumsily shoved through the bars of his cage before dashing away as if they had confronted a vexed tiger. He braced himself regardless— if he was lucky, they would award him with his first assumption.

For a dingy dungeon that was seldom ever utilized, it was unduly large— a long corridor lined with a numberless assortment of empty cells. For that, all he could do was wait as his heart rate recorded record speeds the closer those steps resounded— as if he was just waiting for the hangman to tighten the noose— it certainly felt that way with how challenging it had become to breathe.

“… I don’t require chaperones— stand aside,” came a voice— and while it was still a little way down the hall, it was a resonant thing— a booming echo that could have chilled him if he was not already verging on frostbitten in these tattered rags they lent him.

 The sort of tone that was typically modeled by strict commanders— deep and unquestionable. Any following protestations, he detected, were cut short by what sounded distinctly like a monstrous growl, and the guardsmen who had chaperoned them per se knew wiser and, judging by their footsteps, had swiveled around to march back to the entranceway. After which, the Crown Prince realized that he was alone now with whatever devil decided to pay him a visit— tentatively peeking through the slits of his overhanging bangs while he braced himself for the big reveal— a single dollop of sweat gliding its way down his cheek.

All of a sudden, an enormous, gauntleted hand broke in through the gaps of the cage and roughly manhandled his chin, jerking his face upward as the prince gasped in surprise. This soldier— they were not alike the ones he has encountered so far— no, what he has dealt with were civilians who scarcely knew how to wield arms or mages with terrifying magic but nonetheless on the scrawnier side— intimidating up-close. But this… this monster was a different ballpark altogether. 

He sported his own, distinctive set of armor that did not allude to any sort of known allegiance nor flag, but rather— it was a stunningly unique, if not worn-down shade of embellished gold that was heavily dented and rotted, as if it has seen— eons of misuse or wear and tear. It was paired with a once-glorious cape of crimson that was torn to near ruin— actually, the man himself looked distinctly zombielike to match. His deeply scarred complexion was such a ghostly pale as that one could easily mistake him for an apparition. His hair was a thoroughly unruly mess of blond with tangles of curls that was outgrown and fanned out along his armoire shoulders, coupled with a filthy, unshaven beard and mustache. 

He was built like a mountain however— his broad shoulders were decorated in a pair of pauldrons that echoed the likeness of wolves— and a robust, plated chest and strong, muscular limbs. But his cheeks were hollowed out— and his eyes— the irises were a splendid gold, and he tried not to think how he had never come across such a hue other than what was revealed by his own reflection— they were dull. Bereft of living, as if he was more plastic than human. And yet, their subdued radiance— it seemed to pierce straight through his skin and into the very profundities of his being— and it was petrifying. 

There was something… possessive— a sense of carnality that was due to give him some intense chills. It sickened him. He recalled how appallingly gleeful the man had been when he managed to overcome the prince in battle— the crushing defeat that led to his detainment in the first place. At first, the Crown Prince presumed that the Codoslians had hired some strong-armed sell sword— but the instant they drew their weapons, the prince was quick to rescind his presumption— this was no mere merc looking to make a quick, but a seasoned soldier who has no doubt cruised his fair share of battlefields. His aura felt demon-like— overwhelming, but there was something he sensed too— a wellspring of a profound and archaic essence hidden beneath the ragged layers. 

… He did not care to admit it, but he had lasted for barely a second before he had been battered to the ground, the Warrior Prince wholly trounced and his sword knocked out of reach. He was slammed down by a thick hold around his neck, accompanying a mad grin as the devil laughed at his triumphs— yes, he still remembered the words that had been uttered in his ear at that time, as heavy and searing as if he had been graced by a match. It was something haunting. Something clandestine, private, and endearing— like he was supposed to know this ghoul— like their relationship was meant to be something grand and personal—

“… And so, the mighty Conqueror at last falls… isn’t that right, mademoiselle?” 

“… Ah, you must not look upon me with such scorn in your eyes, my dearest,” cooed the beast— as a generous, cold— metallic— thumb brushed at the splatter of dried blood that had collected by the edge of the prince’s mouth. His voice did not sound like it was near at all, even though he could very well sense the putrid stench of his rotted teeth. “… It will ruin your natural charms… but you’ll probably smack me if I say something like that, right? Or I’ll get another earful from Count Alexis again… haha…  

… I have missed you terribly, you would know,” the monster continued, softly stroking his chin yet as if he was trying to canonize him— treat him as if he was something soft and sacred even while he was dirtied and bound in chains. “… You must forgive me… I… I have been rather preoccupied as of late, as you can very well see… this country of mine has truly collapsed since the fall of House Laurent… I’m surprised that they’ve even managed to come this far— they’ve little to no experience with war… and against your people no less… five years in and of itself is admirable. I must commend their tenacity… 

… Still, they can’t do a thing without me, can they? That is what you keep telling me, mademoiselle… that I’m doing such a grand job… that I can rebuild this country anew… that everything will return to as it were before the war ever started. We can be… together. My love and stars, we can be together— that is what you have sworn,” trying to reason what this crackpot was prattling on about would require a detective’s world-class acumen— but the prince, half-starved and festering in a pool of his own piss was a bit wooly-headed at the moment, as one might guess. Nor could he gather the strength nor courage to bite back with some sort of nasty retort, so all he could do was silently bear these insane ramblings— his teeth on display like an angered, feral animal. Though, he certainly entertained the possibility of lashing out if this madman continued to fondle him like a sleazy drunk at a bar. 

“… My love, why do you look at me so hatefully,” the demon lamented as he ceased his petting to tuck a vagrant strand of hair behind the prince’s ear— and yet, his hollow smile was an etched thing— it would fail to uplift, even if the words he spoke held nothing but a deeply ingrained pathos. Roxxy tried to move his gaze down to the floor— but the devil went to retighten his grip around his chin— hard enough to bruise, he thought— and pinned his fluctuating eyes in place— and the prince sincerely believed if he dared to look anywhere else, it would be on his head, surely. 

The soldier’s odd compassion made a startling return afterward— looking as lost and confused as his captive did, even. “… You despise me now, do you not? But that is all right… all that I have sacrificed for you shall not be in vain. I once promised that I would bring you as many heads as your appetite beckons, my queen… if it could fill the emptiness that gnaws away at you as it does at mine own stranded self. You and I were both abandoned by God, after all… all we have is each other, surely—” 

“I… no—” The prince did not recognize the sound of his own voice for a second— it was a harsh-sounding thing, each strained syllable requiring a tremendous amount of effort to enunciate properly, as if his throat was burned from the inside-out. “… You… I have— they’re all waiting for me to come… come back— I… why am I here? I wanted them to suffer— to suffer because of mother, but I—” 

He swore to a future without fear. He would have exploited his power of kingship down to the last micro-fibre to ensure that he and his brethren could atone for the sins of their forebears. He does not desire war. He does not want to kill— and yet he was enslaved nonetheless. To his rage. To his hatred. He called the man before him a guiltless beast— but what did that make him? Were they truly forsaken? Was there a God? Was there a meaning—?

“… We are pathetic creatures only capable of devastation and grief. We are the only two people in this world who can possibly understand the other— as we revel in the act of the slaughter. And we will continue to kill, mademoiselle. We may never escape from our sins. But hush now— it will be all right,” calmed the honey-sweet devil and for a moment, he had nearly fallen prey to its saccharine allure— even if it was ultimately nothing— a delusive and fake kindness— yet, it was a luxury, perhaps. A luxury he could not help but covet for— terrified and flea-bitten and lonesome as he was. But he immediately put the brakes on his stupor when the man dragged the pad of his thumb along the arc of his busted lip— and he stiffened as if he had been struck, the beginnings of tears clawing to take root in the corners of his eyes. 

“… I understand… I understand, my sweet liege. They will… persecute you, won’t they? They will drive your legacy through the dirt. They’ll call you a monster— a devil from the depths. It does not matter to me if you raise your sword per an oath of justice— or if it is merely their faces contorted with fear as their life flashes before their eyes that addicts you… regardless of your credo, I will stand with you even if the world turns against you… forever, my dear… by your side, I’ll always be…”

“Why,” croaked Roxxy— he should not ask questions; he had no right to— for men who kill must be prepared to be killed in return— but he felt as if he had to know at the same time, or else it would be his end. “… Why are you doing this?” 

“… Because, Drucy…. I love you.” 

The man released him then, forcing gravity against him— or rather, his own inability to keep his head suspended without leverage— and it slumped over again. He watched hazily as the man raised to his towering height and turned with a broken flutter of his cape. “… I must say, though… as someone who once looked upon the world as if you were as high as the sun itself,” he cast the imprisoned prince a wicked grin over his shoulder— a complete contrast from the tenderness he showcased priorly— a sympathetic lover turned unrepentant sadist.  

“… You do look quite beautiful on your knees like this.”  

He listened to the absconding footfalls until the grievous silence reigned true again. As the minutes marched by, and by the third— at last, the prince began to show some modicum of a reaction. He fit angrily like caught seafood entangled in a net, throwing the voiceless walls hopeless curses in between messy sobbing as dirty nails bit into his face. By the time he finally exerted the sudden spurt of rage-induced adrenaline, he ceased his futile thrashing— his lips trembling as he brokenly made one final attempt to barter with God— hoping he would listen. 

He would not, of course. When did God ever listen? 

“… Jevon…”  

… And nor would he.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

“I thought you said we were getting tea.”  

“I mean, they serve just about anything you can think of here— this is a high-class establishment, you know. Not one of those fetid, low-rate pubs— Autine Xolani has standards, thank you very much,” protested the noble as they slapped their chest proudly. Of course, Jevon was more than familiar with the restaurant in question— moonlighting as a rather esteemed tavern in the Common District, entitled the Shackled Heart— which was scrawled out in red, emboldened print across the signboard that dangled overhead. It was founded and primarily manned by a former adventurer turned aspiring mixologist by the name of Ena Saroyan— or Master Saroyan, as they respectfully refer to him.

It certainly could not classify as your everyday tavern. Enticed by grapevines, the Shackled Heart has drawn in customers from as far as the westernmost territories after learning of his culinary prestige and the merry atmosphere his establishment promoted— complete with fine entertainment, a well-paid staff and good vibes all around— even… if his ability to mix drinks raised some questions, his experimental brews were nevertheless “famous” in their own right. Furthermore, even in the middle of the afternoon— Jevon could hear the conviviality of ecstatic drunkards resounding from within the building. 

He was not much of an alcohol enthusiast himself— not unlike Xolani who has dragged him along as their signature date whenever they failed to score one of their own— or was heartbroken after a rather messy break-up and needed comfort via— well, ale. Their special discount certainly helped, even if Jevon tried to remain sober so he could safely transport them home after— Xolani on the other hand being an exceptional lightweight. There were… times when he has stopped by on his own accord to find a potential partner for the night on behalf of Xolani’s nagging— especially since he tended to prioritize his work above everything else which left little time for him to indulge… but most of the time he would just find himself immersed in conversation with the master of the tavern instead. 

… Not that he particularly minded— he held deep respect for Master Saroyan as an individual, given that he has always been an integral figure in both the prince’s life and their mutual best friend as the kind man who put a roof over their head following their defection from House Alexis and gave them the counsel and attention they sorely needed while they were enduring that rough patch in their life. He was very much akin to an elder brother or a fun uncle to anyone who was considerably younger than him, and had an infectious air of optimism and good humor that even had a diehard pessimist like Jevon laughing his lungs out by the end of the evening. 

“… Are you seriously using this as an excuse to slack off from work and get drunk, dude?” Elena did not seem as tickled about the idea of spending her afternoon in a pub, on the other hand— for she was an introverted scholar, and crowds were not necessarily her cup of tea, which was more than apparent by the aggrieved scowl on her face. 

“What? Are you out of your mind, Ellie? I would never,” Xolani responded in mock offense. “Look ‘ere, girlie— we’ll be on the road for god knows long— we may as well spend our final night in civilization with our feet kicked up, our tummies full of good wine and our minds free of worry, if you catch my drift,” cross-armed, they smirked as they nudged their bodyweight against that of the diminutive scholar, who looked as tetchy as an old cat— and if Xolani was not cautious, she was certainly capable of snapping off their fingers. 

“Come on,” they challenged as they widened their arms toward the establishment. “When was the last time either of you pitiful workaholics have sat down and treated yourself to a drink and some casual conversation? Who knows— we might be able to steal ourselves some budding romances to return to— wouldn’t that be just lovely? After all, what’s more inspiring in war than knowing you’ve got a cute little sweetheart waiting for you back at home, hm? A foolproof plan to not get yourself recklessly killed,” they articulated with a snap of their fingers. 

“We aren’t goin’ to war, you know… and you read way too many fairytales, my friend,” she retorted harshly. 

“El, I think Xolani has a point,” and so, Jevon the Intermediary strikes again— but in all honesty, he was not totally against unwinding for a spell considering how emotionally onerous these last few days have been. “… We’ve already finished making all our necessary preparations— it surely wouldn’t hurt if we broke away from all this ongoing madness and stole a moment of respite for ourselves, right? Of course, let us endeavor to not go overboard or anything— we do have to rise early. Xolani, I’m specifically saying this to you.” 

“I can hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much,” Jevon decidedly chose not to bring up that rather infamous tale appertaining to an eighteen-year-old Xolani who got a little too goofy with the alcohol-spiked eggnog they were served at that holiday bash during his first year attending the Royal Academy— he merely made a mental note to keep a careful eye on their intake. “… Well, Ellie— it’s two against one; I do believe the jury’s made their decision, right?” Xolani grinned with a snap of their fingers that were subsequently repurposed as guns aimed in her general direction. 

“Oh, whatever— let’s just get this over with,” huffing and harrumphing like a tetchy child— Elen abandoned her squadron to voyage up that slight upslope of stairs— her overlong braid a pendulum as it swung viciously behind her. Xolani slung an arm around their taller compeer and beckoned the silver-haired man to follow suit— the tintinnabulation of a classic bell proclaiming their entry. 

Both internally and externally, the tavern favored a sort of rustic-esque aesthetic. There were stacked, brick walls and a smooth wooden floorboard, perfectly lacquered— and shiningly reflective in spite of the ongoing merriment. Master Saroyan— he was the sort who prioritized cleanliness and apt order above all else— in comparison to the other noisy, backwater pubs he has had the displeasure of dining in, it was truly a one-of-a-kind haven— meticulously maintained by a dedicated owner who genuinely valued the comfort of his patronage and the state of their environment as they went about their confabulations and games of chance and joyful glugging and guzzling. 

A variety of patterned banners and tapestries were pinned equidistant to one another, alongside various other miscellaneous decorations such as the taxidermied head of a strong buck, framed watercolor paintings, and even a few weapons. For example, above the grand mantelpiece that was nestled toward the backmost edge of the restaurant— accompanied by a woolen rug and a set of cushy chairs— sat a twosome of crisscrossing scimitars— silver and sharp to the touch and ingrained with rich detailing.

 He also spotted a giant mallet-like weapon that was left to lean against one of the wine-stocked shelves behind the frontmost counter. Undoubtedly, most of this so-called “decor” were relics of Master Saroyan’s adventuring days— immortalized as trinkets and baubles. As a child— and even now, really— Jevon was always eager to harken the master as he revisualized his impressive tales of dragon-battling and treasure-seeking— he had been one of the Adventurer’s Guild finest, after all. 

… The chandeliers were distinctly wheel-esque; their warm incandescence conflated with the natural light that filtered in through the stained-glass windows, highlighting the joyous atmosphere within the rapturous dining area. Flippant gossip-mongering and drunken shanties were all but abounded. Whereas some of the patrons were facedown and incapacitated— their grunty snores overshadowed by the boisterous, slurred gaiety. Within the Shackled Heart, though, proper etiquette was typically enforced— or else one could run the risk of permanent banishment if they dared to behave out of turn, especially while the master was present. 

So, while it was indeed a rather ebullient environment, it lacked the archetypical obsequiousness one might anticipate from a token bar scene in a novel. Disputes were solved fairly, either by the lord of the tavern himself or harmless bets and gambles. However, given that Master Saroyan was a rather reputable figure in this corner of town— well, none ought to know wiser than to incur his disfavor (that, and… because he had a rather… faithful bodyguard at his beck and call at all times.) 

“Oh, Leto! My little darling; I see you’re working another painful nine-to-five like usual, aren’t we,” purred Xolani as they peacocked up to the foremost counter— untying their arm and immediately throwing themself into one of the stools as if they all but owned the place (well, technically— their adoptive family ran the joint, so—) An introverted Elena remained hidden behind her mountain of a brother as if he was to be her meat-shield and they were trespassing into a den of savage wolves. 

The bartender whom Xolani had addressed was a young man— if not a year or two his younger— with a mop of scruffy hair shaded a sunny blond, contained and controlled by a striped bandana of blue and gold. He possessed an olive-toned and boyishly handsome complexion and a darling twosome of baby-blue eyes— something round and pleasant. His outfit— it was fairly simplistic— a cotten-white poet shirt that was tied at the elbows with a bit of a dip by his collarbone, but nothing too exposing— tucked into a pair of comfortably sized, belted trousers. He had been in the midst of scrubbing down a dirtied glass— all too ready to showcase an award-winning customer-service smile when the familiarity was able to bring him back down to earth a little, relaxing. He put aside the glass and tossed the washcloth aside, propping himself on the opposite end of the counter-space by his elbows.

“Mx. Xolani… ah, and Mr. Fulbright! It’s been quite a long while since I’ve last seen your face in this neck of the woods… too busy with all your fancy government work to fraternize with us meager common folk, huh?” Leto joked— which had relieved him a bit, for the man was usually quite reserved. It was the status quo for a customer-service worker— a cheerful pretense in order to balance out the number of whiny consumers who may feel irrationally disposed to point out your each and every mistake, even though we are all but humans on this massively oversized rock at the end of the day. 

Jevon knew that the life of a public servant was a hellish one indeed, so however they needed to defend themselves from criticism— he would find no fault in it. However, he was thankful for this more outspoken version of the lad. He was yet another honorable nephew slash younger brother in Master Saroyan’s innocent harem, after all. 

Jevon helped himself to the vacated spot next to Xolani and folded his arms on the burnished surface of the counter. “… It is as you say— the department’s kept me on my feet and then some as of late… and henceforward, I fear that it’ll be getting even busier for me. Before that has come to pass, we… all thought it might be nice to drop by for a moment and treat ourselves to a bit of relaxation… and the master’s wonderful brews, of course.” 

“What poor luck… to think that the master’s favorite nephew decided to show up again after how many months and he just so happens to be out of town… he’ll be distraught when I tell him. Wait, shit— you don’t think he’ll take it out on me and cut my pay, right?” He could not help but chortle at the extent of this needless and unsubstantiated horror— even though his poor acquaintance looked positively terrified by the prospect. 

“Master Saroyan is hardly that cruel of a man… fear not— once I’ve handled my current assignment, the first thing I’ll do is return here and offer my regards.” 

“I’ll certainly be holding you to that, Mr. Fulbright… for the sake of this poor one’s rent,” though still fretful, Leto breathed heavily through his nostrils in an endeavor to calm himself. Then, he realtered his focus— blinking puzzledly at a certain scholar who had crawled into the stool per Jevon’s left and was tip-tapping her fingers against the sleek mahogany with rhythmical tedium. 

“… Oh, pardon me… but I’m afraid we don’t serve children here at the bar area… I do think I’ve got some milk on hand though— would you like me to get you some, little miss? You’re still growing, after all,” Leto asked— kindly and patiently without comprehending that he was essentially doing the equivalent of poking a slumbering bear. He could have withered underneath the fiery intensity of her glaring.

“The fuck you goin’ on about, kid?” Elena snapped out indignantly. Ever-professional, Jevon stifled his fleeing giggles with the back of his hand whereas Xolani was, of course— a touch more unhinged than him— laughing openly as they peered over the obstructive mass that was their silver-haired divider to grin antagonistically at a hot-tempered Elena. “Wipe that shitty smile off your face, Xolani! Hey, barkeeper— do ‘ya know who the fuck I am?” 

“She’s my older sister,” Jevon answered coolly in her stead— or else he would have to pay the master the rest of his life savings henceforward to compensate for whatever arson-based property damage he and his family would become accountable for. “… Five years my senior, actually. Though she’s oftentimes mistaken for a child due to her… physique, she’s actually a certified researcher at the Royal Academy. El, show him your ID.” 

“This is bullshit; I’ve never had to get ID’d before in my entire life,” though Elena grumbled and groused, she ultimately conjured up the required certification from some unknown compartment in her dress and chucked it in the bartender’s direction, who fumbled for a moment out of surprise but eventually managed to secure the small card in his hands. After giving it a thorough review, his eyes broadened with palpable astonishment. 

“He wasn’t exaggerating— that’s quite the commendable position, missy!” 

“No, no— my darling Leto, you mustn’t be mistaken. While she is an elite scholar nominally, she’s got both the body and the mannerisms of a todd— agh!” One of Elena’s signature butterflies had been conjured up per the snap of a finger and flickered to life scarily close to Xolani’s hair— a hand waving frantically as if they were trying to swat off a rather nosy fly. “Ellie— keep this little hell beast away from me! Shoo, shoo!” 

Elena resummoned her fluttery little mascot— briefly reappearing at her side before it promptly poofed away in a crackle of fire. “Fine,” she determined, extracting a palmful of coins from a pouch that lay hidden away somewhere in her skirt and slammed them on the counter, her eyes burning with resolution— like she was a newly inspired soldier. “… Let me get a taste of the strongest shit you’ve got ‘ere. I wasn’t acclaimed in Shona for bein’ able to take my liquor for nothin’— I’ll prove to each and every one of ‘ya bitchy little naysayers that I ain’t some pliable little girl who’s gonna sit back and tolerate all your bullshit!” 

“Ah, that might not be a wise decision,” or Leto tried to warn, but alas—

The glassware jittered as Elena slapped her hand down. “Bring me the booze, boy!” 

“Ri— right away, ma’am!” 

After phoning in the requested cocktail, Leto slid a large, translucent tankard brimful of a bright yellowish substance across the counter— even by appearance alone, it looked shamelessly unappetizing. “… and here, valued customer— is the Devil’s Piss you so precariously ordered,” the bartender presented with a bow of his head and an outstretched hand. 

“Devil’s Piss? The fuck kind of name is that,” queried the scholar pointlessly— Jevon really needed to have a word with the master pertaining to his… unorthodox naming conventions and offer some constructive pointers— as she reached for the handle and dragged it up to her nose for proper inspection— only for her to recoil with overt disgust. “Ugh—! This smells like somebody actually pissed in the damn cup! Did you piss in the cup, piss boy?” 

“Can you please not call me that?” 

“Ah, yes— the infamous Devil’s Piss— an unholy concoction from your vilest of nightmares,” began Xolani as they situated their cheek on their knuckles while an elbow came to settle on the countertop, smiling with a sort of lazy sense of amusement. 

“… It’s a reprehensible combination of Master Saroyan’s signature brew— the King’s Demise— and there’s a bit of a funny story attached to that, actually. One afternoon however many years ago, the master invited His Majesty— yes, King Raphael in the flesh— to come down and taste-test a few of the recipes he was experimenting with at the time, and he somehow managed to craft a cocktail so potent that it managed to knock out that mountainous beast of a man in a matter of seconds, hence its namesake. Ah, but I’m going on a tangent— as I was saying, he decided it would be a swell idea to mix that liver-killing monstrosity with some ingredients he imported from Shona— and we all know how outrageous their drinking habits are… and that was how the Devil’s Piss was regrettably brought into this mortal plane with an alcoholic ratio that could very well send you straight to the hospital! It feels almost like taboo— and rather a drink it has more so been advertised as a test of strength— one that could ruin even the most tolerant of inebriates.” 

“Exactly… I keep telling Master Saroyan that these experimental cocktails of his are gonna do nothin’ but drive potential customers away as opposed to bringing them in,” argued Leto. “… Each and every one of them thus far have been commercial failures. He isn’t… bad at mixing drinks, so he really ought to just stick to the basics and listen to what the people want instead of trying to play scientist or whatever,” he cupped his beleaguered face and helped himself to a rather verbal sigh. Afterward, he made the conscious and wise decision to retake that virulent amalgamation from the furthest reaches of hell. “… Here— I won’t charge you or anything miss, so lemme just take it off your hands—” 

Elena, however, evidently had other plans— wrenching it out of his subjective reach before he had a chance to spare her of the hellish misery that was due to follow, and bared her fangs at the bartender like he was trying to wrestle away a bone from a starving dog. “You think I’m afraid of some cheap byproduct? Who the hell do you think I am, anyway? I’m Elena Sofia Fulbright for crying out loud— and I never back down from a challenge. Devil’s Piss— fuck my ass, I bet this is nothin’ more than glorified tap water!”

“El, wait—!”  

Of course, it went about as well as one would expect. Jevon was unable to wrangle that vile concoction out of his sister’s ill-fated hands before she brought it to her lips— and it was a bit impressive for the girl who was legally banned in a handful of countries, that is, that she managed to at least gulp down a considerable amount before she felt as if she had to wave her white flag. The pint clanked clumsily with the surface of the counter, and Elena slowly rotated to face her concerned brother— her expression a touch faraway as if all her brain functions had momentarily been ordered to cease. She then uplifted the shakiest and most unbelievable thumb’s up he has ever seen in his life before she hurtled facedown onto the counter. Ah, well. 

“Pfft—! Well, can’t say we didn’t warn her,” cackled Xolani— an uncontainable thing— as they pounded their fist repeatedly against the counter, exploding like they had just encountered the funniest joke that has ever graced their eardrums. “Ah, and she was still so young, too! Truly, what a shame.” 

“Oh, El…” 

Well— considered the diplomat as he reached for the unfinished pint– he may as well finish what she started— and before any such person could pray to intervene, he slurped down the rest of that noisome hell-brew in a single take. Xolani and Leto watched with like-minded terror as he calmly deposited the emptied tankard and thereafter proceeded to poof up a handkerchief to cordially dab his mouth. He resecured the cloth in the pocket on the front of his breast and lightly cleared his throat in order to kickstart his humble review:

“… Overall, I do not find the taste particularly unpalatable. However, I can tell that there is a definite imbalance of flavors; I can certainly see why it has since been considered a hit or miss. Instead of overloading the consumer, I believe Master Saroyan would fare far better if he omitted certain factors or incorporated wiser combinations of flavors… if it were me, I would input some additional sweeteners— I’ve had the luxury of sampling one of Master Saroyan’s fruitier cocktails and it was positively mouthwatering! I mean, when can you ever go wrong with a little bit of sweetness to spice up your routine?”  

“… And there’s Jevon and his unconquerable liver. See, this is exactly why I can’t take the man drinking— where’s the fun if only one of us is off their rocker while the other is completely unfrazzled? Gracious,” with an incredulous shake of their head and a peal of laughter that was yet fond in spite of their complaints, Xolani knocked their knuckles against the countertop to alert the barkeep— who was still gawping at Jevon as if he had cloned himself a second head. “… One Crimson Moon for moi, please and thank you… ah, and keep it on the lighter side, if you do not mind… can’t afford to get too crazy tonight, I fear.” 

After which, a handful of coins were unsurfaced— truly, Xolani did not need to pay— their name was practically on the lease, but they must have considered it but common courtesy to tip their dear Leto a touch extra for his patience thus far. Wordlessly, he accepted the change and turned around, a bit clumsy as he fumbled around the various cabinets and drawers for the correct ingredients. Still though, he was a rather skilled brewer— it had only taken a minute or so before the entreated beverage was proffered to Xolani— a skinny winecup brimful of a bloody shade of scarlet and embellished by a smattering of berries dunked thereunder its sinister waves. Xolani took a brief whiff before inviting the slender rim to their lips for an experimental sip— and with an exhalation of discernible delight thereafter, they gently deposited the glass and circulated their finger around the top. 

“… Now, this is what living’s all about,” Xolani mused. “… A casual trip to the pub with two of your dearest friends in tow and a refreshing glass of wine to top it off is more than enough to dispel the anxieties and hang-ups of everyday society, wouldn’t you say?” 

“… This does remind me of the old days— I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed this place,” remarked Jevon as he scoured the vivacity, combated by a rush of wistfulness. “… I’ve been so immersed in my work that… I think I’ve forgotten how important it is to stop and consider the little things that make living worthwhile… such as… taking the time to dine and chat with the people I love,” he embraced this profession apologetically as he met Xolani’s eye— though graciously, his friend did not look the least bit miffed— instead, they only laughed under their breath and pardoned themself to enjoy another swig. Their willowy fingers then came to interlace, serving as a buttress for their chin. 

“Ah, yes… I remember that the last time I convinced you to tag along with me like this, you were trying to console my broken heart… and vice versa. Not exactly what I imagined for a double-date— who would’ve guessed that they’d both be total cads… but I guess for every good man there’s like, a hundred bad ones. Goodness,” they paused to rub their temples to lessen an impending headache— as if they were already hungover. “… I drank so much that night that I can’t even recall what happened after that…” 

— When Jevon suddenly broke out into a fit of angry coughs, Xolani glanced over with an upraised brow of concern as a hand extended over, debating whether they ought to rub his back or not. “Darling, are you— you haven’t even ordered anything to drink yet. Are you quite all right?” 

“Fine— fine,” Jevon reassured as he maneuvered away from their touch as if it was borne of fire— ducking his head in his hands and doing his darndest to will down the heat that had risen to his face. “… It… I helped you find your way home after the fact, if… that’s what you’re curious about… nothing really else happened, I swear!” 

“… Well, in whatever case… you’re in the prime of your youth, darling. I know… that most of the hook-ups I’ve encouraged you to pursue have ended disastrously to some extent, but… I don’t know. In my own way, I thought it might help pull you out of your slump— and I don’t mean when it comes to work. You do more than what’s expected of you half the time,” it sounded as if they were upbraiding them— a look in their eye that could kill like a mother’s as though Jevon had spilled his juice over the carpet— tilting their glass toward him. 

“… I mean… neither of us have been ourselves since… the war started,” Xolani dropped their glass and crossed their hands as they peered down into their crimsoned reflection. “… But perhaps I’m just projecting my own self-destructive tendencies onto you, Jevon… I… I’m always looking for love where I know I’ll never get it. I thought being disowned would’ve taught me a thing or two, but… I suppose not.”

“Xolani…”

As if they were terrified of this conversation taking an unnecessarily vulnerable turn— Xolani fended off his worry with a dismissive shake of their hand. “I’m all right, sweetie— just being a little dramatic, as per usual… don’t worry— my standards may be a bit too unrealistic, but… it’s all right. You’ll have more than enough time to make your feelings apparent once we’ve hauled that foolish man back home,” it was not as if Jevon needed empathy now— he wished they would set aside just a bit of that for themself— but it would be hypocritical for him to ask as such, all things considered. Xolani idly trailed their nail around the lip of the winecup, smiling aloofly.. “… I trust that you won’t chicken out when that time comes, yes? As they say— you never quite realize how deeply something— or rather, someone might mean to you… until you’ve actually lost them.” 

“… Who did you lose, Xolani?”

Xolani did not answer— really, it was unnecessary— he need not pat himself on the back for his deductive abilities when the truth was as clear as water on their face— and as if to quench the thirst of whatever oppressive phantom was breathing down their neck, they drank again. And again— until they were all but finished but the garnishes, but Xolani had not rushed to order a refill as they ordinarily would on wistful nights such as these— and Jevon knew— knew of the chasm in their chest, and how depthless it was— how inexhaustible. The mask was unmalleable like cement. He wondered how much effort it would take to see it removed.

His eyes abandoned their target— instead diving downward as he twiddled his fingers on the counter. “… Forgive me— I hadn’t meant to pry. I… I understand what you’re trying to say, though,” it did terrify him, after all— the idea that he did not bear the strength to see him safe, let alone swear to him in matrimony that he would be at his side in sickness and in health, in life and in death— human lifespans were finite. 

He discovered this early on— they were finite and fragile and the passage of time ran at a brisker pace as opposed to the skies— it had been still and euthymic and paradisiacal— but because of that, it was also stifling. He was an immortal who dreamt of mortality. He was a god who wanted to shed his divine skin and understand the pain of bleeding. He was a novice learning to be human. 

He was not afraid of it being unrequited. Deep in their hearts, he and the prince have always known that they would see the beginning and the end of this world together. It was not the burden of love that petrified him. If he could, he would steal the moon if it would bring him some mote of joy again. If it meant he could rectify his mistakes— Jevon would tear open his own chest and pluck out his heart if he was asked for it. Love did not frighten him. It did not frighten him like it had frightened his predecessor and compelled them to lock themself away for eons upon eons. Because love was what embodied the human experience. 

And more than anything, he wanted to know what it was like to love again.  

… But could he? 

Even for a gifted actor, it was ultimately but a costume at the end of the day— another face to assume with a generated script attached. It was not lifelike nor realistic. It was purposefully dramatic and grandiloquent to embellish the interactions between the characters and excite the audience. Escapism was not designed to reflect reality, after all. Should they applaud his performance, it may serve to bloat his selfish ego— selfish, for he was an impersonator who desired love when he knew he was designed to exist without— a man who was not so much as a man as he was a plant. Loveless. Apathetic— 

But you shouldn’t give up on them, Great Mediator. 

… The tenseness of the atmosphere did not go unnoticed by their host— and graciously, Leto decided to at last intercede, thrusting a finger upward as he addressed a downtrodden Jevon— who perked back up per the summoning of his name. 

“… Ah, that’s right! Mister Fulbright, ‘ya see— we’ve run into a bit of a, ah… conundrum, you could say. Our last gig went on a drunken rampage after one of our regulars criticized his performance— said he was gonna burn the bar to the ground and sue the master for everything he’s worth… of course, Master Giovanni intervened, and… well, needless to say, they’ve stopped troubling us… Heh… anyway, the regulars have been itching for some entertainment ever since, but nobody’s offered to book us… remember whenever the master would have you come by sometimes to play for us? You’ve got quite a few fans who’ve been campaigning for your return, so…” 

“Are you… suggesting that I perform?” The diplomat summarized for his own convenience as he motioned at himself with a finger. Once he was able to process it, he waved his hands defensively. “I mean…! It’s been quite a long time since I’ve… dabbled in that sort of thing, I… I don’t know if it would be the least bit satisfactory— I… I’d hate to spoil everyone’s evening with my mediocre playing… I think it’d be better if you enlisted the wisdom of a professional instead,” Jevon scratched his nape as his eyes darted to— literally anywhere else as a deluge of nervousness washed over him. 

“Oh, come now, dearest— no need to act so modest,” nagged Xolani as they nudged him persistently with their elbow. “Go on— give the people what they want, yeah? Besides— I doubt you’ll have much time to practice while we’re on the road… you should seize the chance while you’ve got it. Letting loose will do ‘ya some good, I would say.” 

Jevon honestly wished he possessed the fortitude to tell them no— but he supposed that they did posit a valid enough point: this may be the last time he could indulge himself for the foreseeable future, so— how would one say it? Should he conclude this night with a bang? Even if he personally believed that his skills were not nearly as meritorious as, say— a hired professional— if it was meager background noise they desired, then… he may as well do what he could to deliver. Most of it would be drowned out by the revelry, anyway. 

Jevon hogtied his ever-reigning stage-fright and pushed himself off the stool to make his way over to the center of the dining area. Thankfully, most of the diners in question were too engrossed in their intoxicated garbling and story-tellings to notice him— so he managed to reach the furthermost back of the hall mostly intact— earmarking an elevated platform with an instrumental set-up that was likely leftover from their former band or troupe or whomever it was that the master hired last. It seemed that they didn’t even return for their equipment— ah, Giovanni must have positively traumatized those poor folk, then— he thought with an empathetic and slightly fearful chuckle. 

Among the medley, what immediately seized his call was that of a pristine, golden harp— it was a touch archaic, but it seemed to be in fair enough condition. It reminded him of the other night— though he supposed that he would prefer to play at a small pub of drunks who were less likely to criticize him as opposed to a censorious sea of nobles. While there was still hesitation yet, Jevon pushed down the burning-hot apprehension in the back of his throat and rightfully seated himself at the complimentary bench and briefly checked to see if the tuning was all appropriate— performing a few, subdued strums and tweaking it in accordance. 

Once he considered it adequate enough, Jevon pulled back his shoulders— adjusting his playing posture— then calmly acquainted himself with the strings— old but beauteous yet, he thought. It has indeed been so long since he had last courted that exhilarating rush to compose— and without the joy of music to fill in the silent gaps of his loneliness, it was indeed— unbearable, like he was a machine bereft of its most integral cog or component.

 A painter with an uncolored canvas. A writer who had yet to put their words to ink proper. The lethargy of it all had been agonizing— passionless and he was surprised, indeed, how it hadn’t killed him— how he could exist and eat and breathe when he had nothing in his life that was remotely hopeful nor inspiring. His friends, perhaps. His career— he was forced to peel himself out into the sunlight, even if he had come to resent its searing hot warmth as much as he yearned for it—

… But nothing to call his own. His creative reservoirs had been all sucked up— and in their wake, a shriveled and sad desert. 

For even before he had entered this new world, he loved—

Gently, now. You’ll want to coax it gently. 

Hands, larger than his own but beautifully slender all the same— guided unwitting fingers across a valley of strings— it had been so fine and gossamer, Jevon worried once— they would break if he was incautious. They will break if he allowed his anger to slip through— and he would be regarded as a monster, surely. A monster who only wanted to live as others did— a monster who only coveted sympathy. The songs he would produce would be evil and grotesque and grating. 

But through his help— his sorrow manifested as something saccharine. Something soft, even pure-hearted. Simplistic yet nevertheless pleasant to the ear like the sweetest of poetry. 

Music is a wonderful gift, little one. It allows us to convey the inner depths of our souls in such a way that doesn’t force us to outwardly articulate it. It is a helpful medium— and no matter how much fury is contained within, you can transfigure it into something truly beautiful.

 So do not fight with it— instruments are as delicate as we are. It is our duty as composers and artists to provide a voice for them as well— to steer them, you could say. And in turn, they will vehicle us toward new heights. In turn, we can create magic out of our struggles. 

… There is no existing masterwork that could have been designed by anyone but a purely anguished artist, you see. So let your emotions shine through— let the world hear your cry, my prince.

… Surely then, they shall not forget your name.

 And so, he began to play.

Piloted, he was, by some distant and fathomless force— a vestige, perchance. A bygone echo of halcyon, forgotten times. Of a once-purity— when he had performed for naught but the approval of the glistening moon lilies and a brother who was only pretending— but he had yet to be fully blackened. There was still hope— hope in the coming of the dawn— hope that his voice would indeed come through, and that he had yet to challenge the unjustness in this world. 

The pleasant disruption wafted through the establishment— bringing the fever pitch to a bewitched cooldown as allured ears and eyes alike turned to captivate themselves with his miracle. Each note was cherubic, and as captivating as a tempting siren. A slow— regal succession of melodies— and though it was performed single-handedly, one may say that it possessed the dramatic, awe-inspiring amplitude of an entire orchestra. 

Soon, the entire pub— drunk and fuzzy-brained as they were indeed— had found themselves thoroughly enchanted— and the temptress himself— well, Xolani knew that their good friend had a notorious habit of zoning out once he really got into it— as if the rest of the world was to recede, dissolve away— and leave naught but him and his cherished music. It was quite satisfying to the eye— watching this reserved gentleman squirm out of his tightly compressed shell— it was a beautiful way of expression, and Jevon embodied it to its fullest degree— even if he sometimes argued that he had difficulty in doing so. Expression, that is. 

Two peas in a pod, they were.

“… Really, darling— there is a chasmic difference between modesty and outright belittling yourself,” they commented to themself as they slotted their chin onto their hands— studying the practiced glides of his fingers and the possessed expression on his face— a treat, really, when the man has been nothing but stressed and anguished as of late. “… Claiming that you aren’t on par with the professionals… even though there isn’t a thing in this world that can compare to the beauty of your sound. I wish he’d have a bit more confidence in himself…”

Xolani put that line of thought to an abrupt stop when they distinguished movement in the corner of their sightline. Leto— he had run off to cater to some of the other patrons, so outside of an unconscious Elena, Xolani had found themself by their lonesome at the main bar table— had, that is— but they played dumb all the same, pretending as if they were still laser-focused on the performance, even if their ears in actuality were trained elsewhere, now— as their associate, obscured in a dark cloak with their countenance wreathed in a veil of shadow— slid into the seat adjacent to them. 

“… It seems like your suspicions were right on the money, boss,” relayed their subordinate in surreptitious undertones; their transaction veiled by the fervor of the bar. “… We traced back the information leak to a member of the Ministry who was suspiciously put on leave just a few days prior— seems like he scampered off to some safehouse over in the Hermia Dukedom. But per your orders, we stopped him dead in his tracks and looted his writhing corpse for his contacts… but the timing is concerning. It’s almost as if they knew His Highness would be captured.”

“… Insinuating that the Ministry of Defense has been trading intel with the Codoslians— is that what you’re trying to say?” A tip-tap of fingernails against the counter— Xolani continued to eye the performance as if it was their mortal tether— as if they would become weightless and float off without his sound grounding them— securing them. 

“… As it stands, we have yet to find any conclusive evidence that the Ministry— that the Alexis Dukedom— intends to betray the throne— it’s all circumstantial at this moment in time… they could have easily used their position to silence the man or deny any relation to him if we brought it before the court— which they pointedly run as well. And Lord Raphael— despite his power… he cannot exert undue authority over the council. He is but a figurehead— that is how Igerene has operated since its inception.” 

“… The senate determines the law in this country. They decided that was how things ought to be after the controversy surrounding one King Alirense… even if we pretend to honor his memory with all these immortalizations, the people still resent him. They resent Lord Raphael,” escapism was truly addictive— but it was hardly a cure-all— like a medicine that was destined to lose its potency if it was too depended on. Xolani turned away from the show thus and grabbed their drunken drink— swirling it around meaninglessly as they emotionlessly surveyed its glassy glint. 

“… The Ministry of Defense rushed the investigation— that man rushed the investigation… they aggravated Igerene intentionally… and now they’ve decided to forsake their Crown Prince. Inciting his death— the shock would doubtless render His Majesty incapable of rulership… removing him from the seat of power thereafter to install an individual of their choice would be a simple feat.” 

“… Even if it means colluding with the enemy?” 

“… Even if it means using their Crown Prince as a scapegoat. These were the men who once revered that wretched Eligor, after all… and with the way things are progressing now, I reckon they’re terrified— terrified that Igerene is liberating itself from its bloody history— terrified of the catastrophic change Roxxy’s enthronement would elicit,” they clenched on the glass— if they did so a little harder, they did not doubt that it would shatter. Shatter and stab through their hand. The pain might be nice, they considered— but the master would be aggrieved, and Xolani already owed him a debt larger than what their finite lifespan could promise. 

“… Igerene and Codoslia resent each other. The Ministry— the senate— wants to storm the capital’s gates and pin their king’s head on a spear… and yet, they’re passing on our secrets to them? It smells of conspiracy, does it not?” 

“Is that what you were discussing with your guest the other day, boss?”

“We both arrived at the same conclusion,” Xolani sat their winecup down and set their elbows up on the countertop as their hands intersected pensively. “… That there is a third party involved seeking to escalate the warfare on both ends of the spectrum. The man might not have even realized that he has been parlaying Codoslia per se—” 

“… But an individual from this hypothetical third party,” concluded their lackey. “… But who—?” 

“… I have my theories, of course… but at the moment, it isn’t anything conclusive. Hells, if I had known, then I would’ve called their death sentence already,” they declared— a voice contradictory to their usual  mirth uprooting its predecessor— something icelike. “… For the time being, we need to focus on what’s in front of us… we attempt to strike back at the Ministry now, they will simply brand the Brotherhood as traitors to the empire and turn the public against us. We need to break down their foundations one by one— and gather like-minded allies who will rally under our flag if they decide to go through with their plan of dethroning the king… and to do so, we must weed out this issue at the source— and I believe that lies in Codoslia,” they made a scissoring gesture with their fingers, then smirked and recaptured their winecup, toasting triumphantly.

 “… I already have countermeasures in place in the event that they decide to act prematurely… but something tells me they won’t just yet… they, Codoslia… this third party,” their hand fell as the underside of the glass graced their thigh. “… I have a feeling they’re trying to attain… something. What that is, though…” 

“… I realize that we were told to stand down for the meantime, but… boss, why are you pursuing this matter all by yourself? The Brotherhood— we are gifted in espionage. There is no reason for our leader to have to dirty their hands. We will expose the Ministry, the senate— and ensure His Highness’ safe return—” 

“And that is precisely why I cannot permit any of you reckless little barbarians to enter the fray quite yet,” Xolani playfully tugged down on their associate’s hood then— holding back a smile when they fumbled to realign themself— a newbie, they recalled— how cute. Xolani dumped their winecup onto the table, stretching up their arms and arching their spine backward with catlike bendability.

 “… Fear not, my fellow envoy of blood— your time to shine will come before long… if I can, I’d like to spill as little guts as possible… there is someone who vehemently wishes for peace, after all— just as our dear prince once did… and he wants to see that this war is brought to a just end without having to rely on too many sacrifices along the way… he is really nothing quite like us,” they glanced down at their gloves, pressing down on the center of their palm with a thoughtful thumb. 

“… As I reflect on all the lives these hands of mine have purged for the sake of fulfilling his dream… I find myself wondering if they could be used for something other than all this gratuitous culling… if they could save lives, rather than take… but I must resign myself to waltzing alongside death forevermore.” 

And to naught but the icy embrace of the Black Dragon’s inferno— 

… and the ruthless shades of the night, there was simply no other place for them. 

A specter in human form. The unloved child. A curse. Emptiness— 

They cupped their eyepatch and smiled mirthlessly. “… But we can never hope for the light. That is why I must be… an exterminator. Why I must protect their light— by banishing all that endeavors to cast it in shadow. And I can’t very well turn a blind eye to a potential rat infestation, now can I? For all the irksome vermin who seek to undo everything His Highness has fought for… well, I believe we all know what must be done—” 

They swung their head around and faced their caped underling proper with a deadly eye— something like a blood-like vermillion that could bend a tiger to tears— something penetrating and slashing and thirsty, and the blood-red wine was hardly enough to quench it. The meaning of their existence— why God had dug them up from their early tomb. Whyever else— after all, it was impossible for them to be loved otherwise. For as small as they were— they had no choice but to build a ladder of corpses. 

“… Bring the rest of the Brotherhood and rendezvous with me in Carence… we’ll start by eliminating the Hermia Dukedom and their associates.” 

“What of Lord Julius, boss?” 

“Is that really a question? If the young master proves that he cannot be trusted—” A sadistic grin. They hated this shackle. They loved this thrill. “… Then we’ll just use his cadaver as the foundation to rebuild this country from the ground up.” 

“… Of course. I’ll notify the others immediately.”

As if they had been but a ghost, their subordinate dematerialized— slipping back into the forbidden privacy of the shadows. By that point, Jevon was wrapping up his first song— the pub erupted into a parade of fervid applause— and Jevon, who had finally jerked back to reality, relayed his audience a sheepish smile and humbled himself with a bow or two.

 After an encore was successfully petitioned, and Jevon never reacted well under peer pressure— he rolled over like the doormat he tended to be, and followed through as he reseated himself, the bar quieting as his magical mellifluence devoured, brainwashed— and all Xolani could do was heave out a tremendous sigh— sinking their face into a pair of folded arms. They turned on their cheek and eyeballed the untouched berries, gathering wool— 

“… It really isn’t that bad, Your Highness.” 

It was many a year ago. 

An assailant deployed by a minor house who stood in opposition with the throne had miraculously bypassed the guard— and at the time, a rather young Roxxy had nearly fallen prey to the vengeful bite of their dagger. However, Xolani had been visiting by coincidence— and they were unsure what had galvanized them into action that day— misplaced loyalty perchance, or was their small self wise enough to try to curry favor with the Montagues?— either way, it resulted with a blade in their gut and a near-death experience that lucklessly guaranteed their survival. 

Mercutio had thrown a fit— they could still distinctly feel the ringing in their ears when he marched into the infirmary and yapped and yapped on until the maids had to escort him out— and Orlando just snarked and laughed in their face. King Raphael and Queen Camilla— as sickly as she was, she had paid them an exclusive visit to thank them from the bottom of her heart— and Raphael was nearly in tears over the incident (“I could not bear to have lost two precious children to me,”) quote. 

Meanwhile, the man— boy— of the hour, the Crown Prince himself— had tumbled into their sickbed and made a mess of their nightgown with his snot— while his father could suppress it, Roxxy was ugly about it— like he had been the one who suffered that near-fatal stabbing instead of them— and it had been for his protection, even! 

At the time, their friendship was still blooming— barely sprouted, even— so truthfully, Xolani had no clue what had compelled them to stick their neck out for this spoiled noble. Or had they wished their sword would have cut a little deeper— so much so that they would have been deemed unsaveable?

“… Come now… it isn’t the end of the world, Your Highness. Might I ask for a bit more appreciation on your end? If it were not for the Great Xolani, then our precious little prince would be resting six-feet under by now… so instead of gawking at me like a worried old mother, shouldn’t you be thanking me?” 

The prince— the little fool looked as if he had his whole world shattered— tearfully taking in the bandaged expanse of their torso in which the knife had pierced their flesh in twain— and was competing with his tongue for the appropriate words to speak.

“This… this is my fault,” the young prince exhaled— doubtless the first breath he has allowed himself since he waddled into the infirmary bawling his eyes out like he was a toddler in the middle of the night— harassing their parent due to a particularly grisly nightmare. He was seated in a chair that was pulled up adjacent— hands hovering as if merely touching them would shatter the illusion of their survival and they would scatter in a billion pieces. “… I… Xolani… why… why did you protect me? I… I don’t deserve… I… I’m so sorry…” 

“… I didn’t save your life so you could moan and groan like a little baby. Come on, Roxxy— look at me,” the act of moving— it had been painful indeed— that assassin was a trickster by all accounts, and had that dastardly murder weapon laced with some sort of numbing agent in the event that the first attack missed its mark, or so they guessed. 

But they persevered nevertheless— fighting to thrust out a hand to entwine it with the prince’s own, granting him an affirmative squeeze that caused his head to jerk up— eyes large and glassy. “… You know… you are the man who is going to be king someday… do you think the people will be able to respect a king who wails and cries over the littlest grievances? You need to pull yourself together— this isn’t the first time that someone will take a blade for you… that is the burden of leading an empire. You cannot evade loss.” 

“Xolani, I…” 

“… I wouldn’t have regretted it if I had died back there… and I certainly don’t regret it now,” they tightened their hold as emphasis of their resolve and modeled a lighthearted smirk. “… Besides, the Great Xolani has an ironclad stomach— it would’ve taken a lot more to strike me down for good. Do you think the world could do without a gem as beautiful as me? It could be apocalyptic!” 

“Xolani, I… I was… I was wondering…”

“Hm? Well, spit it out already…” 

Once again, the prince struggled— struggled and struggled to reinvent how to speak because evidently he kept forgetting how— and his eyes were scarcely as indecisive— a dart there and a flicker there, Xolani wondered if the poor lad would give himself unintentional motion sickness before long. Eventually, however— emboldened by— something, Roxxy stopped his shilly-shallying and met their gaze head-on— and they had been taken aback by it: the fever pitch in the violet and gold— the flaming determination.

 “… Xolani… when I… when I become king someday— when… when I become king… will you continue to stand by my side? I won’t… force you, of course… and I know how selfish it sounds— I just… I don’t know if I can stand against this world alone… without you, I don’t think I can carry the weight of the crown.” 

“… Well on the high chance that my father ends up disowning me, you better believe that I’ll be crashing here at Castle Montague until I can marry myself off to some well-endowed family… what are you so worried about?” Xolani withdrew their hand so they could bend up a touch— ignoring the subtle sting the limb-twisting enforced— in order to ruffle up his scruffy head of black hair. “… I’m not going anywhere any time soon, sorry for you… I’ll be the miserable thorn in your side ‘til the day you die, Your Highness… but as a friend— not a retainer.” 

“I’ve… I’ve never seen you that way, Xolani! You’re… you’re my closest friend. Really… I just,” the Crown Prince gently maneuvered their hand down via their wrist— offering it but a brief and apprehensive squeeze. “… I know I can’t do much on my own… and certainly not without you, Xolani… so… I’m going to make an oath to you here and now—” And it was stirring— that fire— 

… Had that been when all of this began? 

A desire that would pursue them into their adult years— a desire to see his dreams and hopes and ambitions actualized— to see that flame expand and burn everything— 

To shield him from the ruthlessness of this world. To witness for themself how far he could go. 

… And to see the sort of kingdom a man blessed for greatness like him was guaranteed to create. 

Undeniably, that was when it had started. This unrequited pain. 

“… I’m going to become a king that is worthy of my people’s respect… and I’m going to rewrite Igerene for the better— I won’t allow our bloody history to impede us any further! I’ll be like King Alirense… and Xolani, you can help me realize this. I know for sure… as long as you are there for me…

… We can do anything.” 

— Indeed; it had been a childish daydream coined by a— well, child. A naive boy who knew nothing of the carnage and anguish that would await his dear people. The hate that would seize his lion’s heart and mutilate it beyond comprehension. By the time that the prince eventually resurfaced… when he was set to uphold the throne in spite of everything— if he was even fated to outlive this battleground— he would not be the same, starry-eyed junior who thought he could do anything so long as he had faith, would he? 

However—

“… Even if it means cutting my way to that dream of yours through a river of blood… … I’ll bring you that peace you so sorely desire, my dearest friend.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

These dreams of his ultimately panned out in the form of a retelling— a retelling of flames all-engulfing: a passionate counterstroke that left the orphic majesty of his birthland but a sea of infernal fire and pervading pulverization. 

The opulent edifices of the marble palaces were but agglomerations of ash and ichor. The jade streets soiled by blood. A screeching tintinnabulation of a madman’s cackles rung through on a malefic echo. He could close his eyes to it. He could shut his ears away— but so long as he breathed yet, it was doubtful that he would ever escape from it— the lex talionis of his sin. 

It was his temerity that foredoomed this wretched blaze. It was he who channeled this pandemonium. It was he who had left them charred and disfigured amongst the rubble. It was he who had driven that accursed blade through the chest of their god— and snuffed the primal light that once sheltered and served all— and even yet, this pitiful, cursed child had the audacity to mourn. 

He lamented, and he wallowed, and he cried for them. He— their deplorable executioner, shedding tears for the executed— the ones he may as well have buried with his own two hands. It was unspeakably disgusting— a nobleman who feigned pity toward the poor while his overly large ego disabled him from tossing the slightest bit of generosity their way. Or a spectator from the stands acting as if they could possibly relate to the misfortune of the actors. 

Pathetic— you’re pathetic, oh, how he has murmured these castigations to himself. You don’t deserve anything. You’re weak. Small. Unworthy— He claws at his face, wishing he could peel through and liberate himself from this intolerable flesh prison. He dares to peek— between the interstices of his seared fingers, he dares to count the blackened bodies— herds of sheep to lull him from the idyll of the unknown— forcing him to accept this ruggish encumbrance that was reality— inescapable, inexorable, imminent. 

He wished he could sleep permanently. He wished he could be dreamless. To gouge out that remaining eye of his and blind himself to the ravenous guilt evermore. But even should he embrace the serene nothingness of death— this memory would remain a burning seal behind his eyelids— etched to torment him even should the bliss of the afterworld unbind him. 

Nauseating, you are. You devilish, callous dragon— 

He was an abominable, helpless perversion of the humans he envied. 

An egotistical, needy succubus who perverted everything he touched. 

Astrophel, Astrophel, Astrophel. 

Clarion repetitions. A sandpaper-esque mantra that ground against his eardrums like fingernails to a chalkboard. They could bleed, he thought. They could fill with blood and yet, even ruptured, he would never be free from these chains— their tireless vituperation. 

Astrophel, Astrophel, Astrophel.

Spontaneously, the corpses began to move. They crawled toward his knelt form in sadistic droves, their blister-blackened countenances wide with maniacal, vicious grins. And yet, he could not flee— his atrophied legs had sworn against it— and it was no doubt his punishment— swarmed as though he was being overtaken by a ruthless pack of blood-sucking insects. 

Astrophel, Astrophel, Astrophel.

Brittle and infinitesimal he was— scarcely but a child, but he was not human. He was not human and thus, it was all right. He could not bleed like they could. He had no right to be afraid. He had no right to whimper and sob for mercifulness as their chaffed hands snaked underneath his ratty, bloodstained robes and jerked at his bedraggled hair and fingered his burns and scrapes— searching for something. His liver. His kidney. His eyes. His heart— components he was born with and yet, they were unneeded. He was unneeded— they could help themselves to whatever it was they pleased if it meant they could rest in peace.

Even if he was ultimately hollow. 

Astrophel, Astrophel, Astrophel.

Yes, he was hollow. Even if you peel back his skin, there would be nothing beneath. 

There never has been. 

Astrophel, Astrophel, Astrophel. 

 “… Oh, how solemnly I wanted to save you, my prince. 

You shall always be empty— but a mere plaything of a lonely dollmaker who vied for something they could never have— 

… No matter how earnestly you may struggle, you cannot shake them— these chains of stagnation that bind you so. 

And that freedom you seek will forever lie out of reach.” 

Amid the oneiric flames, he distinguished the outline of a familiar back. 

 Yes— it was the impressive, dauntless gait of a fated king. To many, an irreplaceable crutch— and for him, an aegis of both security and envy, something he simultaneously venerated and pined for desperately.

 A reverential yet delicate strength he wanted to shield from any and all hardship and also hide behind— for he was indeed nothing without him. He was pathetic and small and worthless— but he was a radiant lodestar who nevertheless pitied him and offered him a place at his side— even if he had little obligation to do anything but ogle his glory from down below. That pedestal was hardly wide enough to accommodate them both— and yet, he was greedy. He was greedy, and he wanted to be his exception. He wanted to be his taboo— his blasphemy, and his recourse.

In the past, he might have shuddered before the intense heat. But now— he was galvanized into a gallop like a whipped horse— his legs unwilling yet, but he forced himself to walk nonetheless. He leapt out of his adolescent shell— it disintegrated like a snake lifting itself from its old skin, and pushed aside that sniveling ghost of a child— that ball and chain that was ever-cumbersome. Jevon hurled himself into the fiendish blazes with his full height intact, shouting and pleading and clawing through the intensity for that back he has revered as if it was salvation itself—

He had sworn that he would save him— even if he was no savior— no dramatic ray of light that would uplift the darkness from this world, or a hero in a children’s tale brandishing a sword woven in legacy. He was nothing more than a discarded fragment— a sad parody of righteousness. And yet— 

… to him, he was a miracle from the sky.

Not an error or a defect like his predecessor had suggested. 

To him, he was but a kindred spirit. A treasured ally— an irreplaceable one. 

And to Jevon, the prince— he was the missing half of his soul. He had not known what it was like to feel truly whole until destiny’s crossroads heralded their union.  

I’ll save you.

I’ll save you. 

I’ll save you, Alirense—

His steps clambered into a clumsy pause as he spun his head back and forth with desperate apprehension. All he could descry was the chthonic fervor— a roaring valley of heat that seemed to reign on interminably. He had lost sight of his heart— he felt very much like a mother separated from their child in the midst of a busy street— frantic tears squeezed from his eyes as the fires licked and singed his mottled skin— but he did not care. He had to find him— he swore that he would— swore that he would save him—

Roxxy, he clambered to shout— but alas, his voice held no power here. It was as if he had forgotten how to verbalize. Thus, all he could do was repeat it to whatever audience was eavesdropping on his mind— a wordless hymn that reechoed painfully as he sprinted left and right aimlessly, determined to not leave even the smallest stone unturned. Roxxy, Roxxy, Roxxy—

Then— his foot caught on something forebodingly slick. He felt his heartbeat stutter— a bleak staccato before rebooting at a jackrabbit’s pace once the unmistakable stench of blood defiled his nostrils. 

The firestorm receded to disclose a macabre landscape— a painting of an ensanguined battlefield rife with mounds upon mounds of slaughtered soldiers. Swords and lances were worked through thick, blood-smeared breastplates— limbs were either absent outright or contorted grotesquely— and their towering, broad mounts were thrown sideways and were gutted or headless. 

The sky was tinged a grayish-red— ominously cloudless, yet the kindness of the sun regrettably did not reach here— as if it would, for this was no doubt hell— a melancholic chiaroscuro of death and despair. Combined with the agonizing odor of rot and decay, he felt as if he could vomit— he desperately pushed it down as he clamped a firm hand over his mouth, tear-stung eyes helplessly surveying his grim surroundings for— no, he told himself. How could his dearest prince be in such a place? He was strong of heart and endlessly kind— he would extend a helping hand even to the most inhospitable of strangers. He was the undefeated Warrior Prince: his inspiration, his muse, his galaxy—

… 

A head of long, frazzled black hair was speared on the blade of a banderoled lance. His signature braid had come undone— untied strands flowing in a breeze that was neither cool nor felt. His eyes— they had once shined with that playful, childlike trickery— and yet, he was benevolent, free-spirited and wonderful, oh— he was like the stars if they were personified: an unrestrained, infinite wellspring of buoyancy— 

And yet.

And yet— 

Devoid, they were, of that innocent boy. Devoid of their color. Devoid of their light—

Ah…

“Ha… I… I see…” 

… So, that man was right, after all. 

He was infinitely unspecial— and it was impossible for him to change. 

How useless he was. 

Oh, how he should have died back then. 

Rather him than Sirius— 

… How he envied them. 

… 

Jevon jackknifed upward— a howl of anguish high in his throat. 

Flustered, his conscience scratched and clawed at those bloodstained vestiges— a despicable battleground constituted of his most lethal insecurities— his fears— and for a moment, he was like a ball as he was juggled between the reality of a warm morn and the targeted cruelness of his dreamworld. He gasped for air as if he had been punched in the gut— his nightclothes sweated through and breathlessly compressive— clawing at the bedsheets as his body flailed and thrashed and his chest heaved painfully. 

His terror only subsided once the soft and somewhat phantasmal touch of a pair of hands grouped around his own— a bit smaller than his own but nonetheless roughened with muscle and wear. He followed the azimuth of this mysterious arm toward a familiarly inexpressive face that was perched at his bedside via a chair that was likely maneuvered from his writing desk. The Principality of War in all her fearsome glory— their fingers entwined like a mother consoling her offspring after a nightmare. Ah—

 Though his heartbeat continued to hammer relentlessly, he could feel his dread dissolve, and coalesce into abashment instead, ripping his scarred hand away as if she had burned him. Antares did not react much to his abruptness and merely slotted her arms together, reclining into the chair. It was dark within the room; his eyes flitted briefly toward the sheer drapery— the sun had yet to even rise, as it would appear. Amidst the murk, the semi-visible god— coupled with her deep midnight hair— was almost camouflaged. If not for the brilliant shimmer of her golden irises, he would not have been able to distinguish her from a mere shadow refracted against the wall.  

“… You were dreaming, Astrophel,” stated the god matter-of-factly— it was always difficult to tell what she was thinking, given her straightforward attitude. She seemed all but reluctant to showcase even the barest scintilla of perceivable emotion— and yet, oddly— he could sense something abstractly resembling concern emanating from her stock-still front. “… And from the looks of it, it does not seem like it was a very pleasant experience. Do you… wish to talk about it, perhaps?” 

“… It is quite all right. These… nightmares are par for the course for me, in all honesty,” such were the wonders of insomnia, that is— Jevon could not recall the last time he had enjoyed the luxury of a dreamless sleep. Though, this one— yes, it had been a bit more grotesque than what he was accustomed to. 

Usually, his dreams acted as theatrical reiterations of his guilt— playwritten and thereby performed by the phantoms of his past— and while it had certainly started off as yet another ingemination of his mistakes, the climax had played out differently. Roxxy’s head, pierced like it was some victory trophy on an unidentifiable spear— 

He felt an onrush of nausea overtake him as he dared to recall the details. It felt prescient, somehow— as if this was God’s way of telling him that it would result as such if he fluffed his mission— if he failed to reach him before his rage and the world’s unjustness left him but yet another remorseful eidolon of war. 

No— he could not entertain that line of thinking… it would only trample whatever resolve he had left— and if he was to survive the road ahead, he could not allow fear to obfuscate it… even if it was little more than false optimism, it was truly all he had left. 

A fresh runnel of tears clambered down his face— he huffed with annoyance and meticulously dabbed it away with the cuff of his sleepshirt. Jevon then gave his head a furious shake as he reassembled himself, and restyled himself thus in an air of faux calm, readdressing his godly guest. 

“In any case… Antares, is there a reason why you’ve come here? I sincerely doubt that you dragged yourself all the way to my little rundown shack just so you could comfort me, that is.” 

“You make me sound like some sort of heartless villain— how banal,” harrumphed Antares as she dismounted the chair and turned, the sharp movement causing her airy gown to fan out briefly. “… I have something that I wish to discuss with you, but… this is hardly the place to trade secrets. So, make yourself presentable and meet me outside.” 

Jevon watched as the god casually exited through the door instead of performing one of her magical disappearing acts— it was definitely comical from some perspective, and was even something of a picker-upper after that heinous dream had sorely crushed his mood. He felt the hint of a genuine smile plague his lips— then, he wrestled the sheets off, wiped the sweat from his brow and approached his wardrobe, his hand buzzing with lingering warmth and appreciation. 

After changing into his standard attire, he brushed back his messy bangs and fitted that beloved brooch of his at the base of his collar. He judged himself only fleetingly in the mirror before slipping out of his bedchamber to hurry down the hallway.

 When Jevon arrived in his living area, he came daringly close to tripping over what was at first an indistinguishable mass— one that had a comically loud snore, he must add— that had no doubt fallen from her roost on his sofa to sprawl out over the ground, only partly draped in the loaned blanket that escaped with her. Of course, he immediately identified the sleeping creature as his sister, who was still feeling the effects of that hazardous concoction from the bar, it seemed. Her hair unbound in wild waves as she drooled heavily over his floor, she looked extremely peaceful for one who was typically cursed with a permanent grimace.  

Darling Aurora, who had nuzzled up next to his sister, flicked her crystal-blue eyes open to briefly interrogate her owner. Jevon delivered her a smile in return, bending down to caress that delightfully sensitive spot behind her ear as gratitude for keeping the poor girl company all this time. Aurora licked his hand, then retreated back into her fuzzy prison as a tail curled to coil around her face. After checking off a mental note to give his little princess an extra helping of kibble later on— Jevon carefully circumnavigated the redheaded roadblock in his path and quietly maneuvered his way out of the house.  

As stated, the god had taken to roaming his front yard while he was getting dressed. Specifically, Jevon found her hunched over one of the vibrant flowerbeds, taking a curious sniff before her body retaliated with a sneeze that sounded hilariously kittenish for a woman who nearly championed him in height. Antares leaped to her feet, aggressively wiping her nose, then halted once she distinguished the creaking of a closing door. When he approached, Antares wasted no time, wordlessly signaling him to follow. 

He was thereby led to the edge of the verdant bluff his house neighbored— a spacious overlook of the sea that was bespeckled in small clusters of white wildflowers. The waves lapped quietly at the rocky underbelly of the cliff, and the quaint breeze carried with it the arias of the seagulls as they greeted the waking morn.

 It also sent a few of Antares’ locks askew— she took a moment to safely resecure them behind her ear, and her hand would linger there briefly as she poured her gold-rich gaze over that prominent panorama of blue— a far-off look marring her otherwise impenetrable phlegm. The moon had begun its retreat, and the sun began its requisition. The ocean sang and shimmered, welcoming those first spillages of daybreak— and the god was utterly transfixed, it appeared. How long has it been since she last watched a sunrise, exactly? 

From this perspective, she was hardly semitransparent. Truly, she did not resemble anything but an ordinary young woman— happily greeting the unspooling of a new day. 

“… Astrophel.” 

After this protracted interlude of silence, he could not help but flinch once his name was at last acknowledged— but his questioner did not think to face him quite yet. Her tone— it was about as expressionless as one would expect, but he detected it yet again— an underlining of something— perhaps… poignancy, this time. Although Jevon was hardly given the time to dissect whatever it was it meant to imply before the deity resumed her speech. 

  “… This war is the fruit that was bred of mine and Betelgeuse’s impudence. Truly, I acknowledge how illogical it is that I must depend on an outlander— even if you carry within you the blood of the Great Mediator— I know that I am piling much onto your shoulders. It is inexcusable… for the one who was chosen to inherit the fortune of the Scorpion… even if such a decision was not mine to have… nor was it for our Hunter. I suppose history is doomed to repeat itself in this way…” 

“… Even if Roxxy was but an ordinary man— no… even if our paths hadn’t crossed in the first place, I believe… that this is my destiny, one way or another,” concluded Jevon. “… So long as that man and I are intrinsically connected… the road I lead to overturn the transgressions of my predecessor and do what they failed to will inevitably lead me back to our ill-gotten brotherhood as his predestined executioner,” he justified as he clenched his fist before allowing it to relax. “… I cannot say that I am very confident in my abilities… but I know that this isn’t some mere game, Antares… I will go forward with all my might… or die trying if I must.”

“… I will not accept your resolve if you plan on charging head first into battle with no concern for your own survival, Astrophel,” the god shut down— rather harshly, as well— as if she was scolding him, but also— there was fear. Quiet yet nonetheless palpable— and for a moment, Jevon believed that he was someone else— it was delivered with an oppressive degree of empathy that felt misplaced for the likes of a mere stranger like himself. But Antares must have distinguished her lapse, for she cleared her throat and duly recollected herself as she tied her hands behind her back. 

“… You aren’t some textbook tragic hero, I mean… it wouldn’t be an honorable death in the least bit, and they certainly won’t shed tears for you. You… as their disciple, you alone wield the power to mediate this confusion… but you must remember: The Law is you, and you are the Law— and should you fall, then so shall the world. Do you understand that?” 

“I think that you are exaggerating things a bit… but yes, I comprehend my role.” 

— The cycle takes all, Astrophel. 

It nourishes the Law, and the Law offers an exchange of fecundity in return. 

It is an ever-rotating axis— not even primordial beings such as you or I am impervious to it. Even we are not purely immortal. 

And when that day inevitably arrives, I shall pass on my duties to you.

The balance of all worlds lies in your hands… as the heir to the stars. 

“… Then, you acknowledge what it is that you must do?”  

“… I have never been a god, Antares… I was created as a failure— and in some regards, I believe their words… the words of my predecessor. Of my past self, who spoke nought but resentment toward my existence. In that sense… I suppose I have always hated myself,” he humorlessly laughed at his own dejection— then glanced down to eyeball an opened palm as he stroked his thumb across thin leather. 

“… I desired absolution… to pry myself from their reach and be reconceived as my own person… but even if I should avert my eyes, I cannot ignore the ugliness within me— what Sirius represents. What Sirius wanted to destroy— what led… to me. They were suffocating to me, as I was to them… and I beat them to the punch. I killed them, and I became free at last… by burning that faux paradise and all its monotonous citizenry to the ground. Perhaps part of me is thankful… thankful that the illusion is gone… but even so, I wonder if I should have survived… if it was worth living through it…” 

He dropped his hand to scrutinize the ocean instead— ever an anchor to him, it was indicative of many things— a close-knit companion— the embodiment of true freedom— and the first sight he was blessed with when he nosedived into this fresh, new world— and he knew that there were endless mysteries yet lying beyond its horizon, vying for his attention. Cuisines he had yet to sample. Archaeology he had yet to explore. Songs he had yet to harken. Bonds he had yet to forge— the possibilities were limitless— and to him, there was surely more sea than sky. 

“… I know that I’m not alone now, however… I have… people… family that I long to protect. Those who have volunteered to even risk their lives for me, I… as beautiful as it sounds sometimes— to let my eyes fall as I sleep forever… a fruitless death like that… it would put all the kindness and patience they’ve set aside for me throughout all these years to waste, would it not? Even if I am simply being selfish at the end of the day— finding new ways that I can encumber them with my existence, I… I still want to keep living. I want… to stay with them, and continue to learn about this world… as ghastly as it is, I want to stay living in it.” 

“… It is not selfish to want to live, Astrophel.”

Antares was fully facing him at this point— in fact, she had closed the gap between them with a reperformance of her tenderness from earlier. Even if she was more or less a ghost by composition, her palms felt startlingly warm as they enclosed around his own. 

“… There was a time when I, too… wondered if my life was even worth continuing. I… I have seen endless amounts of slaughter, Astrophel… and these hands of mine orchestrated much of it, I unproudly admit. I thought that it was only justified that I, too… would inevitably perish with not a single person by my side to send me off in my final moments… that would have been preferable to the heartache of leaving behind the one… the one miracle of mine that, even if it hadn’t been long… the time we were able to spend together was more precious to me than my crown, my laurels— and I have come to resent this world even more after it had finally granted me something to fight for… only to immediately tear it away.” 

And as their eyes met, he struggled to describe it— but it did not feel as if he was gazing at a mere specter— nor a god, for that matter. It was explicitly maternal, vindictive, and heartbroken— someone who had been robbed of everything, and someone who was still grieving. Someone who would never be complete again. 

“… So, do not make the same mistakes as I, Astrophel,” she released his hands. “… As a fellow monster who resents herself, you are still young yet… even if this life of yours was stolen from others, that is more reason to not squander it… do not treat it as something superfluous. After all… whether or not you find yourself deserving— it is incontestably a beautiful thing to live.” 

Antares placed a hand over her heart and took a breath to reground herself. Then, she wordlessly pressed a pair of fingers to rest against his rhombic brooch, as if channeling something— and as he watched with puzzlement, the accessory began to scintillate mystically.

 “… If this were a kinder world, war would not exist at all… even as its embodiment, I cannot justify its necessity— only those who desire control monger for it— the common people will always be made to suffer as a result of those in power… but even so, there will be times when you’ve no choice but to draw your sword, Astrophel… for there are indeed rotten individuals who cannot be swayed by diplomacy. Thus… I shall transfer you some of my power… it has yet to diminish entirely, so the least I can do is ensure that you are properly equipped for the battles you’ll no doubt face ahead.” 

And, much to his awe— the god proceeded to extract what seemed to be a weapon from some interdimensional pocket hidden within his brooch— a polearm, specifically. A gossamer illusion that would only physicalize once it planted itself in his hands. The base of the lance was painted an elegant silver whereas the blade featured three ornamental prongs that embodied a mystical, shimmering shade of cerulean and embellished with intricate hints of gold. It was decorated with ornate embeddings such as radiant blue crystals and lunar patterns and carvings— truly stunning artisanship that painted the image of a pristine art piece as opposed to a weapon. He cautiously surveyed its majestic topography with inquisitive fingers while Antares dived into a proper explanation. 

“… Call upon the name of this blade if you should ever find yourself imperiled— Iapetus. It is… the pride and joy of a once great metalworker known as Hephaestus. Asterian legends depict him as an average mortal; however, due to his unbelievable prowess with a hammer, even the gods would drop by his smithy to bargain a commission out of him… in particular, it was a moon god who requested the creation of Iapetus— and it is said to be one of the strongest— and beautiful— pieces of weaponry he has ever credibly forged… although this is but a mere duplicate, of course, it is nearly indistinguishable from the real deal… go on and give it a whirl, yes? I’ve spectated enough of your sparring matches with the little prince to conclude that you aren’t some pushover, in which case.”

Jevon decided to dismiss that stalker-like revelation for the time being and focused on familiarizing himself with the foreign mechanisms at play. Lengthier weapons such as polearms served to accommodate his exaggerated height better than the common blade did, anyway— and while he did know how to wield them, it has admittedly been quite some time. 

So, he ferreted around in the corners of his brain and uprooted a few memories from when the prince was still teaching him swordsmanship and began introducing him to other alternatives, polearms included. Needless to say, the first day he had that practice lance in his hands was the first time he managed to land a scratch on the prince during one of their friendly spars. Therefore, he decided to replicate his motions from then. 

First, he thrust outward— then, he arced the weapon up, downward, rinse and repeat. His style of fighting was more so like a dance— a fluidity and gracefulness to it that was coupled with shrewd and quick footwork that contradicted his size. For he was the sort of gentleman who prioritized elegance above all else— he would never lose himself to the inherent barbarity of the battlefield, and only raised his blade for the sake of true justice. 

After he recited a few more stunts— Jevon recalled the weapon and posed with it calmly while Antares rewarded him with a pleased applause. “Good, good,” chirped the god. “… It seems like you won’t be a complete and utter liability in battle, after all… of course, you must remember that in a savage world like this, it is always kill or be killed— I expect that a grown gentleman like yourself won’t need to summon me to protect him if he ever finds himself in a hairy situation, right? Well— I’ll be there to provide moral support, at least.” 

“… Well, I appreciate it regardless, I suppose,” he then restudied the polearm— grazing his eyes over its delicate, artistic sheen with unconcealed intrigue— like he would any priceless and evocative artifact. “… It is quite the work of art, I must say… I have heard of the exploits of the great blacksmith of course, but… I never thought that I would ever come face-to-face with one of his many masterworks… even if it is but a mere imitation, the sheer scope of detail positively astounds me… I cannot wait to show Roxxy— he has always been rather interested in weapons of old, you see…” 

“Well, then you’ll have to survive long enough so that you can show him, right?”  

Ah— he tumbled into quite a pitfall there, hasn’t he? “… Right… until we’ve reunited,” he freshened his resolution as he clenched the weapon tighter yet. “… I suppose I’ve no choice but to keep going strong until that day arrives… I have many more anecdotes that I wish to tell him, after all… more than what might be feasible in our finite lifespans.”

“But that is certainly a goal worth fighting for— would you not say?”

When Jevon met her face again— oh— it was unlike anything he had seen before— a smile that was sincere and beaming yet and crowned in a stunning aureole of dawn-light— a harbinger of war she was, and yet… at this moment—

… was it possible that this woman was actually— 

No— as curious as he was, he decided that it did not matter. His priorities lay elsewhere. 

Jevon decided instead that he would not allow that dreadful augury to come to fruition. Even if he was but a cast-off fragment. Even if he was engineered for failure— 

If hatred was all that he was born to know— 

In order to greet the dawn, he cannot dream any longer.