chapter 1 – on superfluous whims

Broken, warped, and fallen; this important, important world…

Please save it; I beg of you, I beg of you—

"In a thousand years, there will be a meteor. Even now, it is on a collision course with the planet, slowly but surely inching its way closer, every passing day. And when it impacts, this world will end."

"So what will you do, Hero Alba?"

When he thought about it, the answer was easy.

Or rather, the right answer was easy. Acting on it was decidedly less so. When he thought about it again, and again, over days and weeks and months and sleepless nights, even as he began and finished preparing, disconnecting, leaving behind, the question of why lingered. Why, for a future so very far away, for a world he would never see, for people he would never know?

A thousand years was a very long time, after all.

But at the last moment, when drowsiness was already turning the edges of his vision fuzzy and the magic sparking brightly in his left hand was finally beginning to dim, the realization hit him.

Ahh, that's not fair.

They called me "hero".

There was a sense of overpowering guilt that nearly led Alba to spill everything, many times. The feeling only intensified when his friends noticed, sooner than he would have liked, and they confronted him, many times. Yet impossibly, somehow, he kept his mouth shut, and thought with a sort of shameful vindication, a little derisively, that for a hero, he was getting very good at lying.

Ros and Ruki had their secrets, once.

He could have his own too.

Of course, there were things to do before he could—…

Before.

He couldn't very well leave Salt with his uncontrolled magic, without a tutor. Ros would finish the job if he left early, he knew, and in all likelihood be a much more effective teacher. But Ros had entrusted the task to Alba in the first place. So he could do this much, at least. He didn't need to break all his promises.

But the longer he stayed, the longer he hesitated, the more difficult it became to find the will to carry out his plan. There was too much binding him here, to this time. Too many people and places and things he knew and loved. To leave it all behind, to wait for a future that needed saving—the thought was almost more than he could bear.

In that distant future, there would still be those he recognized, he hoped. Ruki, and the rest of the demons, with their staggeringly long lifespans. But it would be different.

This important, important world, right now, was very hard to leave.

He began writing the letters early on. Ironically enough, the idea for them had come from Ros himself, back in the days when Alba had been the one stuck in a jail cell with his sadistic magic tutor.

"What do you think of exchanging letters?"

He wrote and he wrote, and the pile of letters in a box locked securely with magic grew larger and larger. To his mother and father, he poured into the letter every drop of love and appreciation. For their unrelenting adoration, for their unwavering support, for the chance they had given him to make them proud. They would never want for anything—he could make sure of that.

To Ruki's parents, for all of their kindness. To Janua, wishing him luck with his farm. To Samejima, gratitude for all of his impeccably timed rescues. To Rudolf, thanks for the advice during the year he had been journeying. To Teufel, Alba wished him the best of health and wrote down the name of a reputed chiropractor his father was acquainted with. To Alles, he left the organization and dispersal of any and all proceeds from Hero Alba merchandise and begged her to delete the contents of that voice recorder, though he doubted whether she really would. To Foyfoy, and to Hime-chan, he wrote his hopes for their every happiness and fortune—and later on, regret that he would be unable to attend their upcoming wedding.

To Salt, he wrote a reminder to keep practicing his control of magic, and to never give up being a hero with Lake and Lym and the rest of his friends. As he set the pen down, Alba realized with a pang that he would never be able to see Salt's growth either. But they were young, and bright, and he had no doubt that their names would be famed across the world.

To Crea, a private, fervent plead for him, of all people, to understand. Ros and Ruki would be… very angry, probably. But perhaps Crea would accept it, and help them both. After a pause, Alba added on his hopes for Crea to find happiness, in any way possible, and to take care of Sion.

Ruki's letter was longer than the others. His pen trembled as he wrote his every thanks for her unconditional, steadfast friendship and loyalty and love, during the time they had spent together. The little Demon Lord had done more for him than she would ever know, and the letter was woefully inadequate at expressing even a fraction of his gratitude. If she wanted, if Ruki was willing, he promised to find her, in a thousand years, and he would explain then.

Exactly what he would explain, was something he would leave for if that time came.

Ros's letter was the most difficult. Alba stared at the blank piece of paper for a long time, excuses he would never be able to say swirling uselessly in his head, freezing his veins, filling his throat.

At last, he picked up the pen, and quietly, quietly, with excruciating ease, wrote two very short words.

I'm sorry.

Already, he could almost hear the contemptuous reply.

"Liar."

"Where are you going."

The command, not a question, rang mutedly among the trees. Ros had picked the location, showing up in the dead of night to drag Alba out to a nearby secluded forest and demand answers.

"Did you think I hadn't noticed?" Ros continued, narrowing his eyes. Dim rays of moonlight shone through the trees, angled in a way that set them alight with blazing displeasure as he glared at Alba. "You're planning something, and I want to know what."

Alba shuffled his feet. "What will you do if I tell you?" he asked, as lightly as possible, trying not to let the tremble in his voice show.

"That depends on your answer. But I'll beat you up."

"Unwarranted assault!"

"What's unwarranted is your behavior. You've been avoiding everyone recently. Ruki and Crea are worried too." Ros stepped closer, crossing his arms. "I'm waiting."

"…I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

Displeasure blossomed into real anger then, and Ros scowled. He made a movement as if to slam a fist into Alba's ribs, but Alba held a hand up before Ros's face, smiling a little bitterly.

"I'm sorry. You can hate me, if you want."

"What—"

Ros's eyes fluttered shut and he went limp, tipping forward until Alba wrapped an arm around his shoulders and they sank to the grassy ground together. He shook away the lingering traces of magic still clinging to his fingertips before hurriedly checking the other man's pulse. Slow and steady. Asleep. Good. He made a motion with his hand again, and a very faint, purple, flame-like aura engulfed his fingers. It flickered weakly, protesting, in the short moment before Alba crushed it in his fist and the memory disappeared in a shower of sparks.

A small, half-choked sound bubbled up in Alba's throat, and he couldn't tell if it had been a laugh or a sob.

The next morning, Alba visited Cecily's house. Ros gave him a chop on the head as a cheerful morning greeting before they set out to meet Crea and Ruki, as they had all agreed.

He gave no indication of the previous night's events, and neither did Alba.

The dimensional rift was as unnerving as ever.

When the blank white space he had chosen at random began to rumble as the sealing magic took effect and sleepiness was washing over him in soft waves, Alba closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the dagger in his left hand.

Three syllables formed on his lips, three syllables that he might or might not have said out loud.

And then there was only darkness.

He dreamed.

He dreamed of his first journey, with Ros and Ruki. When he had been blissfully, hatefully ignorant of everything and everyone around him. But despite everything, it had been fun. He dreamed of his second journey, with Ruki, and the frustration and hopelessness and pain that had faithfully followed him everywhere. He dreamed of the places he had been, the people he had met, everything and everyone blending together with no discernable beginning or end, only the assertion that they had existed.

He dreamed of a sharp pain in his chest, and a bloody figure at his feet.

He dreamed of the last day he had spent with them. It had been a beautiful day for a picnic. Ruki and Crea had run down the grassy hill immediately to the small lake. They splashed in the water at the shore happily, shouting and filling the air with melodious laughter. Alba had laughed along with them, and then turned to glance at Ros.

Ros had been laughing too.

It was a very, very long dream.

.

.

.

"…ro…"

…Ugh…

"…up, hero."

Stop it… I'm sleeping…

"Hero. Hero. Wake up already!"

"AUGH!"

Alba's eyes snapped open as a heavy blow was brought down on his abdomen, knocking the air out of him. He lay flat on his back, gasping for breath and his heart thrumming a hundred times faster than normal.

From above, a familiar face invaded his vision, peered down at him, and Alba's heart screeched to a halt.

"Ros!?"

"Oh, so you are alive. That took you long enough, hero. I thought you were dead for a moment."

"Whose fault is that!?" Alba scrambled to his feet in a mad, confused rush, never once taking his eyes off his friend. "Ros? You're… really Ros?"

Ros frowned. "How rude."

"Ow!"

Rubbing his cheek, Alba continued his helpless gawking, his mouth slightly open. "Ros."

"Yes?"

"Ros."

"I'm here."

"Ros."

"That's getting annoying."

A sickening, twisting sensation of wrongness that had been coiling in Alba's stomach from the moment he had woken abruptly reared up, but he forced it back down. The figure before him—with spiky black hair, that strange, short-sleeved black jersey, and steady crimson eyes—was certainly Ros. His appearance, his mannerisms, his voice, everything the same as ever, as the last time he had seen him—it couldn't be anyone else. What could possibly, possibly be wrong about it?

Alba laughed, a little weakly. "You're here. I thought… I thought I'd never see you again."

"And whose fault is that?" The flat reply made Alba freeze, discomfort prickling the back of his neck. Ros crossed his arms imperiously. "We have a lot to discuss, hero. And you have a lot of explaining to do."

"O-Oh…" It was only fair, he supposed, and Alba inhaled deeply. But he couldn't keep himself from glancing at Ros, over and over again, taking in the sight of his friend as if he could never get enough. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do. But…" The words spilled out of their own accord, even as the sickening feeling heightened, more strongly than ever. "I can't believe you're still alive."

Ros blinked, and a strange expression crossed his face. "Oh hero."

He stepped closer, and Alba became dimly aware that they were not in the dimensional rift, but more than that, Ros's footsteps were not making any sound against the seemingly rigid floor. Ros stopped in front of Alba and lifted his hand to press against Alba's chest.

And it went straight through.

Alba stared.

Ros smiled, a little wryly. A very similar smile to one Alba remembered vividly even now, from what seemed like another lifetime ago.

"Who said I was alive?"

You want to save the world?

Then so be it.