A/N—I've been literally putting my muse through the ringer for this. It's so frustrating, because I can't seem to write anything these days. Everything that comes out feels vaguely unsatisfactory.
Tell me how I did, please? If only to soften the blow to my ego.
"It's time to say goodbye."
Chapter II
Isa
Rune for stasis, preservation, stillness.
15,000 B.C.
Location: Battleground of Souls, Chaos' Dominion
"I have a bad feeling about this," Erebus murmured under his breath. The jingle of the horses' hooves and armor drowned out his voice. "Like what they say about someone walking on your grave."
His lieutenant shifted uneasily. Seeing his blanched look, Erebus forced a quick smile. "I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just my nerves acting up again."
•••
"This has been an eventful week," he said to the men, a fake smile plastered on his lips. It's too brilliant and happy. By the Infernal, Erebus was never happy. He hoped they didn't notice the twitching in his muscles.
Nervous laughs. White faces.
Erebus paused to survey the troops, sharp eyes sweeping over the assembled soldiers. It was a light cavalry unit, and Erebus felt a small twinge of doubt at his acting abilities. His disguise as Aether had fooled the others for the time being, but luck was never on his side without some dire consequence. The actual Aether was knocked out with a sleeping potion, trussed up in tightly bound ropes. Erebus had no doubt he would escape. It was only a matter of time.
He cleared his throat, trying to force out the words Aether would most likely preach about.
"Whatever happens next, I believe we have surpassed all expectations given to us by our commanding officers. Moreover, we have formed great bonds of friendship that will only strengthen through the ordeals of time—"
Erebus fumbled for words.
"—but... but for now, we must remain united. This is our last battle, our standing ovation. This is our final blow to the enemy and our names will be immortalized in blood and stone."
He drew his knife, a ray of moonlight filtering through the clouds and shining off the metal.
"We do this for the ones we love. We do this for the innocents. We fight to protect their liberty and freedom. We fight for them all, the ones who have no voice."
"For Chaos!" The soldiers echoed in determination, mouths set into grim lines. All laughter was gone, replaced by a steely cold efficiency.
Erebus smiled wanly. "For Chaos," he said, sounding up a war cry. "We do this for them all!" Invigorated, the soldiers whipped their steeds into motion, their own voices mixing to the fray.
His eyes shadowed, Erebus turned his head away and muttered softly. "I hope I'm right about this."
•••
"Sir... sir! We can't hold them back any longer!"
Erebus cursed under his breath, flipping a knife over his shoulder to impale the soldier about to attack him from behind. Red eyes flared, and then the enemy general he was dueling froze, his expression glassy and idiotic.
"Kill yourself," Erebus intoned, and watched as he happily did that. He never did like using that particular skill —more of a curse, really— but he was running out of time.
He looked around wildly, for any sign of Aether's ridiculously red cape that would stand out like a beacon against the sea of writhing black masses. On any other occasion Erebus would have been mercilessly taunting him about it, but now...
He hoped the ropes held.
Distracted, Erebus didn't register the hissing of the weapon until it was too late. The primordial bit back a string of curses as he snapped off the arrow that had embedded itself in his shoulder, leaving a deep gouge. Adrenaline briefly numbed the pain, for which he was grateful.
Fury, barely-contained wrath stared back at his assailant, promising pain, agony, and death. His bow was in his hands in seconds, the smooth wood promising vengeance to all who hurt its master. He didn't need time to sight the shot, but snapped it out and continued on, the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground telling him all he needed to know.
Minefields shook the earth and the remaining force knocked him to the ground.
Erebus watched helplessly as the entire right flank was demolished in a jet of black smoke and flame.
•••
For a moment, everything in time stood still. He met Aether's panicked eyes from across the battlefield and smiled bitterly.
The ground beneath him exploded into a chaos of light and shrapnel.
•••
Pain.
Erebus could not hold back the scream, but the only sound that came out of his mouth was a dry choke. His head slammed jarringly into a rock and his helmet rolled away, broken and scorched. The landing knocked all breath from his body and he lay there, struggling to breathe, to think, to do anything. His vision wouldn't clear, no matter how much he blinked.
His eyes closed as he tried to force his breathing to even out. The cold ground was kissed by bitter frost, seeping into his skin. His rasping, irregular breaths drained what little energy he had left and seemed impossibly loud in the muted war cries and the unmistakable sounds of explosions.
The sky. His eyes desperately sought the stars.
Dark shapes scattered with white studs passed in a blur, and Erebus screwed his eyes shut again, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths even as unconsciousness threatened to take over. Dull throbs pummeled his chest, and his hands arched into the bloody earth.
He coughed; loud, raucous coughing that tore up his insides and filled his mouth with blood. Erebus wiped it away absently, leaving a smear of crimson against his deathly-pale skin.
With shaking fingers, Erebus twisted the communicator dial hanging in a chain by his neck. Aether's frantic voice spilled from the stone.
"—Erebus... Erebus, are you alright? Answer me, damn it!"
"Aether..." He broke off, gasping for breath as another bout of coughing wracked his frame. The taste of rust lingered in his mouth. "Take Nyx... run..."
He tried to say more, but his throat was raw and he couldn't control his fingers. The communicator slipped onto the ground.
•••
What was left of the earth was scorched and pitted. Erebus struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on a broken and blackened sword.
The battalion was demolished. Archers were picking off any stragglers, who, even staring death in the face, attempted to fight back. But they could put up no match for the still-fresh enemy soldiers and their defiant cries were soon silenced.
•••
The enemy closed in like a pack of wolves that had caught a scent. Erebus grimaced as a knife whistled past his face, sending arrow after arrow until his quiver was empty. Each found its mark, and he took a moment to feel coldly satisfied.
But a new problem arose. He was a long distance fighter, unsurpassed in speed and accuracy. Close combat was never his forte, and those swords had several feet on his thin, curved knife. Still, he thought he was doing remarkably well holding his own.
It was a dance. A deadly and beautiful dance.
They were pressing in tighter, tighter—
Instinctively, he moved to block a sword that had seemingly materialized out of thin air. Only afterwards did he realize his fatal mistake. It was too late to take in the brute force beneath the blow and the thick, cordlike muscles that rippled like iron underneath the man's armor.
His knife broke, edges ragged as the top half ripped away under the pressure. Erebus felt the last hopes in his chest flicker and die. So... this would be his last stand. The irony was not lost on him.
But the thought didn't bother him as it should have. He'd fulfilled his purpose and kept everyone safe. Nothing was for naught, and he would go down fighting. Erebus drew in a last breath.
For Chaos, he would sell his soul.
He readied his weapons, and prepared to die.
"Into the Valley of Death, rode the six hundred."
It was only after quite some time Percy began to realize that something was wrong.
It started off as a slight, nagging suspicion, but it was enough to draw him out of sleep's domain, out of the nightmare-memory he was once again reliving. The darkness still called to him, its embrace warm and peaceful, but driven by an animalistic instinct, he shook off the last remnants of its clutches. Something was not as it should be...
The first thing that hit him was the smell.
Wildflowers and lavenders scented the breeze, smelling of a warm spring day. But the more he concentrated, the more sickly sweet the smell seemed to become. Almost like... like...
Percy forced his eyes open. Whiteness attacked his pupils, causing bright streaks to flash painfully across his eyes. Even so, there was no mistaking the source. Not while he was lying in a whole field of it.
...rotting flesh.
The world spun dizzyingly, in a way he hadn't experienced for a long time. Percy suddenly felt sick. Tartarus had given him a disturbingly high resistance to pain and torture, but even so, he nearly threw up—something else he hadn't experienced for a long time. He closed his eyes, hands coming up without consent to press on his wounds. He ached like someone had run him through, dropped him in a vat of lava, and promptly electrified him all at the same time.
(he didn't know how true that was until later)
The disorientation was thankfully ephemeral. Sensations began to course through his legs, white hot pins and needles jabbing and pinching. Blinking fiercely, Percy held up an arm to shield his sensitive eyes from the harsh sun.
It had been many years since he last saw the sky. A few months ago, he would have given everything just to feel the warmth on his face again.
But now... now something was different.
Percy became aware of the stickiness seeping into his hair. With slight alarm, his hand went to the back of his head, only to be greeted with a handful of blood. He must have hit his head somewhere. But there was no rock to give him a concussion on. No, only a disturbingly soft pillow...
He dared to shift slightly. All of a sudden, the putrid sweet smell became too much. It swelled up in a great cloud of gas, the overwhelmingly strong odor making his eyes water. Disgusting. Struggling to get to his feet, however, he realized that something was impacting his legs into the ground. Percy's narrowed eyes traced the warped looking hunk of metal, trying to force his sluggish mind to work.
It clicked.
Metal+unmoving+smell+blood=dead body.
Percy almost threw up again. He dug his fingers into the wet, silty earth, feeling the grains sift through his fingers.
'Calm down, Percy,' he told himself, trying to even his spiking heartbeat. 'It's okay. It's just a dead body. It's just an overly still, unmoving hunk that used to be a person. No problem.'
Percy was sure his face was green. Taking a shaking breath —then promptly spitting it out from the smell —he clenched his fingers around a groove in the metal armor and pulled. Instead of dragging the body off, however, he only managed to break off a piece of the already weakened metal. Rotting, potholed flesh—the color of sour milk—slumped bonelessly from the hole.
Oh Chaos—
Adrenaline forced its way through his body, giving him the inhuman strength to lash out with his feet, sending the body flying away. Clenching his fists again, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying with no success to banish the images from his mind.
Percy didn't really understand why it bothered him so much. He'd killed before... of course he did. It was inevitable in the final strain of things. But at least he'd had the honor to give his enemies a decent burial.
Given the circumstances, Percy supposed he should be glad they didn't. He didn't fancy waking up to a nine-foot tall roaring wall of fire eating him alive.
There would be time for questions later. But for now, he needed to get out.
...and where was he, anyway?
In a single smooth motion, he swooped to his feet with a grace not all his own. Weakness made him stumble, and Percy caught himself before he could pitch headlong into the ruins. Bodies covered every feasible area, soaking the ground crimson. Percy averted his gaze.
A faint chuckle. A mocking tone.
"Fear not... this is nothing but a memory. The last of mine, forever preserved in the pits of your mind."
Percy whipped around. "Who said that?"
A semi-transparent figure seemed to materialize from the ashes, forming a smoky image. Glowing crimson eyes pinned him under its powerful gaze. The figure lifted his eyebrow in an almost sardonic manner. "That would be me. Or you, I should say."
Percy wore a bemused expression. "Wha... where did you come from?"
The figure sighed. "We are in your mindscape. I brought you here, but you and I are the same person. Ripped from this body, because of their... experiments. Then the battle. The soul detachment went about as well as I feared."
Percy's throat felt dry. Memories that weren't his began to flood his head. Pictures of blood, of despair and hopelessness, of loss. His head spun dizzyingly and his heart leaped in his throat. "Shut that off! Stop... stop it!"
The figure's mouth twisted into a bitter expression. "Stop what? They are our memories."
Percy grabbed his head, feeling as though it would split open. "We're not the same person, you and I. You're delusional. We're not... I don't even know these people."
A smoky specter-like hand grasped his wrist, forcing him to open his eyes. "You do not understand. Perhaps, you never did. It is difficult to discern what was real and what was not. Tartarus has shattered your soul."
Percy jerked his hand back. "How do you—"
"Know?" The figure laughed. It was a mirthless, cold sound, containing no warmth or humanity. "I know because I experienced everything with you." A single gesture. "Hear me out. Chaos—Father—fell first. It was no accident." His fist clenched. "He was a fool and paid the price."
"What?"
Angry green eyes, swirling with mixed emotions cut sharply into him. "Do you truly know nothing?" he hissed. "He died. Vanished. Dissipated. Or he would have, if I had not froze his body in the last seconds of his life. There is no mercy on the battlefield. It is kill, or be killed. Hemera was next. They attempted to kill me. I... I did my best to protect the others. It was no mere coincidence. No assassination is ever random. They were targeting us."
"But... you're dead," Percy said bluntly. "I'm assuming that didn't go so well."
The figure paused. "That is of little consequence, now. There are more important matters to turn our attentions to. The first Sentinel hunter squad is but hours away. They will come for you now. Perhaps it is time... we have been apart too long, and ignorance will win no battles. The joining will be painful, but you cannot survive without my knowledge and experiences."
Percy blew out a small breath. "Yeah? Well. Do your worst."
On hindsight, that wasn't such a smart thing to say. The specter's eyes snapped to his, and Percy drew in a sharp breath, his own widening a fraction to convey his astonishment. Red swirled into the expressionless green eyes, drowning out the vivid color. The pupils dilated drastically, taking over the iris and lengthening until it had become an elliptical shape.
His whole form glowed, but Percy wasn't sure if it was a delayed result of hitting his head too hard, or if he needed to get his eyes checked out.
"What are you?" Percy's eyes widened. A second wave of power surged outwards, cracking his lips and blistering his skin.
The figure—only it wasn't so much a figure now as a corporeal form—gave a feral smile. The air glowed with unbridled power, making it hard to breathe.
A sibilant purr. "What am I, you ask?"
Black wings burst from his back in a flurry of feathers and wind, buffering Percy back a few inches.
"I am the result of an experiment gone wrong."
The specter raised a single hand and touched Percy's forehead. Immediately, fragments of memories and screaming voices assaulted him, pulling him under.
"I am the one they fear."
The last thing Percy saw was glowing red eyes and a whisper, dying on the wind.
"I am Erebus."
"They fear us because we are different."
Erebus' ghost was starting to flicker into the background, dissipating into mist. "We only have time to go through eight of my memories directly. The rest will come in dreams or fragments."
Percy nodded, but hesitated slightly. "About those nightmares I've been having... are those your—I mean, my," he hastily amended when Erebus fixed him with a sharp glare. "—my memories from, ah, your life?"
"They are not so pleasant, are they? But you will need to understand, and now..." Erebus poked him in the forehead with a single finger. "...awake."
i.
The air is cold, but my mother's hand is ice. Even with my arms wrapped around her, it's of no use. Her eyes are feverishly bright, catching the last rays of the sun as it drifts ever closer to the horizon. I stare after the fading light, wishing I could bring it back with willpower alone.
Night means death.
The temperature drops steadily below zero. The cold creeps in.
I wrap her with another frayed blanket, giving mine over as well. She's too weak to protest.
There's no wood to start a fire. Even if the timber would remain dry enough to burn, the smoke would attract unwanted attention.
My death grip on her hand tightens. She squeezes mine weakly. Her fingers are trembling. I ignore it as well as I can, trying to squash the painful voice in my head whispering she's dying, she's dying and you can't do anything about it because you're too weak...
"Erebus..." she reaches for me weakly. A trail of white mist issues from her cracked lips. "My boy..."
Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. "Don't try to talk, Mum," I whisper. "It'll be alright. The sun will come back up soon."
A small, fond smile tugs at her lips. Her eyes are becoming distant and I have the feeling she's not really seeing me, but something much more beautiful. "I... don't have long..."
"Stop talking like that! Like...like..."
The like you're going to die went unsaid, but its meaning hung thickly in the air. We both know it to be true.
I bury my head into her arms, breathing in the rich scent of my mother. It's marred by the tannic smell of blood. Her eyes are half lidded, lips moving silently, the hitching breaths making her chest rise and fall too fast.
"It's okay, 'Res," she says, braving a smile. "Death... is the next... great adventure. I have... come to terms with it."
I shake my head, still buried in the soft folds of my mother's robes. It's better here, where nothing exists but the darkness. There are no lies, no death. "You won't die. I won't let you."
Moonlight streams in from the place where the roof should reside. It bathes everything in its ethereal glow, darkening the crimson pool of blood trailing through the door to black. Her face is so pale, so white.
"...something you need... to know..." She coughs, squeezing her eyes shut. When her hands move away, I see that her lips are shining red. "Chaos will... take... care of you..."
I draw back a little. "The... Creator?"
Her eyes are pleading with me now, begging me not to be angry. The world was dimming but her hand is clasped tightly around my arm. "Your... father. Protect brother... Aether... please..."
A load of bricks drop into my stomach and for a moment I can't breathe. There's a heavy pressure against my throat. I want to scream at her —why didn't she tell me before?— but I can't bring myself to do anything but choke out, "Why?"
She doesn't answer. Sad smile. Her eyes are dimming, the once fierce spark in her eyes flickering and going out. Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, a tiny red stream. "Don't ever... lose your fire... s-spe...cial..."
"Don't leave me," I gasp out. I'm shaking her now, which isn't wise, but I can't control myself. Her blood coats my face and hands. "Don't leave me!"
My mother's mouth parts, as though she would speak. No sound passes through her lips. A single tear is trailing from the corner of her eye, but it freezes before it can disappear. My heart seizes and I'm shouting for help, anyone, anyone at all...
It's too late. She's already gone. My mother—my only friend, my confidante, my last tie to the world— is dead.
I bury my face into her chest and scream.
ii.
I pause at the cracked doorway, a hand grazing the threshold. I don't turn around. Somehow, I know that if I do, I won't be able to leave. And I can't lose my composure. Not now.
Yet I can see her perfectly in my mind's eye. It's like the images are burned there forever. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget, and some part of me doesn't want to.
Her black hair is spread over the cold ground. Delicate fingers of frost lace her already pale skin, giving her the ethereal look of an angel—a fallen immortal. Her hands are folded gently against her stomach, hiding the bloody wound that stole her away from me. A single red rose lies clasped in her hands.
My last gift in death.
"Bye, Mum," I whisper. There's no reply. Only the steady falling of snow that has begun to drift aimlessly from the stormy heavens. I life my face to the sky, feeling the gentle flakes wash away the blood and grit.
Burn.
The house burns. Only the ashes remain.
And the empty hole in my heart.
iii.
I run.
It is my way of coping, a way to outdistance my troubles, if only in mind. I know I cannot run away forever, but it's better to just do than to think too much. Thinking is too painful.
People look and think me innocent. They don't seem to understand that despite my age, I've never had a childhood. Never behaved like those drooling idiots I see at the daycares, gurgling and spitting and generally being disgusting. It's at rare times like these that I thank my unusually prodigious mind. At least luck had given me one thing worth having.
Of course, the I-am-a-mercenary part was not so satisfactory. It is a cruel way of living, without rest, without peace. But it was the only way to survive when I needed to take care of both of us.
Now... there's no point. Now, nothing remains for me but vengeance, and its cruel, sweet touch.
The man doesn't notice me planning his death. He doesn't notice me following him. A month has passed—doubtless, he thinks that he's been forgotten and is in the clear. I cannot suppress a sneer at that.
Like I would ever forget the one who has killed my mother.
A part of me wonders if he has children, a wife, a loving family to dote on. But I ruthlessly squash these sentiments down. I am doing them a favor.
Days upon days, I am poised to attack, yet unwilling at the same time. Because somehow... it doesn't feel right. Yet I must. I know I must.
I watch as he haggles with some merchants. It's not really haggling. On normal occasions these merchants won't budge an inch from their fixed price. But now, with one adorned with insignias and haughty expressions sneering down at them, they quickly hand the guards whatever they wish to have without complaint. The merchants don't quite meet their eyes, choosing to grovel in the dirt at their feet.
Fear.
I mutter a curse under my breath. Fear runs rampant.
The man looks up, as though sensing something descript, his expression chilled. His piercing gaze roves the rooftops, but I am too well hidden to catch his attention, and he is too distracted, too fixed in his self-appointed task to do much else. Eventually, he looks back down, and I am finally able to draw in a slow breath.
Diamedes. He is Chaos' head guard.
Chaos... I refuse to call him Father. The word feels strangely dry and bitter on my tongue. I cannot stop the swell of resentment that rears its head. Where was he all of those years when we were barely scraping by? Where was he when I had to get a job as a mercenary, just so I could feed us both?
In a castle. In a castle enjoying himself and not even caring that his son and once lover was out there somewhere, cold and alone.
I trail closer to the guard, unnoticed in their slipstream.
"—coming soon, yes, have you heard?"
"—struggle, they had mentioned—"
"—melons, six chron apiece!"
"—no news from the north front—"
"—disgusting, foul creatures. Should be killed."
"—fresh—"
"—please sir, I'm poor—"
His companion moves aside, uttering a quick farewell to the guard. "—got to get to the armory," he says gruffly. "You be careful, now. Lot of riffraff around here."
The guard smirks, and salutes mockingly. "Do not worry about me. There is nothing I cannot handle."
His companion nods, but there is a slight frown marring his face. "Just... watch your back, alright? I've got a bad feeling."
"Look at these cowards." The guard gestures at the milling crowd that is sending him wary looks. 'And rightly so,' I think viciously. "Do you honestly think I could not take them down?"
The companion hesitates, but smiles. There is a worried crease between his eyes that refuses to go away. "Of course not. I'll see you at the festival tonight?"
Even before he gives his answer, I know where I will be.
"Indeed, you shall."
iv.
The air is filled with the tangible scent of fireworks. Bright explosions of light illuminate the buildings in spasmodic flashes, the many arches and spirals casting shadows upon the blackened depths.
Swift rafts cut through the water, the quiet swish of oars lost within the din of thousands upon thousands of people celebrating and dancing on the streets. Torchlight flickers in bronze braziers, capturing everything in a soft, rosy glow.
There is a man sitting in a raft, his face hidden beneath a black mask. He does not seem any more conspicuous than any of the others. Beneath his finely embroidered robes he fingers the hilt of his sword, hidden beneath the sweeping quantities of fine silken fabric. He carries an arrogant smirk on his face, only too sure of his own safety and security.
The raft bumps gently against the dock a few times, carried forward by the eddying current. The wood scrapes softly against the stony surface as the man steps off. He throws a few coins to the man ferrying the raft, black eyes glittering fiercely from underneath the mask. There's a cold aura about him that makes the rafter stop breathing, and only when the man was well past numerous rickety shops did he finally draw a breath.
Halfway across the street, the man catches a glimpse of black and snaps his head to the side.
There is no one there.
(He crouches in the shadows, sharp eyes watching his every movement.)
The narrow streets rapidly give way to the richly inlaid square, decorated by strings of festive lights and throes of dancing civilians. Moonlight sparkles off the fountain set like a mantelpiece overlooking the festivities. Laughter hangs in the air as people whirl around, oblivious to the danger that lurks in the shadows. The night sky is bright. It is a full moon.
Something rustles from the corner of his vision and he turns abruptly, hand poised to slay the offender.
A young woman wearing a brilliantly white swan mask draws back in fright. It is not an assassin, as he feared, but someone wishing to dance. He lets out a small breath and mutters an apology, taking her proffered hand and brushing it lightly against his lips. She laughs, a pretty, tinkling sound.
It sounds slightly strangled.
(He doesn't see the hatred that shines in those exotic eyes.)
He leads her into the throng of costume clad bodies, placing his hands at her shoulder and waist while she rests hers against his arm. The tension melts away from the both of them, bleeding out like fire. Soon they are lost to sight against the pulsing beat of the music. They step, sway, and spin to the edges of the fountain, the burbling waters chiming in with the festive tunes. She stumbles lightly and their bodies press together for a moment.
(She reminds herself that she can't kill him yet.)
They are both spinning now, laughing as the night sky twirls above them. Fireworks explode in brilliant flashes of white and red, scattering as they fell in great arcs. His partner smiles alluringly. He cannot help but notice that she is beautiful and tells her so. A light blush roses her cheeks. She looks down shyly.
(Anger, not embarrassment, flushes her face. She has to lower her gaze to avoid him seeing the anger that burns in her eyes.)
Colors mix together in a blur of light and he spins faster and faster. Composure lost, he laughs drunkenly, too caught up in the excitement to regard his surroundings.
A swirl of silver, a flash of light—
His throat rips in pain. He lurches sickeningly for a moment, and his eyes fly open with ill-concealed shock. His hand comes up dazedly and the sharp edge of a blade running him through scrapes gently against his fingertips. It's missed his spinal cord and his windpipe, so for a few brief moments he is able to wheeze out a few breaths. He doubles over, hacking out crimson. Warm liquid spills through his fingers, unable to staunch the flow of life from exiting his severed veins. Vaguely, he can hear the civilians panicking, but their shrieks are barely able to penetrate the thick fog in his mind.
He gasps out a question, blood bubbling in his mouth. With alarm, he notices that his lungs are losing ground, every breath drawing less and less air. He doesn't want to die.
The world is rapidly dimming and all he can see is that his partner's face. It's twisted in a sickening snarl. His blood stains the front of her dress, contrasting sharply with the paleness of the fabric. Her fingers are still clenched on the knife, and she yanks it out roughly, spattering her face as a spray of red follows the edge.
The white mask is gone, revealing glowing eyes and a spitted reply.
"You killed my mother."
The old clock strikes twelve, signalling midnight. His heartbeat throbs painfully loud in his ears, growing fainter with each strike. His face twists, and dimly he registers that his body has fallen stiffly against the cold, hard ground.
'Don't want to...'
The world fades away.
v.
For a brief moment, I am riveted to the ground, unable to look away. It is not an attractive sight. The life has long fled his eyes, leaving them all too blank and dead. Grime and blood tore into his once expensive clothes. His body flops limply away from my prodding foot and no more blood flows from his gaping wounds. Once so proud and majestic in life, he lies crumpled at my feet, throat slit, thread cut; the blood spattering my clothing attests to that. All that is left of him is an empty shell, one that will soon wither away in the onslaught of wind and time.
He is not the first I have killed. Granted, many before him have claimed the title, far too many. But he was the first that I knew for sure would die by my actions. The first that I have plotted against.
There is no sorrow at these revelations. Only a hollow, empty nothingness. The surge of blood that roars through my ears dominates everything else. The adrenaline that still pumps through my veins remind me of one thing, and one thing alone; it is kill or be killed, live or die.
(aut vincere aut mori)
I know I must leave soon, but I cannot bring myself to move. Cruel as he was in life, there is something oddly pitiful and weak seeing him prostrated on the ground and so small. Gritting my teeth, I stoop to close his glassy eyes, tilted to stare blankly into the night sky. For all his misdeeds, I shall not treat him with the brutality he deserves.
The stars twinkle down coldly.
"Il facet ent craes cont en mort," I say.
May death treat you better than life.
Footsteps are pounding up the cobblestoned way now and my head snaps up, eyes sharp. The torches grasped in my pursuers' trembling hands are flickering, casting long shadows on the slanted walls. Their voices demand for me to reveal myself, to come out.
I let the shadows pull me away from them.
The feeling of being ripped apart, then reassembled badly grates on my nerves. I grit my teeth and fight the nausea from this particularly unsavoury form of travel. It deposits me at the river's edge, where I hastily strip of the encumbering, bloodspattered dress and throw the mask into the water.
For a moment, it floats, propelled upwards like a giant, gaping mouth. I watch its repulsive threads flutter guilelessly with a morbid fascination, trembling to the push and pull of the currents. But soon the waterlogged fabrics sink and drag everything down into the murky depths. The last traces of red and white disappear beneath the surface.
I'm brooding now. It is out of character, but I have so many questions, and so little answers...
"Quite a talent you have there."
I freeze. A knife appears in my hands and I spin to confront my attacker. He lifts his hands up, shaking his head soothingly. "I mean you no harm."
I'm not sure if I am more wary of him because he has been able to sneak up without my sensing his approach, or because of the way his voice stirs memories inside — deep, nostalgic ones of home and the hearth. I shake off the feeling, gripping the handle tighter. He is messing with my head. I growl.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
The man raises an eyebrow. Even that small movement seems familiar. It's driving me mad, not knowing. He seems amused at my torn expression. "Well, you have deprived me of my lead guard tonight. I have come to know your reasons."
The tiredness of the day's events bleed out in an instant. In a second I've dropped backwards and drawn my bow. I'm reaching for an arrow when a warm hand grips my wrist, stopping the movement.
Once again, he's moved too fast for me to see.
"Chaos," I hiss. He inclines his head in a shallow nod, eyes never leaving mine, confirming his identity.
"Calm," he says cheerfully. "I will not hurt you."
I do not believe him for a single second.
'You already have,' I itch to say. 'You have hurt me thousands of times over.'
"He killed my mother," I spit out. Chaos' eyebrows draw together.
"I am sure you are mistaken. Diamedes was an honorable man. He wouldn't hurt women or children without cause."
"My mother... is not of the human race," I admit haltingly. Chaos' expression clears, and he looks at me with a sad smile... with nostalgia? His hand still grips mine and I am loathe to continue the contact.
"I am sorry," he says. "There is nothing I can do to stop the prejudices from coming out. I have tried. Your reasons are understandable ones. But shouldn't your father be the one doing the avenging?"
I laugh harshly, ripping my hand out of his grasp with a strength I barely knew I had. The sound is guttural and raw.
'My father is standing in front of me.'
"He abandoned us," I say spitefully. "He doesn't care."
Chaos seems to accept this. At any rate, he doesn't question me further. Instead, he leans back on his heels, regarding me with a narrowed gaze.
"What will you do now?" he asks.
I don't relax. "Do?"
"Your plans," he elaborates. "Your future."
The question pulls me up short. My brow furrows as I struggle to come up with a response. "I... don't know," I admit slowly. "Haven't really thought about that yet."
Chaos' eyes are gleaming. He smiles. Suddenly, I am reminded of the leer a shark gives to a cornered fish. I'm calculating the ways I may be able to escape now, sure that I will not like the words that will soon pass through his lips.
"How would you like to work for me?"
I was right. I don't.
'No!' I shriek immediately. 'Absolutely not!' I open my mouth to make a withering retort, but I force myself to stop and think.
What was I going to do, now that my goal was accomplished? Live on the streets, be forced back into a life of mercenary work? Kill until I am killed? Always looking over my shoulder for any sign of danger?
My mother's eyes stare back from my memory. 'Chaos will take care of you,' she'd said. I can't help but inwardly scoff at that. But even I cannot deny anyone their last wish.
"...protect brother... Aether... please..."
'Why?' I want to scream. 'Why me?'
When I look back up, Chaos is waiting patiently for my answer. From the expression on his face, he has already known what my conclusion would be. I grind my teeth together.
"I... accept your... generous offer."
From my tone, it is apparent that I am anything but. But either he cares not, or he blatantly ignores it.
Chaos' hands disappear into his clothes, and I tense once more. Instead of a weapon, he draws out a cloth wrapped item and passes it to me. I unfold it cautiously, slipping off the fabric to reveal a blank white mask. Its porcelain eye holes stare back at me.
"You will receive your weaponry and armor at the forgery. I will take care of the documents."
Chaos gives me an assessing look. I stare back with blank eyes. For a moment, we stand there, locked in a battle of wills. I refuse to look away. To admit defeat. To let myself be bested by this... monster.
Because the one standing before me now has been the sole cause and driving force of all my conflicts. He is the one that has caused us so much pain, so much regret. I have to physically ball my fists together to insensate the urge to tear out his throat.
'Kill,' something in me snarls. I do not know what it is. It sounds feral, and utterly uncontrollable. 'Kill him. Kill him now!'
I force it down, feeling a surge of incessant relief as the voice dies to a distant mutter; I can easily drown it out. For a moment, whatever that voice had contained threatened to break through my control and rise to the surface.
I refocus in time to see Chaos' gaze relax. He gives me the feeling that I have passed some form of silent test. He offers his hand silently in a shake. I take it reluctantly, knowing that I will be rinsing it off in boiling water soon enough.
"Then welcome," he says. "To the ASPECTs of Chaos."
vi.
At Chaos' castle, he bids me farewell. I wander around aimlessly for a bit, but apparently he's given his secretary strict instructions to hook me up with a stiff, pompous middle aged man that is tasked with showing me around.
ASPECTs, as my guide informs me, stands for 'Assassination, Stealth, Poisons, Espionage, Corruption, Tactics.'
"If he makes me dress as a girl, I am going to slaughter him," I growl under my breath. My guide gives me an undeterminable look from the corner of his eye. He edges away from my murderous glare.
"R-Right," he coughs, faltering slightly. "The forgery is... this way."
I stalk after him, throwing his back a dark look.
The corridors slowly constrict themselves, narrowing and winding deeper into the bowels of the earth. I have to grit my teeth and force every step down, trying to convince myself that the tunnels would not collapse with us halfway in. The musty smell of death is overpowering.
Was this some form of sabotage? Deceive me into accepting an offer of work and lead me into the tunnels, before collapsing them over me? I would not put it past Chaos.
The darkness carries on forever. I take comfort in the shadows.
Gradually, a dull orange light illuminates the opening of the forgery. It's blithely hot. The blacksmith—a man with a mass of wild brown hair and bulging muscles—grunts out a greeting. He heaves the hammer, a block of iron the size of an anvil, over his shoulder as easily as if he were only picking up a feather. I can see his arm muscles straining as he brings it down. Then there's a cataphonic screech of red-hot metals grinding together, sparks flying from the sheer force.
The blacksmith lets the hammer-anvil drop to the ground. The floor shakes. He wipes off his soot blackened hands on a grimy piece of cloth, which does more harm than good to his overall grimy appearance.
"What can I do for you folks?" he says. Standing in comparison to us, he towers well over seven feet tall. I cannot help but wonder if he had some giant blood in him. His voice rumbles low in his chest, resonating in the pits of his body like a bass drum.
"ASPECT equipment," my guide says slowly. He's edging glances between me and the blacksmith, as though gauging which of us was more of a liability to his rapidly ailing health.
The blacksmith levels a hard gaze on me. "So, you're some upstart kid recruit, uh?"
I don't answer, pinning him under a cold stare. His words have no sting in them, not when you've been living in the slums for a while. The blacksmith turns his back to us, but instead of moving towards the bellows once again, he goes to pick up a measuring tape.
"Knows when to hold his tongue, too," he mutters under his breath. It's barely audible. He turns to face us once more, and as if he can sense me staring intensely at him, his voice returns to its usual volume. "Got any weapon preferences, makes, that kind of like?"
"Long distance," I say instantly. "I'm pretty good with a bow and arrows." I don't mention that I'm rubbish at swordsmanship. The blacksmith motions for me to demonstrate, gesturing at the pinholed archery target hanging on the wall. I unsling the bow from its resting point on my shoulder, taking an arrow from the quiver.
The blacksmith scrutinizes it carefully, his eyes travelling down the worn shaft. "Not much of a weapon now, is it? All scrap wood and a piece of string."
A surge of indignation causes my voice to come out more harshly than I intended. My guide backs up a few more steps in alarm. The blacksmith only booms out in laughter.
"Got spunk, I'll give ya that. But can you use it... well, that's the question, now ain't it?"
I tighten the string and draw the tension, spreading my feet slightly apart. I allow the world to fade away as I take meticulous aim. I can feel the eyes trained on my back as I let the arrow go. The feathers brush upon my fingertips—
There's a rasp of wood upon wood, and then the target bursts to pieces, exploding outwards in a spray of metal and splinters.
It is silent. They're staring at me with ill-disguised shock. A smirk crosses my face, and I do not bother to hide it.
"I think I can, wouldn't you say?"
The blacksmith grins toothily, clapping a hand on my shoulder. My knees buckle under the weight and I have to suppress a wince.
"A wonderful performance!" he booms, and this time, I do wince, because I am sure my ears are bleeding. "I shall make your weapons with great haste and joy!"
I blink, and in that moment, he erupts as a hurricane. The blacksmith has disappeared into a flurry of limbs and metals and loud voices. He does not give me a chance to respond.
The next hour is spent measuring and fussing and nitpicking until I'm sure the twitch in my eye is permanent. I resist the childish urge to whine and stamp my foot. The blacksmith—Erikson, he told us to call him—was only too enthusiastic about the prospect of making dangerous new toys. He drags me around like a rag doll, trying out design after design, before melting it down and starting again.
"Must be perfect," he mutters. There's a wild grin on his face, and it briefly crosses my mind that Erikson's spontaneous character is the being of a madman.
Finally, he releases his death grip on me reluctantly, and I massage the pins and needles out of my arm.
"It'll be ready in an hour," he promises. Then, he casts his eyes over the various stacks of metal, knives, and papers, then grins again, slightly sheepish. "Er... maybe in two hours, actually. I'd suggest you go to the tailor next for your armor. Now, shoo. Leave me to my work. Go on."
We say our goodbyes, and my guide leads us out of the forgery and out of the tunnels. I cannot help but breathe a sigh of relief when the first streaks of skylight breaks through.
We do see the tailor next. She is a matronly lady who at first believes this to be some wonderfully thought out prank, because 'there was no way a ten-year-old would belong in ASPECTs. Now, don't you have any homework to get to?'
I scowl at that.
"I assure you, ma'am," I say icily, "that this is no hoax."
I show her the tattoo branded onto my skin. It was still red around the edges, and hurt when she poked it with an inquisitive finger.
The symbol varies for each person. Mine portrays a dark bird extended in all of its glory—a raven?—with wings extended to form the outer edges of a circle. Meticulous detail is emblazoned on the feather tips, until I am sure the bird has come alive under my skin. A single clawed talon grasps the hilt of a scythe. Sharp eyes take in the surroundings with a vice like precision.
I don't like the thing, beautiful as it is. It makes me feel like someone thinks they own me, like a brand one would use to mark cattle or sheep. But it is a necessity and there always was the added benefit of seeing the adults' faces when they discover that "a mere child!" is a member of the black ops unit.
The tailor means well, I'm sure. She stands me on a stool and takes down measures, before pinning up various spools of material. All the while she's muttering about "irresponsible superiors" and "poor innocent children" under her breath. I do not know whether to feel annoyed or amused.
The armor, when finished, is incredibly lightweight and trimmed with a dark green. Coarse metal plating overlaps and strengthens the leather cloth so that it fits easily over my form like a cocoon. An armored breastplate, intricately decorated, links up to a metal collar affixed into the leather itself. I run a finger over the razor sharp edges, carelessly disregarding the blood that beads up from the graze. Stiff gauntlets wrapped over my left hand, weaving itself with fine strips of metal up to the elbow. It is considerably heavier than the right one, which left the fingers bared, opting instead to cover the palm and back of the hand. As if reading my expression, the tailor answers.
"That one's removable," she says. "Flick your wrist down and a blade will come forth. It's an extra addition to the set."
She looks away, wiping something from under her eye. "My gift to you, sweetie, alright? Be sure you keep safe, now." She ruffles my hair affectionately before bustling to the next customer. I growl, and flatten it back down. It's messy enough as it is.
My guide looks like he's stifling a laugh. Seeing my withering gaze, he coughs into his hand. "Err... shall we pick up the weapons now, sir?"
vii.
"Ah, Perseus! How have you found settling in?"
At the sound of his voice, all the good will and light hearted camaraderie built up so painstakingly has crashed in an instant. It's smothered under the suppressive feelings of anger and disgust. I wonder, for a brief moment, if I have let my emotions show through, because Chaos has paused in his steps, showing a slight hesitation in approaching me.
I stifle the thought and instead put on what I believe to be a smile. Judging from his expression, it comes out more painful than happy. I abandon any attempts and instead greet him with a blank expression.
"Very well, sir. Thank you."
He glances towards the bow strung on my back. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of the warrior he is famed to be, hidden under the cheerful exterior. It is only a mask. A good one, but a mask nonetheless.
"I see you have met our resident blacksmith."
"Yes, my... Lord." I pause, trying to work the sour taste of the word out of my mouth. "He is very enthusiastic."
Chaos chuckles. "That he is."
I fidget slightly, trying to hide the twitch in my hand, resisting the instinct to pierce him through. "Will that be all, sir?"
Chaos sighs slightly. "You are correct in your assumptions. I have not come for small talk. There has been numerous monster attacks by the Western walls, near Helios."
"And you wish for me to eliminate the threat?"
He nods and hands me a scroll of parchment. I unfurl the brittle paper, trying not to crack the edges. A roughly drawn map is outlined hastily on the sheet, spidery lines smudging where the ink had soaked the paper.
Chaos looks at me for a moment longer. "Good luck," he finally utters. "I shall meet you upon completion."
viii.
It's mid afternoon of the next day when I trudge up the slope back to the castle, tired and worn. The sun is bearing down bright, too brightly, and it gives me the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being cooked in my armor.
Three claw marks ran vertically down one side of the mask, from where I was too late to duck, and the manticore had taken a swipe at my face. The porcelain has not broken, which is impressive, but it has been punctured clean through, and it has taken me forever to get bits of mask out of my wounds, especially since I had to dig them out when they were partially dried.
Needless to say, it has put me in a bad mood.
A manticore. There had been a manticore lurking in the outskirts of the woods, slaughtering sheep and the occasional human who just so happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I run my finger along the puncture wound in my arm. It's pierced through the whole thing, and the only reason I have failed to bandage it thus far is that I want to see Chaos' reaction at the gore.
Because I do not trust him. He knows me as "Perseus," the only son of a non-human (a monster, some people with scathfully say), which that in itself is true enough. But some part of me suspects that if I were to give him my true name, he would be able to draw up enough connections to guess of my identity.
Indeed, he has not slipped on the matter. His mask is perfect, but almost adamantly so.
The only positive note of the entire mission is that I was able to test out my bow properly. It is strapped to my back now as a thick metal rod, its collapsed form. A sling of arrows rests beside the bow, each black tip sharp and eager.
I play with the bone spike in my hand distractedly. A spoil of war. It's one of the larger ones, located at the base of the manticore's tail. Being the length of my forearm, it's adroitly thick and still oozing with toxic venoms. Dazedly, I wonder if Erikson will be able to make a knife out of it. The thing can really hurt. My arm can attest to that.
I am in the village now, past the iron portcullis —which was so very original— and into the blessedly cooler reaches of the castle. I shake the twining stream of blood off of my hand irritably, scattering ruby-like droplets over the floor. It is getting cumbersome.
Several times I am forced to ask for directions to Chaos' quarters. It was short sighted of me not to have found out before I left. Of course, even with the assistance I manage to take a wrong turn and end up in an abandoned corridor, completely lost in the maze-like tunnels. Irritated, I turn to head back and retrace my steps.
A clatter of rocks. A muffled scream. I freeze.
"—shut up now, you little—"
"—quiet, I think e's 'eard us—"
There's a small patter of footsteps. To many normal individuals, it would impossible to discern from the background noises. But paranoia has worked in my favor this once. One would learn to enhance their senses after looking over their shoulder for so long.
I force myself to keep walking. My hands tighten on my only weapon at hand—the bone spike. I had not brought my hidden blade, as it was too stiff to use for archery purposes. The bow and arrows on my back are too far away to reach in a split second.
He's coming closer now. I can smell the foul smell of smoke and cheap booze on his breath. His hands are reaching out greedily—
I twist, faster than his eye can see. It is nowhere close to Chaos' level, but certainly well enough for a mundane purpose such as this. My knife drives into his skull, piercing hungrily through the flesh and coming out the other side with a spatter of blood and grey gore. It smears the other side of the wall with his brain matter.
He is dead before he hits the floor. I step over his crumpled body, yanking the makeshift knife out viciously as I pass.
There is a long, drawn out silence. My footsteps are muffled and soft, even with the brambles and roots that had retaken the corridor hindering my every move.
The second kidnapper is more skilled than the first, but not fast enough to completely miss my strike. It catches on his shoulder, leaving a dark gap in his skin. His back arches in pain; the momentum rips the knife from my hand.
I back away slowly, my fingers closing around my bow.
The second his sword cleaves towards my face, I fling the metal rod over my head. The strike deflects off its armored surface and the man sneers.
"A stick?" he says incredulously. "You hope to defeat me with a stick?"
"A stick," I muse. "No. Not a stick."
My bow shoots out to its full form. The sharpened tip punctures the point below his ribs, cutting easily through his armor. The bowstring is slickened with blood, droplets beading down the edge as the wound squirts. I make a face.
And I had just cleaned off the manticore guts too.
The man halves the remaining few seconds of his life by pulling out the weapon and drowning in his own blood. Ignoring his spasming death throes, I turn cautiously towards the petrified boy half standing, half collapsed, against the rubble of the wall.
His lip is trembling. I groan internally.
But instead of bursting into tears, he explodes into questions, endless indeterminable words spilling from his lips. "That was so cool!" he shouts. I slap my hand over his mouth, cutting off the last of the sounds. When my hand drops to my side, I notice the handprint of blood that is smeared over the lower half of his face. The boy does not seem to mind, opting to rattle out an endless stream of questions in a still considerably loud voice.
"—are you one of the ASPECTs? They're so heroic! I've always wanted to be like them, because they get their own awesome weapons and get to hunt monsters all day and is it true you guys really—"
I ignore his tirade and stop to collapse my bow and pick up the bone spike from where it lies covered in a spot of rubble. The boy's mouth forms a perfect o of surprise.
"That is SO COOL! If I join, will I get a weapon like that? I wanna be just like you!"
The last makes me pause in my tracks. Something in my heart twinges. I force it down and pin the boy under a cold stare. "You do not wish to be like me," I say flatly. "You do not wish to live the life of a monster."
I refuse to speak after that. My mind is spinning with part disbelief and part confusion, all caused by the now oddly silent boy still snaring my hand in both of his. I have given up trying to make him let go. It is apparent the first twenty times I have tried that he will not.
The door swings open to a frantic looking Chaos. His eyes are burning with an emotion I can not discern. There is a whipping flash of light, the grating sound of steel upon steel; his sword point cuts over my throat. The metal is cold. "Return my son," he says. There's a icy intensity, a steely edge to his tone. I freeze slightly, before kicking his blade aside and drawing into a defensive position.
I am surprised it has taken him this long to act. To kill me. I push down the slight whisp of betrayal that edges in my throat. It is ludicrous, because there have never been any bonds of trust to break between us.
(Some part of him craves his father's approval; he hates himself for that.)
The boy seems oblivious to the danger and runs forward to cling to Chaos' leg. "Don't, Daddy!" he screeches. Chaos' tries to extricate his leg from his grasp, but to no success. Whatever else anyone can say about the boy, it is that he has an unusually firm grip.
"Aether," he says in exasperation. "Let me go."
Conflicting emotions make me drop my makeshift knife.
Aether.
This is Aether.
This loud, annoying, stick of a boy is my little brother.
This is the one I had promised to protect.
I do not know whether to be amused at the sheer stupidity of the situation or bemoan the fate that could only have happened to me.
"—ask-" Chaos says. I jerk upwards in alarm. Lost in thought, I did not catch his words. Chaos' sword twitches. I watch him warily.
"Remove your mask," he repeats.
Only then did I realize that I had not taken it off. I let it drop to the floor with a loud thud. The material does not shatter, wobbling on its thin side to rest at Chaos' feet. It has been painted a sickly red with the blood of kidnappers.
He relaxes at the sight of my face, though I notice he doesn't relinquish his tight grip on his sword.
"Ah, Perseus," he says, his voice back to its usual amiable tone. "I must apologise for my actions. It seems someone had deemed it upon themselves to forcibly remove my son from his room. I thank you for returning him."
Aether, still clinging to his leg, starts his motormouth once again. "It was so epic! They were all scared and trembling and, uh, mister ASPECT sir—"
"Ah, yes." Chaos smiles. "The thought has slipped from my mind. Aether, allow me to introduce the lieutenant of the ASPECT ops, Thanatos. Lieutenant Thanatos, this is my son, Aether."
Fortunately, —or unfortunately, however you wish to see it— I am saved from answering by Aether's obnoxiously loud voice once again. "Whooooa, a lieutenant?" He pouts. "You're what, seven?"
I twitch. My indignant response of "I'm ten" was left unheard as Aether bemoaned his lack of position.
"—and I'm still a nobody! You're only three years older than me and you're already a lieutenant!"
"I'm only a lieutenant," I correct. "There are many more experienced and more advanced than I. You would do well to ask them."
Aether's face drops. "They don't like me," he mumbles. I have to bite my tongue to control my urge to blurt out a scathing remark.
"I'm sure they do," I say unconvincingly.
Aether's face lights up suddenly. "I don't care! I have you now, don't I? And you're so awesome and so powerful and... and one day, I really do want to be like you. Really."
There's something oddly touching about that statement. The smile that comes out on my face doesn't feel forced. It's... pleasant. But a smile cannot break a mask. Not one like mine. I quench the feelings under my fist before they can mutinize.
"Watch your child closely this time," I say flatly to Chaos. My voice trembles. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a small, almost unmistakable nod. He seems to understand that I cannot withhold the turmoil raging inside my chest any longer.
I turn with a stiff bow, the shadows cloaking my face making it unreadable, dreading the moment when I'll finally crack.
"And I see that lost look in your eyes..."