Author's note:
After a particularly dry spell, I'm back with a new chapter. Enjoy!
Review response:
xeranii - Thank you for leaving not one, but two reviews! Granted, it was an edit from your previous post, but I'll take it! Thank you for appreciating Luther for how I've chosen to write him! He's a pretty underappreciated character, and Judge Frollo is a pretty underappreciated villain, so kudos to you for catching the reference. And how no one sees him as this twisted, obsessed psychopath, you ask? Well, only those who are unfortunately closest to him does, I suppose. Fayt's going to be put in a tight spot very soon, but I think you already see that coming.
Beauty of The Beast
by Darkinterval
Chapter 10: Days In The Sun
"Shields up! Fall back!"
The knights complied in a shout of unison. Swords drew back to make way for clunky shields, the kingdom's crest – a winged angel wielding a sword – gleamed under the harsh morning sunlight; a proud and noble beacon that brought hope and security to those under its rule, and stirred fear in the hearts of any who dared oppose Aquor's ruthless sovereignty.
All except this one.
The Earth dragon roared and fixed crazed, amber eyes on the infernal humans that dared stand in its way. Well, no matter. This pathetic village of Arias was now a dilapidated wasteland after mere minutes of trouncing; its walls and its people would hardly be missed; and the prey easily replaceable. After all, all humans were exactly the same.
The dragon hunched forward and hissed viciously, its wings pulled back as its tail moved in a threatening swish. The knights assumed a defensive formation as they closed in around the draconic beast. The dragon crawled forward. They backed up. It tried again and the knights on the outer ring called the beast's attention to divert it from the village. The Earth dragon turned and moved towards the source of noise. The circle closed in again and backed up when a claw or tail struck hard metal. In and out they danced, a dangerous and frightening play of 'Ring Around the Rosy', until the mad creature decided that it had enough.
It turned and charged straight at a small crowd of villagers, who had emerged from their hiding places when they thought it was safe. The people screamed, too frozen in shock to even consider thoughts of escape. The angry, hypnotic swirl of fire and madness in the dragon's eyes sucked them in like a sweltering pool of lava. There was nothing they could do. Helplessness numbed their core, and their hearts cried out to their beloved new king who would never come.
My Lord, help us.
A flash of light and sound sliced through the air. A severed horn tumbled onto the grass and the Earth dragon stumbled, keening in pain and surprise, before whirling around angrily to face the cause of that unwanted distraction. A single knight stood in its wake: both hands clutched a blade that was dripping with dark blood where horn had previously met cold, unrelenting steel; blue hair swayed in the wind; and emerald eyes narrowed stubbornly against the kingdom's latest threat. His armor stood out sharply amongst the other knights; a more sophisticated design; it shone brilliantly and the royal family's emblem engraved on his chest plate told the world where he hailed from and whom he so willingly served; a locket with a picture of a smiling Menodix dangled from around his neck; and he wore no helmet. Frankly, there was only one person in the royal guard who was too stubborn, reckless and arguably stupid (according to Sophia) who wore his armor that way because he 'felt way too hot'.
Distracted, the dragon failed to notice the other knights move to protect the villagers, never once dropping their shields. Or maybe it no longer cared. This blue-haired human had pissed it off. The air was supercharged with electrifying hostility. A command sounded over the din, gruff with urgency.
"Captain, fall back! We need to protect the peo–"
"No, Lieutenant!"
Fayt's grip around his sword tightened, as his body shifted fluidly from a defensive into an offensive stance. It was still an alarming, yet impressive sight to many: the King's knights and royal guard was led by a 19-year-old master swordsman, the youngest to ever lead his unit, much less command a high degree of respect amongst the ranks and subjects alike. The boy deserved the recognition and honor – and it was more than just because he was a Leingod. He had the skills, accolades and capabilities to match. His gaze shone with determination and a fierce loyalty towards his king and princess, as well as the kingdom he and his forefathers had sworn to protect with their lives – and he would do it, even if he had to kill a deranged, supposedly impenetrable Earth dragon to prove his unwavering devotion to the throne.
"If our priority is the people, we strike this beast now where it stands. Eyah!"
With a great leap, Fayt charged straight at the snarling creature. He raised his weapon, but a large claw swiped his way and he managed a narrow dodge roll in the nick of time. Rising quickly, he faked a left and went right for the dragon's left eye while it had its attention momentarily averted. The proud beast recovered swiftly, turning its head to chase the young knight with its jaws; but Fayt had already managed to carve a cut just beneath its eye for his troubles. The slight to its perfection and ego enraged the proud creature. This knight needed to die.
On and on the battle between beast and man raged. Unfortunately, Fayt was growing tired, the dragon's natural endurance and towering physical strength gradually wearing the poor knight down. Its tough hide and scales made even the sharpest blade appear nothing more than a tickling toothpick. His movements, though dexterous and skillful, grew sluggish – and the dragon saw that, letting loose a petrifying stream of earth breath. It hit him on his sword arm and Fayt let out a cry of anguish when we felt the pricking sensation of a thousand needles lodge themselves in his muscles and travel through his veins, until the entire appendage turned slack from the numbness. His sword clattered onto the ground and with the loss of his good hand, he immediately felt his blood run cold.
He couldn't fight.
If dragons could smirk, this one would. Molten amber eyes honed in on the struggling knight, and then it charged.
Clutching his useless arm against his chest, Fayt jumped out of the way and rolled behind a mass of boulders, barely missing another stream of earth breath. It was obvious what the dragon was trying to do; it had aimed for his legs after all.
From his temporary shelter, Fayt took that momentary reprieve to catch his breath and gather his wits. He had to think fast: he couldn't afford to dance with the devil any further; the move distracted it from the villagers, yes, but he knew the moment he went down, there would be nothing standing between the dragon and its next meal. He had to kill the beast now. Dying was not an option.
Come on, move! Fayt struggled to part the fingers of his right hand and manually wrapped them around the hilt of his sword, then wrapped the fingers of his left hand around them to keep his grip stable. He had to rely on his left hand now. He only hoped that he could still pull off a mean swing. This really was not ideal – nothing about his situation was; but even knights had to be resourceful.
Peering cautiously around the boulder, he noticed a bright glint in the distance, before he had to quickly duck another jet of petrifying breath aimed his way. Damn, was this thing persistent; but he saw something, something peculiar and red. Something he knew shouldn't be there and was definitely not a natural part of a dragon's anatomy. Swallowing, he chanced another glance, only to narrowly dodge the earth breath again. Damned dragon was toying with him; but he had seen it – a large, shimmering ruby embedded in the center of the creature's forehead. It glinted eerily under the afternoon light, like an abomination in defiance of the sun. Honestly, Fayt had no idea what function that gem served or if it was purely aesthetic, but it seemed like a weak point he could penetrate and he was willing to try anything at this point.
Fayt closed his eyes, hugged his sword to his chest and took a deep, calming breath.
Now or never.
And he hurriedly scrambled over the rocks, leaping off the edge as he dove straight at the Earth dragon's head.
Move, move, please!
Fayt saw rather than felt his right hand work, and both arms moved to raise his weapon high above his head. With wide, feral eyes, the dragon opened its mouth; but Fayt was faster and with a final, desperate cry, plunged the blade straight through the ruby and deep into the dragon's skull. The beast gave an agonized shriek, thrashing about wildly; Fayt saw the glow from the gem fade along with the light in the dragon's eyes, before everything went still.
He released his hold on the sword and landed gracefully on the ground, just as the Earth dragon's body collapsed in a lifeless heap in front of him. Panting from the remnants of adrenaline, Fayt approached the carcass on unsteady feet to assess the damage: the sword stuck out grotesquely from its head and black blood oozed from around the blade to collect in a viscous, repugnant puddle beneath. Fayt saw pain, suffering, confusion and peace reflected in the dragon's dull, unseeing eyes – and he wondered how something so wild and consumed with rage, having died a sudden and agonizing death, could actually experience peace and a gratifying end to its life.
Fayt observed the once proud creature with a grimace. The dragon had obviously been driven mad; that or their behavioral patterns were changing as a whole, neither of which was a good sign. But why did it seem so grateful to die? He bent down to pick up a ruby shard from its head, turning it over between his fingers curiously. Did it have something to do with this jewel? He couldn't shake off this uneasy feeling in his chest.
"Captain, are you hurt?"
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Fayt turned to regard his lieutenant with a weary sigh.
"I'm fine. Nothing a little fresh basil can't fix," he replied, only to pause as soon as he found himself surrounded by fawning and grateful villagers, their hands reaching out for him in reverence, murmuring countless praises for him and their new king for saving their lives.
They shoved raw herbs at him, flasks filled with mysterious concoctions and unproven remedies, some even offered small worn out bags of fol. Fayt declined their gifts with a charismatic smile, overwhelmed by the people's kindness, but nevertheless grateful. These villagers barely made enough as it was, and with the insane amount of damages the recent dragon attack caused, Fayt knew Arias would need every fol, every bit of supplies they could salvage now… But he supposed he could accept a vial of basil salve for his petrified arm.
Slowly, the villagers left; guided away by the other knights to begin repairs on what could; evaluate the extent of damage and whether the people needed to be relocated, or if a temporary camp would suffice. The lieutenant approached the blue-haired teen and placed a hand over his heart in salute.
"That was very brave and noble of you, Captain! You saved Arias and none were hurt thanks to your valiant efforts."
"Yeah, well, dad always said one should tackle a candle before it becomes a blaze," said Fayt as he applied some salve onto his arm with a shrug and wince. "Nn… Although, I think a candle's less troublesome than an impenetrable Earth dragon."
His lieutenant chuckled. "You managed it, regardless."
"I guess…" he trailed off, frowning down at the wide soulless eyes of the slain draconian that stared back at him. But I'm not so sure.
After all, they hadn't had any dragon attacks for the last 2 years.
"Captain!"
A squire burst through a thicket of trees, having returned from scouting the area up ahead prior to the dragon attack. He saluted his superiors, panting behind his helmet.
"Forgive the intrusion, but there's – " he suddenly noticed the dragon carcass and blinked stupidly. "Uh… what?"
"Never mind that," Fayt interrupted irritably, not exactly keen on recounting the events of the last hour. "What is it?"
"Up ahead where the old village of Surferio used to be," the squire indicated with his thumb, demeanor and voice turning nervous. "Erm… you should really see for yourself, sir. It's not safe to continue our search for the humanoid here. We should leave."
Fayt frowned at his subordinate's words and pushed past him to enter a vaguely familiar, yet underutilized clearing. Unconsciously, his fingers curled around the locket hanging from his neck. Roger. Nostalgia and desperation seized him as his feet took him down an old, uneven dirt path, until he reached the wooden platforms of a rundown bridge spanning across a wide river – and that was where he saw it. One would be blind not to: a giant cockatrice bent over the waters, gazing at its reflection in horror, as it stood frozen in stone. Had these monsters taken up residence here? They had best leave if that was the case...
Then again, the discovery was more than a little shocking and peculiar; no cockatrice would willingly seek out its own reflection; and Fayt had a funny feeling that the monster had been tricked somehow. And he could only think of one person who had the brains and balls to pull off a stunt like that.
This has Roger written all over it, he thought, and his suspicions were confirmed the moment his gaze fell onto a pair of broken glasses in the dirt. His eyes widened and his heart plummeted straight down to his stomach.
No!
Fear seized him; but Fayt paused when he realised something: if the cockatrice had turned to stone and Roger's body was nowhere to be found, then his beloved Menodix was still alive. He had to be. The scene before him painted as clear a picture as any: Roger, for whatever reason, had returned to his old village, got attacked by a cockatrice, managed to outsmart it at the last second and escaped. Where the child was now though, was not the main point. Roger was alive and that knowledge was more than enough to grant Fayt's turbulent mind some rest after months of searching, worrying and fearing for the worst.
He's alive… now I just have to find him.
But that also meant he needed to report his latest findings to Luther.
Fayt deliberated his position: would withholding information from his king, albeit temporarily, be considered a breech of trust and sign of insubordination? And even if he waited and did manage to find Roger, he was still expected to hand the boy over to Luther, who no doubt had every intention to have his sick and twisted way with him. The mere thought made Fayt's guts churn in disgust. At the end of the day though, he was still a Leingod and loyal servant to the king; Luther's happiness was his pride. But when the time came, when he finally reunited with the boy, he honestly didn't know if he could let Roger go.
Sophia, what should I do?
That brief moment of hesitation caused him to notice something else buried in the sand. It was partially hidden, small and dark, so much so that he would have missed it if not for the light briefly catching off its smooth, shining surface. Curious, Fayt eased the dirt aside and pulled it out, only to realise that said object was not small at all – in fact, it was a black dragon scale roughly the size of his palm.
"By Apris," he breathed, gripped by a sudden morbid fascination. A Black Dragon. He had never seen a black dragon before, much less even knew they existed. Fayt heard of Fire, Ice, Earth, Wind and Poison dragons – he had his fair share of battles against them after all – but never Black ones. Were they rare? Had they been hiding all this time? Why were none of them ever documented in books or ancient scriptures? Was he mistaken? But he was absolutely positive this was a dragon's scale...
Suddenly, his battle with the mad Earth dragon flashed across his mind and he remembered how much more dangerous those beasts had become. And Roger had been in the same vicinity as this Black dragon...
This isn't good at all.
"Squire!"
"Captain," saluted the rookie.
"I need to leave on urgent business to Lansfeld Castle," said Fayt, expression hard and deathly serious. He didn't know if this Black Dragon took Roger or not, but he wasn't going to eliminate the possibility. Luther was the most knowledgeable in the land about dragons; perhaps the king could shed some light on these latest happenings, especially if it involved his consort-to-be.
"Tell the lieutenant to round up all the villagers and prepare them for transport to the shelter at the Holy Chapel of Aquois. I'll draft a missive about the current situation and you're to deliver it to the princess immediately," Fayt instructed, as he turned to fix the young squire with a meaningful stare. "You're right; it's not safe here. For everyone."
"But what about the humanoid?" piped the squire, obviously confused. "Didn't his and her majesty say we aren't to return without the brat?"
Just this once, Fayt allowed the insult to slide.
"Look, we can either spend all morning debating which of our priorities are more important, or we can do what we do best and protect the kingdom."
First, the mad Earth Dragon; now, the appearance of an elusive Black Dragon. Fayt didn't understand what was going on, but he felt it in the air that something bad was about to happen.
"The dragon threat is real and we need to stop it before Aquor's forced back into the dark ages."
The squire stuttered. "B-B the last time… then the next… King Luther won't listen!"
Fayt's grip on the black scale tightened. "The king has no choice but to listen, especially if he knows what's truly important."
He'd listen to me. He has to. If our hearts are in the same place, his majesty would surely put an end to this mad obsession and return to reason.
But then why did the bent frames of Roger's broken glasses feel heavier in his hand?
"Pops, I'm hungry!"
Aznor Huxley paused in mid-play, his fingers hovering over the keys of his faithful old piano. That small yet high-pitch interruption disturbed the silence of the inn – not that it proved an inconvenience or anything; after all, they hadn't had a guest since the first snowflake fell.
Hiding his troubles behind a practiced smile, the Menodix turned to gaze down fondly at his son – 8 years old and oh so small, but full of promise and energy. It was also no surprise that the boy was always hungry – and things didn't help when their crops had failed and the humans took whatever remained of their harvest. At least they had the forest on their side: there were just enough berries and mushrooms to go around Surferio, if they rationed carefully enough.
"What is it, Roger?" he asked kindly, ever-patiently. The child was still so young, he hardly understood. Forte and himself hadn't eaten in two days, but at least Roger had three mulberries for breakfast. Alas, that was 12 hours ago.
Roger struggled up the piano bench with his small stubby legs and climbed into his father's lap, whining loudly.
"I'm hungry and it really hurts…"
He clutched his stomach, ears pressed flat against his head, and Aznor had to resist pulling his son against him and breaking down completely. Never did he or his wife view Roger as a mistake; he was the best thing that had ever happened to them in this wretched world; but the boy was innocent and didn't deserve to go through such suffering. Instead, he offered his son a reassuring pat on the head.
"Hm… why not we do something to take your mind off the pain?" he suggested.
"Huh?" Roger cocked his head curiously. "Like what?"
"This," Aznor replied, running his fingers across the black and white keys. "I'll teach you how to play the piano. You've always enjoyed watching mama and I perform for the guests; why not join us?"
Roger's tail wagged eagerly at his father's words. His big brown eyes sparkled like the millions of snowflakes falling from the sky outside the window.
"R-Really? Ya mean it?" But he paused and bit his lower lip, hesitant, as he eyed the piano, which to him, looked bigger than it actually was. "It… it looks kinda hard…"
Aznor chuckled through his nose. "I suppose it can look a little intimidating at first, especially when you don't know the notes and how each key sounds." His fingers glided gracefully across a few choice keys, producing a simple and uplifting 4-chord melody. "But I promise it'll get easier the more you practice. Of course, there's something else you'd need to play the piano."
"Wazzat, Pops?"
"Passion."
Roger stared up at his father quizzically, while the older Menodix simply shut his eyes and let his fingers dance expertly over the keys. Aznor allowed the music to take him; fill him up completely and explode in a flourish of sound and colour. It wasn't an excerpt from a piece Roger knew; in fact, it seemed completely spontaneous, beautiful. Was this what inspiration looked like?
But almost as soon as it started, the music stopped and Aznor returned his gaze to his son, his amber eyes twinkling with a mysterious light. At that moment, Roger thought his father looked older, wiser; a vessel of secrets and profound knowledge beyond their time or any human comprehension. Somehow, he had a feeling that if asked to perform that enchanting melody once more, his father wouldn't be able to – and that was ok, because it was born out of heart and that was what made it beautiful, alive and therefore, precious in its fleeting impermanence. What remained though, was the composer's heart.
"Music is life's greatest magic," Aznor explained. "It's born from silence; it connects people – and from that connection, therein lies the greatest capacity for love. Sometimes, music expresses what cannot be said – and that's why one listens not with your ears, but with your heart."
"So… ta learn music, ya gotta have a whole lotta love?" asked Roger with a skeptical pout. "I thought it was about practice and stuff, and whether ya had it in ya."
"You could do that," said Aznor with a shrug. "But your melodies would be empty and your song would die the moment you stop playing. Love, my son, is what allows your music – and therefore, your memory to live on."
The child listened to his father's words in quiet reverence; confused but at the same time, oddly inspired. It was hard to feel hungry when there were butterflies in one's stomach from the eagerness to learn. So, without wasting anymore time, Roger climbed off Aznor's lap to settle next to the older Menodix on the piano bench. He cracked his knuckles before allowing them to hover over a bunch of keys, gazing up at his father's face expectantly.
"Teach me," he insisted, and Aznor couldn't help but oblige his son's request with a bemused smile.
"First of all," he began, "know that love is like playing music." He taught Roger the notes, then a few basic chords, all of which the child could follow and mimic flawlessly. "You begin by playing by the rules, then…" He took a deep breath and allowed the music to lead him once again, this time in a flurry of complicated notes; a dramatic concert of one, as Aznor made his climatic ascent, like there was something there just over the peak of his emotions. "Then, you must forget the rules and play from your heart."
Roger grinned. "Was that how ya won mama's love?"
"Nah." And at this, Aznor's eyes twinkled meaningfully. "That was how we shared a soul."
They turned their gazes back to the black-and-white keys and began their lesson proper. Aznor would play the first verse part-by-part, and Roger would copy it, albeit stumbling along the way.
"Always remember, my son: passion is the root of all music. It gives it its strength; it's only strength. Without passion, there is no love."
On and on they did this, until they had a rhythm; and as the years passed, they had a song – grandiose, elaborate, yet honest in its simplicity. Then, the dragon attacked, and the inn around them disappeared. His father disappeared. The piano disappeared, until Roger was the only one left in a dark, lonely void; him and the haunting melody of his father's song…
It pulled him out of his sleep and into consciousness.
Roger stirred beneath the downy, silken sheets; his tiny fingers curling and uncurling into his pillow; and his nose twitched in his half-asleep, half-awake state. A frown marred his soft features, his furry ears twitching and swiveling lazily in an unconscious effort to chase the source of that beautiful melody and have things return to the way they once were. His past. His parents. The only time he had truly been happy.
He didn't want to wake up.
'As long as I'm here, as long as I live, I'll help ya carry yer cross...'
But then, he remembered that he had someone in this world waiting for him, and that was all the reason he needed to make that last leap from the land of dreams to the land of the living. When his mind caught up to the present, Roger realised with startling clarity that the music he heard in his dream was actually coming from this very room. Subconsciously, he supposed that made sense; after all, his father died 2 years ago. So, who was playing the piano now?
Slowly, Roger's eyes parted, but everything appeared blurry and it was so hard to stay awake. Heavy. His soul felt heavy. It was a struggle to get his body to listen to him: his hands didn't work and his head refused to move; his gaze stayed rooted to the spot in front of him, but when the fog of sleep finally cleared, everything snapped into focus.
Nightfall. The West Wing. He was in Albel's room, on Albel's bed. That observation should have scared or embarrassed him; after all, it was unbecoming to seek refuge in another man's bed, let alone the master of the castle, but strangely enough, Roger didn't feel any of those emotions. Instead, all he felt, wrapped up in Albel's scent and remnants of his warmth, was a deep and comforting peace. He felt protected, cared for, complete. How strange, he mused, that the same man who had loathed his very existence, could now place him on a pedestal and make him feel like the most special and important person in the world. Albel really would do anything for him. It was enough to put a soft smile on his face.
Albel…
Suddenly, images of their time at the lake; the crying and screaming; the horrifying feel of the swordsman's pale and unmoving body as he struggled to keep them both afloat; falling asleep in Albel's arms – the memories rushed to the forefront of Roger's mind. He became painfully aware of the other's absence, and the true fear he experienced when he thought he had failed to save the older man, returned.
Where was he? Albel promised he'd be here when he woke up; he didn't understand. When was it now exactly, anyway? What time was it? It was dark outside like it had been before he had fallen asleep, so… how long had he been out for? A few hours, maybe less? He still felt exhausted though – was his body fighting to recover from the effects of hypothermia? Had Albel recovered? Was he ok? People who survived death should not be walking around so soon. Why wasn't Albel here like he said he would be? He promised…
Fear. Hurt. Worry. They ate away at Roger's heart and he would have cried if his body had the strength to follow through. Albel had tried to kill himself and he had been so close to doing it too. That thought alone was so terrifying, it plagued Roger's brain and filled it with tumulus visions of 'what if's' and 'maybes'. Before he met Albel, he used to be so sure of himself; now, he felt even more uncertain than anything. It was strange how innocence granted one an impenetrable ego, yet experience and knowledge prompted one to give into doubt and uncertainty. It really made him wonder: after everything said and done between them, of all the promises and reassurances Roger had given the older man, would Albel continue to make attempts on his own life? If the swordsman tried again while he was asleep, if he was actually successful this time and Roger wasn't there to stop him, if their past exchange on this very bed was the last time he heard Albel's voice and felt those strong arms around him, if he had to live with the knowledge that he failed and lost someone whom he...
You what? A voice in his head mocked him and that question gave him pause. Something warm and compelling blossomed in his chest, made it feel tight. He didn't know what it was, but if there was something Roger did know, it was that he didn't want to return to a world without Albel in it.
Suddenly, the piano playing (which previously existed as background noise to his growing thoughts) grew increasingly fevered. The music struck a crescendo that resonated throughout the room and caused Roger's body to reverberate from the intensity.
So, it wasn't a dream.
His gaze traveled across the room and landed on a tall, lone figure hunched over a black piano, back towards him, as the man played with a passion that seemed almost uncharacteristic of his person, yet spellbindingly attractive. The pianist was half-naked; a bandage wrapped around his torso and his long, unbound hair cascaded down his broad, muscled back in waves. The gauntlet was gone, lost to the frigid waters of the dark lake, and in its place was a scarred arm – red, patchy and imperfect, but more or less normal and most definitely functional. Roger caught himself staring at said appendage, though the shock came more from seeing Albel without his gauntlet, than the appearance of his bare arm itself. Scars made a man and told a story, and the master of the castle was a never-ending trove of stories and secrets. He was like a good book Roger never wanted to put down. To him, right now, Albel never looked more perfect.
As the silhouette of his father grew increasingly faint, Albel's figure stood vividly in its place, very much alive. Immediately, his fears left him and Roger allowed himself to relax and sink further into the large, comfy mattress. He released a contented sigh.
He's here… he stayed.
Here in this space, it was just the two of them – undisturbed and pure, whatever history that surrounded them, irrelevant. The longer Roger listened and watched the master play, the deeper the connection he felt with him. In these few months, Albel had allowed him into both his world and mind, and he was able to see the swordsman, not as a broken and lonely man full of hate and mistrust, but an inherently good person, who was learning how to love every day and showed the greatest capacity for it. While he was getting better at reading between the lines, there were admittedly times of silence when he could not read the subliminal messages on Albel's face and his actions; but now – now he knew that Albel possessed an inclination towards music, and from the passionate way the man played, poured out his life story in elaborate verses and titillating chords, Roger felt like he wouldn't be able to stop listening. Not that he wanted to, of course.
'Sometimes, music expresses what cannot be said – and that's why one listens not with your ears, but with your heart.'
And so, like his father taught him, Roger listened with an open heart and mind.
Like the song in his dream, the music was heavy, wrought with emotion and oh so moving in its haunting tale. There were instances of innocence, pain, grief, power and acceptance; but there were also echoes of fear, of inner demons and shadows, and a cyclical regret brought on by one's own pride. From the music, he saw a cold, dark and enchanting castle tucked away in a fairytale wood; saw lavish parties and beautiful people dancing and singing in ballrooms night after night. He saw a young boy run through long, empty corridors; alone, without another loving soul in sight. He felt pain, anger and self-loathing, a desperate longing for peace and redemption; then, he felt a change. He saw a small light, felt hope and happiness lift his spirit, take it by the hands and lead him on an adventure. The boy was now a man, as cold, distant and untouchable as December; but something had changed. The man's dreams were slain, yet there was adoration in his eyes, an inexplicable lightness in his soul. There was freedom in redemption. There was peace in learning to live with oneself.
It was amazing: Roger never knew Albel could play the piano like that, like the instrument was part of him. It was hypnotizing to watch those long fingers expertly weave and string together notes so seamlessly, so beautifully; to conjure up images and verses without needing to look or speak. At that moment, Roger felt a connection – something science and all the books in the world could not explain to him; and he wondered if this was what his father had meant by sharing a soul.
Eventually, the song tapered off into its final notes. Albel allowed his fingers to linger on the keys for a bit, before he withdrew his hands with a slow exhale, catching his breath and returning to the present. Too passionate. That observation brought a dark, displeased scowl upon his face. Playing the piano had always been a private privilege for him, an act he dared only to indulge in when the king and queen were not immediately present. Nevertheless, he had never once allowed himself to be lost to the throes of his muse – and in a rare moment of utter ignorance, his actions finally caught up to his brain and confusion settled in when he realised that he had not touched the piano in 9 years.
It was pathetically sentimental and romantic, both of which he found weak and revolting; yet, here he was submitting himself to those who would listen and serenading to his love who would never hear him. It's that cumbersome humanoid brat, Albel thought, contemplating this latest development and experienced an unusual bout of anxiety: a lack of control, emotional inclination and impulsivity, too many changes and an uncertainty of the future. Admitting to himself that he loved Roger was not the hard part. He already knew that. What destroyed him however, was his inability to act on those emotions, unless Roger felt the same.
Would I be able to live? That was a question the child had helped him answer, and he knew now that he could. He may not have the humanoid's love in return, but it was something he learned to accept. What they had between them was enough – at least, he had been sure of that, until he turned around and met Roger's eyes from across the room.
The boy gave a start. Albel's own eyes widened just a fraction from the surprise of being watched, but his expression quickly fell into his usual guarded self – hard, stoic and unreadable. Mentally, he groaned in frustration. The brat really had a knack for undermining his convictions.
"You're awake," he pointed out, however there was no malice in his voice, only an usual gentleness that went completely missed by the sleepy child on his bed.
Roger yawned and stretched out adorably like a kitten, oblivious to the effect his innocent actions had on the master. "How – he grimaced at the sound of his sandpaper voice – how long was I out fer?"
"A day," Albel answered without missing a beat, clearing his throat discreetly. His answer however, had Roger struggling to sit up in seconds.
"A whole day?!" His body must have given out after that stressful ordeal back at the lake. "I… I should go! T-This is yer bed and –"
Roger stopped abruptly when he found himself eye level to Albel's very naked, very toned chest. He blushed profusely. Gah! When did he get so close?!
"H-Hey, lookit ya! Ya look fine, so I-I'll go now! Sorry fer imposin' so long! Lots ta do!"
With every word his voice grew increasingly shrill and squeaky, until he was borderline screeching. Albel growled, already feeling a headache coming along – and what the hell, the insufferable boy had only just woke up!
"Shut. Up."
He pressed a finger to the Menodix's forehead and shoved Roger back onto the mattress. The child bounced a little from the impact, speechless, eyes blown wide from shock, only to have them grow impossibly wider when Albel crawled towards him and leaned over his prone form. Roger's breath hitched and he did his best to suppress a squeak of embarrassment, but he was sure Albel heard him if that amused smirk on the man's lips were any indication of it.
Things took on a different perspective for him on the bed. Last night, he hardly noticed anything when he had been the one straddling Albel; now, with smoldering red eyes boring down intently into his own brown ones, and the man's tight muscles as they strained to support him upright, Roger realised how powerful Albel really was and how privileged he himself was to have all that raw strength and attention devoted completely to him. Albel was a lot bigger than him and the swordsman looked even more intimidating up close, but not in a scary way, not anymore. True, Roger still felt like Albel wanted to eat him sometimes; still felt like the dragon's prey; but a different sort. Roger may be 12, but he wasn't completely innocent; he saw the way Albel looked at him: his lingering stares full of longing; teasing touches; playful double entendres; their ever-shrinking proximity. It was almost…
Sexual.
His face burned brighter and he frantically shook his head. No, you're just hungry and ain't thinking straight. But there was no escaping Albel's vermillion stare. His eyes seemed darker and more intense, as they mapped out every feature, every groove, subtle whisker and baby soft pout of the child's slightly chapped and pretty pink lips. Albel leaned closer until his face was hovering directly over Roger's, their noses barely touching, breaths mingling in the tiny space between parted lips. Large hands moved up the boy's arms, a sensual albeit tentative caress, before trapping the humanoid's wrists in a firm grip and bringing them over his head. Never once did Albel break his stare and Roger found himself wishing he wouldn't either. A deep, contemplative expression adorned the silent man's face; curious even; and the Menodix was torn between feeling aroused and hopelessly confused.
"A-Albel…?" he whispered breathlessly.
Said man bumped their noses with surprising tenderness. It made something in Roger's chest flutter pleasantly.
"Sleep here, fool," said Albel in a soothing whisper. "My dragon form aided in my recovery. You need your rest."
"But–"
"Hush!"
And that was that.
Albel slid off the boy gracefully and moved to grab a tight-fitting tunic folded neatly on a nearby chair. He pulled it over his head and the midriff garment didn't leave much to the imagination, ending just above his waist. Then, he grabbed his katana and strapped it to his hip. Roger watched all this with a curious tilt of his head.
"Ya goin' out?" he asked, knowing full well that Albel stepping out of the castle was as good as suicide–
He paused and shook his head frantically. No, none of that now.
"Bah! Lasbard has arranged a… friendly sparring session for us in the courtyard," said Albel with a scoff; and the way he said 'friendly' clearly hinted he had no intention of being friendly with Adray at all. "Humph, I have no interest in trouncing weaklings, though seeing as you're clearly awake, I see no reason to remain here."
"Why not?"
"Because you're extremely noisy and foolish."
"Hey!"
Roger fumed at the grumpy man's words. Yeesh, rude much? He had half the mind to tell the guy off and defend his and the servants' honor. The only reason they agreed to come up with a stupid schedule for Albel in the first place was because they obviously cared about him. The master was depressed and they were determined to fill his life with purpose. The guy really had a funny way of showing gratitude… wait.
Roger stopped and thought about that – really thought Albel's words through. If the guy didn't appreciate his servants' efforts and truly felt their attempts were 'foolish' like he said, then he wouldn't even bother meeting with Adray. And if Albel actually despised his company, then he wouldn't have spent 12 hours waiting for him to wake up. Huh. That last thought made Roger smile; Albel really did care. Although he had no idea why something so small could have such an effect on him, he didn't really care to dwell on it. He just felt so happy. Albel made him happy – and he was so glad that his mean ol' swordsman was still alive.
"You stayed," Roger whispered in awe, the smile never once faltering. The sheets felt so nice and warm; Albel's scent was everywhere; he felt so tired and his eyelids began to droop, but he fought to keep his consciousness above the clouds. "You're here."
Albel stopped short, the Menodix's words having a greater impact on him than he cared to admit. His throat tightened and his heart beat faster; and then in four quick strides, he was back at Roger's side. The usual irritated glower was gone and in its place was a look of utmost adoration reserved exclusively for his little Menodix.
Before he could stop himself, Albel reached down to scratch behind Roger's ears, the comforting action further lulling the humanoid to sleep.
"My little fool, I gave you my word that I'd be here when you wake up, did I not?" said Albel, breathing low against a twitchy ear. The smirk on his face was a terribly sentimental one. "Though, you were the one who promised to stay by my side, first."
He slid his fingers from Roger's ears to gently caress the child's face with the back of his hand. Those long, elegant digits lingered there, almost as if Albel himself did not wish to go.
"Stay," came the soft whine from the bed, as if Roger had read his mind. Albel offered him a rueful smile.
"I must leave, it's almost sunrise," he murmured regretfully, but added as an afterthought, "However, you are welcome to join me at the North Tower between the hours of 4 and 5 when you wake. There is… something I wish to give you."
Give… me…? But Roger was out like a light before he could utter another word.
Albel watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of the boy's chest for a while; allowed his little inventor to dream wonderful and impossible dreams, before he stepped away and headed for the door. A blue haired maiden waited for him on the other side. She gave her master a curt nod.
"Good evening, master. I presume all is well with Roger?"
Albel simply nodded in response, before stepping around his bodyguard to continue his trek through the castle. Maria promptly followed in step behind him.
"Get Koas to attend to him. I do not wish him to be alone or hungry when he eventually wakes."
"Understood." She managed to catch up to the master's long strides. "Shall I take the liberty in reading your schedule this week? At 4am, you'll resume your lessons on national and cross-cultural diplomacy with Misty at the study. At 5.15am, you'll proceed to the ballroom for your dance lessons with Peppita. At 5.45am, I'll accompany you back to the West Wing. Tomorrow, Mackwell wishes to speak with you about those conductors you wanted installed around the castle for Roger's 'channeled force' experiment. Seeing as that might take up most of your evening, I've pushed your Runology training with Nel and Clair to the following–"
"That won't be necessary, Traydor," interrupted Albel, which caused said woman to frown. Had she offended the master in some way?
"Why not?"
Her question made the man's shoulders slump in defeat.
"It's December," he answered with an air of finality, as if that word alone was explanation enough. "I– we don't have much time." His statement left a deafening silence in its wake, but he knew that Maria was still listening. "I – he hesitated – appreciate what you and the others are doing to help me… but I wish to spend my remaining days with the boy. If it's alright with you."
Maria's eyes widened from the master's humble request, before her gaze softened in understanding, her smile bittersweet. Three days to the master's 24th birthday – that was all they had left.
"Of course," she replied. "I… I'll inform the rest."
As the pair descended the stairs towards the courtyard, Albel couldn't help but pay close attention to his boots as they made resounding clips through the halls as he walked. Each echo sounded more booming than the last. He knew his days as a human, as well as his ability to walk through these halls (something he had taken for granted), were drawing to a close. Soon, he wouldn't be able to remember he even had these sorrowful thoughts, or miss being human at all.
Despite this, all Albel could think about was the little Menodix child sleeping in his bed, and wondered if love really made people think and do crazy things. It must be so, he concluded; there was no other explanation; because for the first time in forever, Albel didn't dread the coming of sunrise.
"Ok, tell me again why we're up here?"
They were standing on the largest balcony of the North Tower, overlooking the gardens. The large black dragon next to him snorted in exasperation, twin puffs of smoke escaping from its nostrils. It fixed its small, feisty companion with a pointed stare, bright vermillion irises seeming to say, "You know why." Roger let out an impatient huff and folded his arms.
"Ya have summin' ta give me, I know…" But he couldn't take the anticipation and threw up his arms, his large doe-eyes searching Albel's own amused ones, imploringly. "So what is it? What's this big secret? Tell me!"
Cute. The humanoid never could contain his curiosity. If dragons could smirk, Albel would have. Instead, he simply jerked his head towards the balcony edge, before returning his gaze to the perplexed Menodix. He repeated the action a few times, until Roger finally got it.
"What, ya want me ta stand there? What's the difference?" he wondered, but obliged Albel's strange request anyway. He moved to stand by the stone railings. "Ok, now what? Where's my present? Gimme!" He stuck out his hands and made a grabby motion with his fingers.
Albel let out a frustrated growl and had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Honestly, this would be so much easier if he could speak. For a genius, Roger could be as dense as a brick sometimes.
Spreading his large, powerful wings, Albel took off the balcony and flew to the side of the tower. Then, he dug his claws into hard brick and clung onto the side of a turret, folding his wings. Now perched comfortably, he sought Roger's gaze once again and allowed his eyes to dart back and forth between the child and the railings, growling and hissing in different intonations like he was trying to communicate something to the boy – which he probably was. Damn worm, why was this so needlessly difficult?
Roger frowned, tilting his head this way and that as he contemplated the dragon's peculiar behavior. He didn't get it; Albel wanted him at this very spot and he humored him, so why was he being such an impossible prick about it? All over some stupid, mysterious present too! The moron could have just told him what it was, instead of being so cryptic. Unless… oh no, no, no.
Roger bit his lip nervously. No, that was crazy! Albel didn't mean what he thought he meant… did he? His gaze lingered on the scenery just beyond the stone barrier. It was dangerous, suicide! This was the highest point of the castle and Albel either forgot that Menodixes couldn't fly, or he simply didn't care if Roger died trying.
"Y-You're crazy," he stammered; yet his feet and hands moved on their own accord to scale the stone railings. I'm crazy.
Slowly, Roger hoisted himself onto the flat surface and rose on (very) shaky legs. His brain screamed at every single part and organ of his body to man up and balance for his life, which was precisely what was at stake here. His palms felt ridiculously sweaty and everytime he looked down, the ground seemed to rush up at him and he experienced a fleeting sense of vertigo. Quickly, he shut his eyes and mentally counted to 10 in a pathetic bid to keep his nerves and sanity in check. So far so good though; he hadn't fallen or broken anything… or died…
Roger never knew he was afraid of heights. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never been this high up in his entire life. He was a village boy, who spent his free time reading books or pouring his energy over a new invention or hypothesis, not climbing trees or parking himself on anything more than two metres off the ground. He was so lost in his internal ramblings and mounting panic that he failed to notice his companion's presence, until Albel was right at his face. He gave a start when he felt hot dragon breath tickle his cheek, nearly causing him to lose his footing as a result.
"You're crazy!"
The black dragon really rolled his eyes this time. Idiot. And with a powerful sweep of his tail, Albel knocked Roger clean off the tower.
Roger screamed and screamed as he hurtled through the air and towards the hard, unforgiving ground below. The horizon and surrounding trees faded into a blur of colour and light. Everything rushed past him. Wind pierced his skin and stung his eyes; he wanted to shut them, but he was too afraid to. Harder and harder gravity tugged at him, and Roger could have sworn he saw his entire life flash before his eyes. He screamed louder than he had ever done before, more desperate and driven purely by absolute fear – of falling, of the unknown, of dying faster than his mind could wrap around, and forgoing his dreams. Was Albel trying to kill him?He shut his eyes tightly when the ground grew closer, but a few tears managed to escape. Was this the end? Did all 12 years of his wretched existence come down to this pathetic moment where he inadvertently instigated his own death?
All of a sudden, there was a rush of wind, booming and billowing around him like a storm. And just when Roger thought he was going to kiss the gravel, something firm and scaly caught him in mid-fall and he landed on his front face-first with a painful, "Oof!" Almost immediately, he felt the 'ground' move and he instinctively clung tight onto whatever his hands could find, which happened to be a pair of smooth black horns. That actually made him pause and blink slowly with dawning comprehension.
Huh? What the… Albel?!
The dragon gave a little twist and swooped upwards past the trees, past the December fog, and overtook a flock of geese. They left behind stonewalls and pointed turrets in a whoosh; the lake's rushing water and crashing waterfalls receded into a faint murmur behind them. Higher and higher they soared, weaving between snowy gales, touching clouds and sunbeams… with Roger screaming all the way.
Finally, Albel stopped to hover in mid-flight, his large wings and tail working effortlessly to keep him upright and afloat. That was when he took a look at his castle, actually looked at its elaborate architecture and romantic visage with a fresh perspective.
The once extravagant, shining fortress that served as his home and prison for over 20 years, appeared nothing more than a grand dollhouse from where they were. The land around it stretched out further than the eye could see, and although it made for a breathtaking sight, Albel finally understood that there was more to life than just his glittering palace, himself and all the people living in it. Viewing its insignificance in a much larger world was a humbling experience. He hardly recognised it; his kingdom was growing, changing, reinventing itself and soon enough, it would be more than just Aquor, more than a single country and voice. His father had been wrong to hold onto his pride and power the way he did, and his thirst for conquering new lands eventually killed him. If the people's lives and a nation's sovereignty were truly what mattered most, then did it not make sense to make allies, instead of enemies? The Albel 9 years ago would never have considered that, but he was a different man now. His only regret was that he had learned the truth too late.
Looking away, Albel turned his head to check on his charge, only to let out a deep, amused rumble at the sight before him. Roger's hair and clothes were a complete disaster; they stuck out at funny places; his face was a little pale and he looked like he was trying his best not to throw up. Well, at least the boy had stopped screaming.
"Do ya have rocks fer brains?!"
Somewhat.
"Ya pushed me off a tower, ya jerk! I could've died!" Roger flailed on the dragon's back. Well, he would have if he wasn't holding on for dear life, but it was the thought that counted. "How's this – the wind smacked a lock of hair in his face and he blew it away in annoyance – how's this a gift? Gifts are supposed ta be nice, not deadly!
He didn't get it. Seriously, what had Albel been thinking? It was pretty disappointing; he honestly thought that Albel and him shared something special, meaningful even. They had grown closer over the last few months and Roger believed the master at least cherished him as a friend, as he did him, so why? Dragons could fly; he couldn't. Albel knew this. And yet he...
A memory flashed through his mind: a trip to the woods; a conversation beneath the stars; a moment of vulnerability immortalized in time.
'When I'm with ya, I feel like… like I can be so much more.'
The emotions surged through his chest and Roger grabbed at his vest, fingers digging into and twisting the fabric in a bid to calm his racing heart. Suddenly, it didn't even matter if he was over 50 feet in the air or whatever… because he wasn't alone.
'You are so much more, and you always will be. Never think otherwise.'
Albel…
Cheeks flushed, Roger lifted his gaze to meet piercing vermillion eyes that were no doubt on him. Albel stared at his little fool with a hopeless look of endearment – relaxed features, the slightest tilt of his head and soft eyes. "Do you like it?" they seemed to ask. With a shy, grateful smile, Roger reached up to stroke the dragon's muzzle and nodded his head.
'Anyway, there's another dream I have, but this one's kinda silly… I wanna fly!'
"Ya remembered," said Roger in a hoarse whisper, voice thick with emotion. The late afternoon sunlight reflected off his brown eyes, making them appear almost amber as they sparkled beautifully, full of gratitude and adoration. They soon fell shut when he leaned in to press his forehead against the great dragon's own.
"Thank ya."
And he meant every word from the bottom of his heart.
A pleased rumble escaped the confines of Albel's scaly throat. The vibrations traveled up Roger's limbs, across his skin, and made him giggle. At that moment, he didn't feel so scared anymore. In fact…
"Say, Albel, I've been wondering," he began, eyes flashing mischievously, "how high can ya go?"
The dragon's eyes narrowed in excitement. Was that a challenge?
As if sensing his intent, Roger readjusted his posture and grip around Albel, before the latter arched his spikey back and shot upwards towards the clouds. Faster and faster Albel went, his great wings beating against the current, his sharp tail navigating through the skies like a sea serpent. Through it all, Roger squealed happily as he hugged Albel around his neck, eyes narrowing against the frigid winds and the occasional snow, but never once expressed his discomfort; after all, it wasn't everyday you got to fly on a dragon.
Breathless. He felt breathless: from the exhilaration, the sights, the sounds and his defiance against gravity. He felt the rush of freedom, of blind confidence that often came with the thrill of adventure, taking him to new heights – and still, Albel took him higher, as they breached the cloudy coverlet and frolicked through the heavens.
Feeling a little bold, Roger would withdraw his hands occasionally, just long enough for Albel to toss the giggling child a few feet into the air, before swooping in to catch him every single time. They did this a few times, man and beast playing in their little sanctuary between heaven and earth, with nothing save the sun to witness their inseparable bond. However, it wasn't long before both craved something more, something far more invigorating; a change in pace if you will. And so, with a mighty roar, Albel inclined his body and flew almost vertically upwards, before arching his neck backwards and bringing the rest of his body with him in a graceful loop-the-loop.
For a moment, Roger saw the world upside down: the clouds became the ground, while the forests turned to sky; but all things returned to their proper order once the loop was complete and they were flying again. The Menodix's heart raced and his vision tunneled; his blood pounded a symphony in his ears from the adrenaline. On and on, they flew in circles, until Roger was gripped by the sudden urge to try something – probably insane – that he never thought he would ever suggest, let alone think about. Then again, he was with Albel; and the master's influence made him do crazy things. So, when it looked as though Albel was readying to perform another stunt, Roger tossed aside all inhibitions and told his grumpy ol' dragon-boy this:
"I trust ya."
Albel's eyes widened in surprise; but before he could fully process the implications of the boy's words, he was already making another loop. Roger readied himself for the climax, feeling for the familiar rush of blood to his head that would indicate he was completely upside down.
"Catch me," he whispered against the dragon's ear – and then, he let go.
He fell straight down and fast. The chilly winds billowed around him, wrapped their tendrils around him in a mock cocoon, but doing little to reassure him of his safety. No, he was waiting for someone else. Someone whom he was now absolutely sure would protect him, fight for him, listen and keep him safe. Someone who truly cared about him: his thoughts, dreams and idle speculations. Someone who had already given him the world and then some. And then, as if on cue, a proud roar filled his ears, growing closer the faster Roger hurtled to the ground.
Albel swooped in and closed the distance between them at lightning speed. Roger twisted his body and grabbed onto Albel just as the latter turned and took off in the opposite direction. The master had successfully caught him again, not that Roger doubted him for a second, of course.
He nuzzled against Albel's scales as he held his dragon close; they felt cold to the touch as all reptilian creatures went, but the familiarity provided a soothing comfort that Roger had never experienced. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had the loyalty and protection of a dragon, or simply because it was Albel; but he didn't care. He trusted Albel to keep him safe always.
They eventually descended from their playground in the clouds with Roger laughing all the way, as he recovered from his high. The castle grounds came into view and they neared the expanse of the grand garden, but Albel was not done yet. With a graceful dip of his wings, Albel turned towards the Great Lake and slowed down, dipping the tips of his claws into the water, as he skimmed through the once still surface. Big brown eyes flashed in excitement. Maybe he could try one more thing...
Releasing his hold from around Albel, Roger shifted to establish some form of balance with his core, before spreading his arms wide, allowing his newfound freedom to take him. Water droplets sprayed against his cheeks and fingertips; they tickled and Roger giggled despite the cold. It was surprising how a place that housed one of the most traumatic experiences of his life, could easily change to become a picture of peace and perfection. And how perfect he felt, for his troubles and past sorrows had faded away like the tiny droplets which sprayed around them, soon lost to the wind.
"This is the best present ever!" Roger cheered over the sound of beating wings.
Albel acknowledged his praise with a triumphant roar. Perfect. Everything felt so perfect. And Albel knew that this would be a memory he would replay in his head over and over, until he could remember no more.
They flew towards the approaching sunset, chasing its fading rays; this being the first time the both of them had ever felt truly free.
Sunset.
The last few rays of winter light receded into a dark, purple-grey horizon. Twilight. The days were shorter; nighttime felt eternal; and to a certain fallen prince, the change was welcome in the face of his last few days as a human – and Albel was treasuring every last bit of it.
A door creaked open and a long shadow fell across the marble floor. Albel Nox stepped silently into the East Wing, a certain Menodix child nestled tenderly in his arms. The day's events finally caught up to the boy and he had fallen fast asleep no sooner than they landed at the courtyards. It was times like these that Roger reminded Albel of a stupidly innocent babe: the limitless energy he possessed over things that interested him, coupled with his ridiculous ability to fall asleep the moment that energy drained, made the resemblance terribly uncanny. Of course, it wasn't Albel's duty to carry all 30 kilograms of deadweight Menodix child clear across the castle grounds, up many stairs and many more halls, but… he had wanted to; and Roger wasn't heavy anyway. Furthermore, he had been the one to initiate their date (could they call it that?), so he figured the least he could do was be a proper gentleman about it and escort the boy to his room.
"I've done all I can to give you everything. I hope this would warrant me a place in your memory," said Albel with a heavy heart, as he pulled back the quilt and tucked the humanoid into bed. Then, as an afterthought, he ruffled Roger's already unruly hair in parting.
"Sleep well, my little fool."
The swordsman was just about to take his leave, when he felt a slight tug at his garments. Looking down, he immediately found the source of that disturbance: in his sleep, Roger had found the closest source of warmth and comfort, and clung on tight. It was apparent even his unconscious did not intend to let Albel go anytime soon.
The sight touched the master's heart, and he found himself settling on the bed next to Roger, watching over him as he slept. A rare smile tugged at the corners of Albel's lips.
I want him to remember me always, he decided, before reaching around his neck to unclasp a necklace where a small, circular key in the shape of a sun, dangled. He then retrieved a small music box he kept hidden beneath the faulds of his armor; the very same, sentimental piece from his childhood – the one thing that connected them and that Roger so hopelessly adored. In less than 3 days, he would have no use for it, along with everything he owned in this castle. Every room, every object and artifact, all his servants and every valuable piece of Aquor history housed within these walls, would belong to the humanoid, his precious little Roger. That is, if the child even chose to stay when the 'him' whom he knew was long gone.
Albel leaned in to hook the necklace around Roger's tiny neck, smiling at the golden sun that winked at him from under the dim light of candles. It suits him, he thought, admiring the little trinket and how charming it looked on the Menodix. He thought it only fitting that he gave Roger the only key to his heart and soul.
Then, he gently pried away the boy's fingers from his clothes and replaced it with the music box. Instinctively, Roger gripped the precious artifact tight and snuggled against it with an adorable sigh; his dreams filled with music, dragons and endless skies.
The Menodix's joy filled him with a sense of peace he had not known for many years. His work here was done.
Unable to contain himself any further, Albel bridged the small gap between them, brushed aside messy auburn hair and placed a gentle, lingering kiss upon Roger's brow. The latter slept on, blissfully unaware.
With that, Albel took his leave and shut the door quietly behind him.
The music box lay safely tucked against its new owner, twinkling mysteriously under the glow of muted candles. And if one listened closely enough, they would be able to hear the timeless melody of a young prince's song, accompanied by the echoes of childish laughter from a memory that would last forever.
To be continued...
Author's note:
In case anyone's curious, the piano piece Albel was playing is a reference to "Victor's Piano Solo" from "The Corpse Bride" (mainly because I wrote to that song, and it just sort of fit). There is actually a playlist for this story and the dragon flight scene was written to Alanis Morissette's "Wunderkind". I felt that it really portrayed the overall mood and sense of adventure perfectly.
Well then, I'll see you readers in the reviews and the next update!