Notes: No double update, because it occurred to me I could simply use the drabble as the "connecting timeline," so to speak. This one's for you, Panwei—ahhh, thank you for answering my questions!—and Diet Pepsi Tim. Thank you both so much for the incredible reviews! ;; Past tense pieces will be coming soon, and a final reminder til my last chapter of pre-written content that if I can't pick up help, I can't continue til I find a friend/beta willing to do the fun stuff with me (or my health improves, but big damn el oh el to that).
Originally written in December 2016.
Omegamon's expression is an impenetrable wall of perfect stone, immovable and unyielding—unreadable—but his eyes, clear like the limitless sky, betray him utterly.
They're resolute and filled with a presiding calmness, though such is simply a thin veil. In truth, they are terribly heavy and hauntingly grim, and speak of a fate Omegamon has already chosen.
Tactimon sees his end through those eyes before he ever says a word.
Finally, Omegamon asks as composed and with as much conviction as his façade would have Tactimon believe, "You are the one called Tactimon, are you not?"
It is a vague pleasantry at best.
In another lifetime, he would've felt nothing but infinite admiration and overflowing honour at being addressed by the legendary leader of the esteemed heroes he'd so blindly idolized, once.
Tactimon smiles bitterly at the thought as his steady hand grips the hilt of Jatetsufuujin-maru firmly.
In this lifetime, he feels nothing but visceral contempt, overwhelming hatred, and a raw desire to see how far his lifetime of dedication to his purpose will take him against the greatest opponent he will ever face.
To kill his heroes or be killed by them. This will be a worthy death, regardless of the outcome.
"I am," Tactimon says, devoid of care, devoid of passion—devoid of life—and allows his readied sword to be his final answer.
Omegamon's damning eyes narrow, then harden, and the Grey Sword slides free.
whole
.
.
.
When Omegamon returns, he's grateful the only thing awaiting him is Duftmon's critical yet silent gaze.
His inscrutable, ever-calculating green eyes often freeze others in place with the authority they carry alone, but Omegamon does not waver, instead offering a hint of a nod in acknowledgement. Nothing more. They share an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken aloud, yet the unyielding judgement brewing like darkening thunderclouds ready to unleash a tempest hangs heavily between them.
Omegamon breaks Duftmon's accusatory stare—feeling the laser-focused heat of it against his back—and keeps walking forward, his stride fluid and relaxed, back straight and broad shoulders held high. His immaculate white cape flows behind him, rippling with his dignified movements, the crimson interior that Dukemon so loves to compliment framing his equally flawless ivory armour. His gauntlets dematerialize in wisps of shimmering data, baring his gloved hands.
The sunset cascading in from the massive arching frosted glass windowpanes bathes Omegamon in golden light and every surface of his armour gleams, illuminating his silhouette in an ethereal glow that's truly fitting for the illustrious leader of the revered Royal Knights.
It seems like all of it is a façade today and Omegamon wishes for the surety of Dukemon's cheerful optimism as much as he wishes for the next sunrise (because tonight will be so dark, painfully dark, and for a second he questions his sanity and wonders if the sun will ever rise again).
Dukemon is off on his own mission, though, so there's no kind words or wise smiles waiting for him.
(And he will come back because a life without the crimson knight doesn't make any sense.)
The clank of Omegamon's footsteps on the porcelain floor echoes throughout the massive foyer and upwards as he begins to climb the immense, spiralling alabaster staircase that leaves the world behind and ascends into the realm of ghosts and gods.
The oppressive aura of Duftmon—who knows well enough not to follow, that his superior is sworn to keep no secrets—disappears as he marches onwards, and Omegamon is relieved when the only sounds he can hear are of his own making.
He doesn't have to pretend anymore.
His posture wilts, shoulders beginning to sag, though his pace never falters. Omegamon's footsteps grow heavier, the clanging noise growing louder in his ears like the blood that is similarly pounding in them.
(A shaking hand drops the remains of a shattered sword engraved with runes that pulses with dying embers of light and colour and life, and a raspy whisper reaches his ears, "See ya in paradise, Omega—")
He can still hear the awful, snarling buzz growling at the edges of his consciousness.
All he sees is white white white—his wings were white, a cross between a leathery dragon's and a feathery angel's—the monochrome stairway to the edge of heaven passing before his unfocused cerulean blue eyes of Yggdrasil's making.
(What does Yggdrasil think? Would he ever be able to understand a god of such unknowable age and unfathomable intelligence?
A god that no longer deigns to speak to him.)
Omegamon, despite his impeccable, holy appearance, feels like he must be breaking apart at the seams; that his armour is creaking and groaning until it splinters and the long spidery cracks that have to be forming spreading until he falls apart and is nothing more than motes of dust on the blustery wind.
He is unbearably tired, and for the first time in many, many years, the weight of his age bears down on him. He is so incredibly, excruciatingly old.
To think that had somehow survived the centuries and all of Yggdrasil's rewrites and resets. To see it wielded by one far too young to have ever known its origins. To suspect that it may one day be the cause of great calamity again.
(And yet he couldn't bring himself to kill the wielder of that accursed thing. What would his comrades think when they learned of such a decision?)
The barren walls of the staircase open into sudden brightness and the bite of a merciless wind borne of sheer altitude, and Omegamon blinks as if he's just woken up, eyes sharpening and regaining their clarity. He grips at the high metal rails barricading another pearly staircase leading up to the highest level of the castle, a singular diamond-shaped platform reaching into the sky, so close to touching Yggdrasil's white, crystalline branches.
He no longer feels like his head is bursting with intrusive thoughts and painful memories he'd rather not dwell on. The dreadful, hate-filled chittering skirting the edges of his mind disappears into nothingness, falling blessedly quiet.
Omegamon closes his eyes and inhales the cool air, using the sensation to further anchor himself to reality the way the cold, slick metal feels beneath his hands also does. He exhales, and it's reminiscent of draining poison from a wound. The turmoil churning in his chest settles into calmness, but he's left with the distinct feeling of emptiness, a hole—an endless void—that he cannot seem to fill.
A wry chuckle escapes him when he thinks of Dukemon's sage amber eyes that would be equal parts displeased and concerned, and the scolding he'd receive for that single thought, never mind what atrocities that cursed artifact had been capable of conjuring.
("Is it truly alright to go on like this?"
His words are false. 'Is it really alright to move on like this?' is what he should've said.
"Of course. He would want you to be happy. Do you really believe his final wish was for you to hold on to his ghost for the rest of your life?"
Dukemon's embrace is warm and it becomes all that matters.)
Omegamon needs to think, wants to visit him, and steps out onto the stairway suspended above the voluminous clouds. Colossal, never-ending streams of data arc above and below him as he climbs higher, glimmering in greens and purples, though they remain mostly white as they coil and dance around the Great Tree.
The scent of flowers wafts through the crisp air and rose petals fall from the platform like a brief shower of rain. They float along the breeze and blow past him, red petals catching and swirling around his furiously billowing cloak.
Omegamon smiles, tired and melancholy, when he reaches the top at last and is standing between heaven and earth. A vast expanse of lush, blooming crimson roses stretches out nearly as far as the eye can see, clustered together so tightly it's difficult to walk without stepping on them. Dew droplets cling to some, unaffected by the cold, and fresh water collects in the plush folds of others, spilling down to coat the thorny stems.
At the center of it all, an intricate statue sits in complete silence and tranquility, so lifelike in its design with no detail spared, waiting. His beloved friend is always waiting for him here, sightless eyes forever open, forever welcoming him home.
"It's been some time, hasn't it, Imperialdramon…" Omegamon murmurs to the statue as he approaches it, looking up into the face that is a perfect rendition of the founder of the Royal Knights in his prime. His eyes, though they are set in stone, are alive with fire and the fierce pride he never let go of even in death.
He runs his hand down the smooth sword, whole and perfect, fingers tracing the engravings, and deeply wishes he could see the glorious blade and its champion lead them to an honourable victory just one more time.
(It's no secret he will love Imperialdramon for the rest of his days, and Dukemon, eternally understanding and benevolent Dukemon, will never begrudge him for it.
The guilt threatens to drown him in his grief-laden, rock-bottom moments.)
"I saw his face again today," Omegamon admits, swallowing the hot shame that rises like bile in his throat. The image of a battered, defeated warrior on his hands and knees, fractured but not broken, with yellow eyes burning holes in his soul—daring him to do it—flashes through his mind.
("Filth, you have the nerve to raise your sword against me? Against Lord Bagramon? What an insult," he says coldly, the malevolence in his voice enough to bring lesser digimon cowering to their knees. "Lay down your sword and perhaps I won't leave you a shattered, empty husk begging for death at my feet.")
Beneath the self-protective coat of darkness and raw arrogance, Omegamon saw that the flames blazing in his soul were not yet black nor evil unlike his predecessor.
He chose to let him live.
He wasn't able to bring himself to wreak a vengeance upon that new Tactimon, for all his faults, who could still be considered unknowing and innocent. "I saw that sword again today, and I didn't… no, I couldn't kill him. I'm—"
The apology gets caught in his throat and he can't force it out no matter what he does. He knows what it's like for fate to inflict an irreversible judgement—a painful curse.
"You still saw the good in that digimon?"
Omegamon subconsciously retakes his authoritative state upon hearing RhodoKnightmon's intrigued question, eyes lingering on Imperialdramon's form, feeling foolish for not sensing the other knight's presence.
"I did," he replies evenly, because he's at least secure in that decision. He refuses to allow shame and old hurt to dictate his life and the lives of those who depend on him.
Then, why can't you treat Dukemon in the same manner?
Omegamon isn't sure how to answer himself, so he turns to RhodoKnightmon, who's sauntered out from behind one of the high stone walls separating the layers of roses. "Do you object?" he asks, genuinely curious about the younger Royal Knight's answer. He's very aware RhodoKnightmon's dramatic diva act is exactly that, and the only kindness to be found in him is with his fellow knights and friends.
RhodoKnightmon hums, the sound one of distaste. If anything, he's brutally honest with Omegamon. "I don't object, per se. I will not defy your will, however…" he trails off, tapping a shining pink finger against his mouthplate. "You bested him with ease, surely, and he's been a troublesome individual for years. I would've dealt with him," RhodoKnightmon says with a confidence and deadly calm that speaks volumes, crossing his arms as he comes to Omegamon's side.
"I see," Omegamon replies, gently cupping one of the white roses RhodoKnightmon has artfully grown around the statue in tribute. "I understand your concerns. I will—"
"With all due respect, you didn't come here to trade views on how best to accomplish our duties," RhodoKnightmon interrupts, his voice a rare brand of solemn, setting carefully picked roses at their founder's feet. He looks back and forth between Omegamon and Imperialdramon with deliberate slowness, and after a pause, he muses thoughtfully, "Sir Imperialdramon must have been quite a man."
Omegamon nearly chokes on his spit, but keeps his composure, offering the shorter knight an odd glance. RhodoKnightmon is certainly not one to hide his preferences, but this is…
"I… suppose one could say that," he says awkwardly, clearing his throat, "however, RhodoKnightmon… that kind of subject is… inappropriate, at best." Their relationship hadn't been readily apparent, so Omegamon wonders in bewilderment which of the senior members let it slip.
RhodoKnightmon tilts his head as another flourish of rose petals sweeps by before understanding dawns on him and he laughs, the sound rich and somehow elegant.
"My dear Omegamon, while I'm quite sure Sir Imperialdramon was indeed a high-calibre stud, I was referring to his qualities as a friend and fellow knight to have left such an impression on you," RhodoKnightmon explains, greatly amused at the misunderstanding—that one of his serious and sincere attempts at camaraderie has been misconstrued to such a degree.
Omegamon feels heated embarrassment spread across his face. Of course, it's not in neither Dukemon's nor Craniamon's personalities to blatantly spread secrets. "I—"
"Besides," RhodoKnightmon continues conspiratorially, gold ribbons twitching in barely repressed glee, "you and Dukemon are an item, no?"
At the words, Omegamon's heart jumps in his chest and a warmth and lightness very different from embarrassment diffuses throughout his body.
He doesn't immediately give the younger knight a response. He simply looks out into the evening, beholding the magnificence of the setting sun as it paints the sky and the sparse clouds that decorate it in blazing oranges, sunflower yellows, smattered with magentas and violets and inky blues of the coming twilight.
It's supremely beautiful; he's glad to share it with his friend and wishes for Dukemon's swift return. Omegamon realizes he no longer feels particularly burdened, though he knows he will soon have to inform his comrades of the day's events.
He pulls away from the statue, granting Imperialdramon a dip of his head. He smiles, and there's no sadness or grief for someone lost long ago.
"Thank you, my friend," Omegamon says in gratitude, leaning in to briefly touch RhodoKnightmon's arm. His serene eyes reflect the sunset and he radiates his usual collected and peaceful aura that his fellows are most familiar with.
"Oh?" RhodoKnightmon drawls with a wink, and Omegamon can't tell if he'd planned the whole thing from the start. Frankly, he's not surprised at the thought; the young knight is exceedingly clever and devious like that.
Whole, it's a nice word, Omegamon thinks as they turn from the statue to join the others back inside.
It's true that Imperialdramon's death left a hole, and perhaps the hole will always exist alongside the memories they made together, but Omegamon no longer feels like that hole is as large as it once was.
His cause, his goals, and his friends make him whole. His Royal Knights make him whole. Dukemon makes him whole.
"By the way," Omegamon mutters wryly as they begin to descend the staircase leading back into the castle, "I don't appreciate gossip."
RhodoKnightmon gasps dramatically in mock offense, "Me? Gossip? Really, Omegamon, you and Dukemon make it so obvious, anyway. Where's the fun in that?"
Omegamon casts him a sidelong stare, eyes twinkling with amusement, "Well, I suppose you're right."
"Aren't I always?" RhodoKnightmon returns haughtily, clapping him on the shoulder and giving a much more exaggerated wink.
("And, I, Dukemon, say that we'll always be here for you, so stop moping," Dukemon says in jest, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes crinkle in an adorable smile. "I'll always be here for you," he whispers softly.)
Omegamon is glad that Dukemon is always right.
End notes: I don't have a heck of a lot to say about this that wouldn't be a ton of backstory I'd like to include elsewhere. I'd really love to explore my version of the RKs beyond what I've already written (Sniper Empress Examon, hmm hmm). They deserve their own fic along with my Olympos XII, arguably the Demon Lords and Three Great Angels—who'll get far more exploration in the Big Linear Fic and these shorts should my health permit.
I am gonna clear it up right now because I'm aware the style used in this is a more confusing one. The past!Tactimon Omegamon remembers is dead, along with that Bagramon. If the previous Tactimon from before one of Yggdrasil's partial resets was still around, our current protag wouldn't be a Tactimon or have that sword.
I'm feeling tired/sick and beaten down, no questions today. If you wanna leave a review with your thoughts, that'd be nice.
