Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal or any of the characters depicted in the story. Proper rights are owned by the respected owners individually.

Note: Word of advice: never get into a blood feud with Random. But anyway, this is for you, Random - hope you like it and thanks for the idea!

Warnings: Spoilers for episode 130, slightly nsfw due to descriptions of decay, decapitation, violence against crows, and vague sexual content.

Meadowing
by. Satari-Raine

Murderer, they cried. Deceiver, defiler, forsaken, disgraced. Words of all kind, be them bitter or regretful, thrown from the mouths of men, women, and children – oh, the children; he's aware of this, of their cries, through a thick haze masquerading as his mind, and it hurts, hurts enough for him to want to snatch their voices away and forbid them of such language. But they do not last and they disperse, and through a cloud he sees all eyes on him, staring and waiting and his throat burns, burns hot enough for a gasp to croak out; it sounds strange, it sounds like himself, as if he's never heard his own voice before. A guard nearby demands him to speak and a word flees from his lips, forced only in the sense that he's aware he shouldn't have spoken. Soon after, a barrage of thuds fills in the silence, a squelching noise leading on another and another before a loud crack, and then cheers rise from every corner of the arena.

It takes a moment for him to breathe although his mind cannot connect to what just happened. But then an advisor touches his shoulder and his mind jolts awake.

(And he wonders while the shouts echo in his ears, while his eyes sting with something sudden and painful and sharp. He wonders while the haze lifts, when he blinks and finds the sight in the arena and no, no, no, nonono- he wonders when he shouts and screams, when he flees his seat and rushes out only to be stopped halfway down the stairs by pointed spears and solemn words, when the guards look away from their prince's face to avoid seeing the tears swimming in his eyes, the ones unable to fall.

He wonders why his people are cheering at this travesty, cheering when all he wants to do is simply disgrace himself and cry.)

The sun bleeds warmth down the back of his neck, the shade usually offered by the scruff of his hair taken away from his hair being twisted into a ponytail during the morning earlier, when the sun was still sleeping beyond the rolling hills. Shadows scamper across his feet, they dance across the stone, and the servants connected scuffle behind the prince, only stopping with one expressing concern when the prince stops and raises his head, peers past the sunbeams and breathes a word so low a guard asks in query, "My lord?"

"Begone."

There's hesitance behind him; as of late, all his guards have been more cautious around him. He hates it.

"Par...- Pardon me but my lord, we must hurry and attend the meeting or else—"

"I am your sovereign, you are a simple servant. I ordered you lot to leave and I expect that to happen."

Scurrying steps kick up dust embedded inside the cracks between the stones, flats of leather shoes tap and clack away until they fade from earshot. No hesitance when it comes to fleeing, to fear; he doesn't care right now. The prince steps forward, right below the spike, and shifts his fingers through the dirt around the base and finds a flat stone. Standing up, his wrist flicks and a loud squawk finds his ears before a thud hits the ground, right at his feet, close enough to where it would take little effort to raise his foot up and out and bring it down over the bird's skull.

He bends down and picks up the crow, caught between throwing it off one of the balconies of his castle until something catches his eye. When the sight of a blackened peak glistens under the sunlight, glistens a mahogany color closer to black than red, when something drips from the tip and splatters red across the ground, he raises his head to the top of the pike and sees red against jagged flesh, tissue of the skin, the tip of the spinal cord. He sees familiar bronze skin marred by the sun and jagged gashes from the pesky birds, dents from stones and he curses the wills of children marred by lies. He sees tendrils of hair still being an unkempt curtain over that one eye while the other eye is closed – and he knows the servant must have closed it himself, he knows Alit would've faced his death with a gaze open and the green blazing as bright as a fire.

(And maybe it's the lack of that fire in his light that's left him this cold.)

He sees his rival, his brother, his friend, and wants nothing more than to look away, to escape from this sight, this result of an action he didn't remembered committing. But if he looks down, he will disgrace himself far beyond the lengths that he's already done; as Alit always said, a man must never turn from his fears, no matter how deep they run in the heart. If he looks down, he will see the blood spilled and be reminded of his disgrace, of a loss he commanded and of a loss he wished he would've only had to see after his own death, when he would've welcomed the man with open arms and would've led him to their final resting place.

But now it hurts, it hurts to think of all those clouds and stars above that Alit is dancing across in a time too early, and it hurts because the man will never again raise a fist to him in combat nor a smile in passing, and the pleasures of touch are now forfeit to the passage of time. And it hurts because he knows now that when he dies, Alit's arms will be closed off from him forever, and that alone fills him with such a dreadful, bitter weight - heavier than a sword, stronger than his rival's fists ever were.

"You were no more guilty than a saint, my dear friend."

There's something broken in the words he speaks, but he swears that's just his heart.

"My lord!"

An advisor calls out from the archway and the prince turns his head the moment a crow nests in Alit's hair, beak raised, before the sharp point dips down and aims for Alit's eye. In a haste, the prince hurls a nearby stone with a fierce shout, loud enough to shake the walls, to startle advisor into a frozen stupor, one frozen enough for the gilded bowl of blue and gold to clatter against the ground. The stone strikes the crow in the throat and the bird falls with a shriek, lands with a thud. (There's a groan somewhere behind the castle walls, an advisor who without sight knows what the prince is doing, what he's been doing since Alit's death.) Sighing, ignoring the wills of older men who claim they know better than he, the prince picks up the crow and hoists it by its feet, collects the other bird's talons in those same fingers, and yanks the thong from his hair and ties the two birds together by their reedy ankles. When the advisor from the archway steps towards the prince, he drops the birds in the man's hands and tells him to toss the carcasses into a fire.

"With the other crows from before, my lord?"

The prince sneers at the disappointed tone and nods sharply before leaving, steps hasty. His shadow follows and in between his footsteps, he lies to himself and – knowing full well his rival would've laughed at him for such a shameful expression, eyes downcast and watery – pretends to hear Alit's laughter following behind him.

"Why, Mama?"

"To warn the rest of us to not be a traitor like he was, the falsifier."

Their shadows – a mother, a child – pass over the walls of the castle, over the thin stalk of the pike, over the green banner that contrasts against the brown wood of the weapon. The shadows bend before the prince's, and then they are gone, kicked up dust from in between the stones the only thing reminding him of their presence. But then a voice trails to his ears, sings of a fallen gladiator, and once against the prince curses the wills of children.

A minute later, a crow's shadow races down to the ground and lands silently next to the others.

It's the third one today.

Two more days pass – the crows have dispersed and so has Alit (and it hurts) – when he starts to dream.

At the start of his dreams, Alit loves him with touches teasing and warm. Leaves him breathless without relief, wound like a spring, eyes closed against the building pressure. But he always comes back, always and always, and Alit takes care of him, kisses him against his mouth and runs fingertips over his cheeks, brushes his thumbs over his eyebrows and pulls knots from his hair, skims knuckles down his chest and traces teeth marks into the flesh of his hips and thighs. He leaves no time for the prince to return the favor, and seems to revel in that fact as the ministrations continue.

Alit treats him like a man and not a prince, treats him like a human and not the sovereign he is. He teases him enough to allow noises shameful and pleading alike to pass his lips, words only Alit has heard – and it isn't for the fact Alit is his only lover because he isn't, he wasn't, he's had women before at the request of his advisors, in the face of marriage and country alliances and matters that he personally would handle on paper and not in his sleeping quarters.

But all of the dreams end the same as they started: showing him a lie of something once had, if only partially, and then they end with him losing, always losing, and green is always the last thing he sees before his eyes open to the ceiling of his bed chamber. The sheets are always twisted in his ankles, his skin slick with sweat, and he's cold because the only thing covering him in that room is the shadows around him and shame.

(But he'd be lying if he said his dreams, if only the start of them, are something treasured.

But then again, he assumes that's exactly where the shame comes from in the first place.)

"Sire, you mustn't waste your food."

It was a platter of the finest meat, the richest soup, the freshest vegetables, and his stomach growls in demand of such luxury. But the voice of the servant, when it reaches his ears, he sighs and feels rushed, as if he's unable to mourn (because that's what it is, isn't it?) In the end, he turns away the remainder of the meal with an upturned hand and chases away the servant with a glare.

Outside of his chambers, over the sliver of his kingdom visible beyond his closed curtains, the moon starts to rise. He watches the moonlight slowly creep through the opening, watches it paint the floor in white light. The second it touches his foot is when he stands, gathers a ripped cloak – worn, burgundy, familiar, treasured – and wraps it around his form, and steps out of his chambers. Not one guard questions him on his way out of the castle, no one looks his way.

Below the colosseum, under spires of marble and slabs of rock seats, windows, forms and shapes, below the chambers and below the silence, he enters the training room. It's dusty, and the rumors that it has been unused since the execution seem to be true – and that word, that damned word, causes a sob to catch the air in his throat, holding it hostage long enough for his vision to blur, and when he looks up, he hears laughter, familiar enough to cause a smile to crack at his lips.

But it's only a trick. (Alit is dead, after all.)

Settling himself back on his feet, wading through the room to find a training dummy, the only armor he dons is white, pristine wrappings around his wrists and knuckles.

When he leaves at sunrise, the wrappings are red.

(That night, he doesn't dream of Alit. But he dreams of a crimson lion, red like blood and gold like the sun, breathing in sync to the beating of his heart, picking up when he stares into green eyes, when the lion's jaw opens, when the beast steps forward with a dangerous, familiar gait. And in regards to Alit, that ferocity and fear and acceptance he feels standing before the teeth of such a creature, to be able to be slain by such a beast that is both Alit and not, it's only fitting.)

But it only lasts so long. The dreams soon stop and he doesn't feel like sleeping.

Training doesn't spur forward any desire. As shameless as it seems, beyond the span of his usual duties, he has fallen as not only a man but as a rival; if Alit were to simply breathe in his direction, he would be blown backward, he would be destroyed as if a fierce gale ripped apart his body like ribbons. And perhaps being so weak as he's felt ever since the execution fits and it's only been ten days, ten days and already there is a difference and not one at all.

The differences stack, however, in terms of himself and the world around him. The people remember but are also wanting to forget. His advisors, the ones in charge of the execution taking place – the ones he ordered to kill Alit without ordering them at all – are rotting in the earth. Children are learning to smile again and already, a new hero for them is on the rise in the form of some weird traveler passing through, some man in white on the outskirts of the prince's kingdom. Alit, what's left of him, is a sunburnt, partially decayed skull, the tuffs of hair gone, his eyes plucked clean by birds too many for the prince to fight off. And he, the prince, their ruler, lives and rules, but he does not eat as much, does not banter as much, and he does not fight.

But what stays the same is the guilt and Alit's presence in the kingdom.

It's time for one of those things to change.

The spike leaves the dirt with ease and over his knee, the prince snaps it to where the severed head is at level with his own. Perhaps it's a foolish ploy, a trick he's playing on himself, but he's merely a man who is suffering and his advisors can stuff any words of illness to him after this deed is done.

The colosseum welcomes him with silence. It is fitting; this chore, as honor filled as he prays it will be, deserves no award except for Alit's spirit wherever it is roaming, himself as a man, Alit's rival, and guilt.

Against the simple kindling he carried with him, a fire blazes before him in the center of the colosseum, sparks twirling ribbons of light in the blue of his eyes. He closes his eyes against the sight and his grip of the spike tightens, tight enough that he can hear his bones move inside of his skin, and when he opens them and sees a flash of green in the flames, he silences his silent prayer and removes the head carefully from the spear.

The bones creak. A patch of skin falls to the ground. The prince's knees fall after it and soon enough, he's on the ground before a towering fire with his rival in his hands (and it isn't like that festival where they touched and laughed away from the torches, it isn't like the time where Alit snuck into his chambers and fed him something strange and addicting and it wasn't because it came clean from fingers licked at, and it isn't like the time where the bowed their heads in silence, firelight a candles breadth in width as the prayers were finished, the body of a comrade being set aflame in a sudden large glow.

But the fire, warm and breathing, alive, is the same.)

"Alit."

(And Alit's name is the same, as it always was when the prince whispered it in those moments, soft and revered.)

As the fire rises, as the sun light starts to flicker into the archways of the colosseum, the prince cradles the skull and faces it towards him. Palm against cheekbones, fingers against the temples and around the back, a hold always reserved for moments of brotherhood, of closeness, of moments where he brought himself nose to nose with his rival and laughed, smiled, breathed air and thanked the gods above for such simplicity.

And slowly, right before he prepares to toss the skull, the remains, the last he has of his rival, into the flames, he brings his forehead to the decayed skull, presses skin against wisps of marred flesh rotten and pecked apart by crows and fate's cruel hand alike, and cries.

Comments and critique are always welcomed.