Title: More Than A Memory
Summary: Logre finally visits his Emperor's gravesite and allows himself to finally begin the healing process. But after a confrontation he would have liked to have avoided, a familiar face returns. Could it really be true…?
Pairings: :'D
AN: Yes, I'm giving Logre the Gerald treatment :'D It started off as just a cute little idea that might be an AU but it clung onto my heart and won't let go and it's whispering to me that Logre deserves some damn happiness. And you know what? HE FUCKING DOES SO HELP ME HE WILL AHHH PREPARE YOURSELF LOGRE! Also ending might be a tad mean :3c Enjoy nevertheless~
The sky was a perfect blue as Logre stood before a weathered headstone covered in moss. A bouquet of white lilies rested in his hands. He trailed his fingers over the fragile tissue paper before he knelt down and placed the bouquet carefully in front of the headstone. He leaned forward to gentle touch the moss covered stone. Where a few letters had recently been engraved. Where they finally knew of the mysterious man's name and were finally able to put his name to rest.
Afrodr.
Logre murmured a sigh as he sat back on his heels. He gazed at the weathered headstone while his mind wandered.
He hadn't been able to properly mourn the loss of his emperor, even though he had ten long years to do so. When he took on the name of Whirlwind he had to also cast aside his connection to the empire and to anyone who was connected. Including Varuna and Nitish.
Though relieved that they had also survived the crash and though he had wanted to watch over them as they were so young, he knew he couldn't. They were just too young. Varuna didn't remember anything. Nitish wouldn't utter a word for years. So he took on the task of returning to the empire alone. They didn't need to get involved again. Emperor Afrodr never wanted such young innocents to get involved in the first place.
It was hard to pretend he didn't know the twins. Especially when Nitish would look at him like he recognised him from somewhere. And yet could not quite pinpoint where.
Seeing the fragile twins under the care of Isiah and his father eased his guilt. They were in safe hands with them. Far safer than they would have been with him.
He could not have predicted how, despite his best efforts, the twins along with Isiah and so many others would become entrenched in the Empire and their plans to resurrect the Yggdrasil Titan.
Logre shook his head to rid himself of those memories. And he swallowed back the rising feelings of guilt for the series of betrayals he had inflicted upon the innocent members of Guild Phaedron.
A light breeze that ruffled his hair caused Logre to turn his gaze from his Emperor's head stone and instead gaze up at the sky once more. The cloudless blue sky of the Windy Plains was reassuring in a way. And yet there was also a tinge of fear and sadness.
For it was in these very same skies where the Fire Dragon attacked the Emperor's airship, causing it to crash in the first place. And it was the grass that he knelt upon where Afrodr took his last breaths, his precious son in his thoughts until the very end.
Logre turned his gaze from the sky and glanced over his shoulder where the entrance to the Old Forest Mine was found. Where the airship Duscha sat. With the Phaedron Guild. Waiting. For him. Granting him the space and time necessary to allow himself to finally find some form of peace in front of his Emperor's grave.
Afrodr's grave resided within walking distance of the Old Forest Mine. They had buried him close to the place where he took his last breathes. Isiah and his father were the ones to have taken care of him during his last moments, making promises, offering reassuring words to a man they did not know. They didn't even know his name. But they stayed with him and eased him through his passing.
Ironic that Emperor Afrodr found far more compassion and kindness from a pair of strangers in those last few hours of his life than he had in the entirety of his reign over the empire.
Logre couldn't help but allow another wave of guilt to wash over him. For ten years he had secretly mourned his Emperor's and comrades' death, yet he had not known where he had been buried all this time. He felt guilty about not visiting sooner. The least he could have done for the man who took him under his wing was to attend to his grave. Mourn for the future that was taken from him while celebrating the life he had lived.
The golden locket that hung around his neck and rested against his chest suddenly felt heavy.
It was a gift from Emperor Afrodr. He gave to him not long before they departed on their journey. He told him to fill it with memories. Good memories. Ones that gave him the strength to push forward, even when he felt like the world was against him. Even when he felt like giving up.
Logre honestly didn't know what to think about the gift back then. Of course he couldn't turn it down. So he took it with the promise of filling it with a precious memory, even though he wasn't sure what Emperor meant by precious memory.
He clasped the locket in his hand for a moment before he lifted it up over his head and flicked it open. With a soft little click it popped open to reveal two small photographs. One was of four children. Huddled together as they looked up at the camera with expressions of intrigue or confusion on their faces.
Four children. Varuna, Nitish, Achyuta, and even Xander. Ironic, or perhaps it was just destiny that Achyuta and Nitish had met once in their childhood and had somehow found their way back to each other. He often thought of telling them this little fact but decided against it. It doesn't need to be known. The two were so in love already.
The photo was taken on a whim. Varuna and Nitish were two children elected to join the fleet while Achyuta and Xander had been students of his for a short time.
To think…they were back together in Tharsis. Varuna with Bryce. And Xander with Ciaran, the same young man Logre had worked with to develop the airships. A part of him wondered that maybe the fates were trying to make up for the pain and suffering they had all endured. Or maybe it was Emperor Afrodr himself throwing his weight around on the other side.
The other photo, however, held faces Logre was more than certain he would only ever see again in his dreams.
It was a photo of his comrades that were also elected for the Emperor's fleet. Pardoned off onto three ships. Claudia to fly one ship with two young and innocent occupants of her own. While the other, that of a supply shit, was in the hands of a young man called Jeroden.
Watching as the airship that Claudia pilot go down in the extreme weather of the Sacred Mountains was devastating. Emperor Afrodr himself had to reign in his pain at the sight. A strong airship taken down so easily. With such innocent lives on board. So close to home and yet so far.
But watching as Jeroden's ship disappeared into the misty mountain ranges of the Scarlet Pillars was what broke his heart.
Jeroden was his closest comrade. And friend.
During those times it was difficult to maintain relationships with others. Their lands grew more toxic as years rolled by. They grew more determined to fight back in some way. His life during his first twenty-three years was that of survival and training to wield a driveblade.
It wasn't a time to make friends. Comrades, yes. But not friends or companions. Their lives were to serve the empire and Emperor Afrodr. But he had managed to maintain a friendship with Jeroden. He was just a couple of years younger than him, but somehow infuriatingly taller.
A soft, sad smile slipped across Logre's lips at the memory of Jeroden teasing the hell out of him for being shorter. As soon as their commanding officer left them alone after their training, Jeroden would turn to him and a cheeky half-smile would appear on his lips. Am arm would immediately loop around his neck and he'd tug him as close to him as their armours allowed. A joke about how he hadn't seen him there despite the fact that Logre had been standing there beside him the entire time passing his lips. A roll of the eyes followed by a shove. Harmless teasing.
He helped to break the monotony of training. He wasn't much of a joker (understatement actually, he was terrible at jokes), but he could be brilliantly sarcastic at the worst of times, making Logre smirk or "snerk". That half chuckle, half cough thing that Jeronden called a snerk because that was literally the sound he supposedly made. He remembered how their superior would glare at the two of them whenever they were "out of line" and Jeroden made things worse by muttering something sarcastic and witty under his breath, which caused Logre to bite the inside of his mouth in order to prevent another "snerk".
Another sad smile appeared on Logre's lips as he stared down at the black and white photos in the golden locket. He actually missed those times. Their training was harsh. Their lands decaying. Their existence bleak. But Jeroden always managed to bring a smile to his lips somehow.
God, he missed him so much. He wished there was somewhere he could go to honour his name and memory, too.
He used to call him Logy. Which infuriated him at the time. But it would be nice to hear it again. After learning of Telem and Durriken's survival, Logre felt a sense of hope rise in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, Jeroden was out there somewhere. Alive.
But…he couldn't be that lucky, huh?
He should be grateful with the life he had now. Guild Phaedron. The Highland Count. Ciaran. And Kirjonen…what more could he ask for?
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled Logre from his thoughts and he instinctively snapped shut his locket. He grasped it tightly in his hand as he glanced over his shoulder. He wasn't at all surprised to find Isiah there, his hands in his pockets, and his visible eye holding a hint of concern.
"You all right?" he asked simply.
Logre gave him a lopsided smile as he pushed himself to his feet. "Yeah, I'm all right," he said as he lifted the chain of his locket and carefully slid it over his head.
"Ready to head back home? It's getting late," Isiah said as he tilted his head toward the Duscha.
Home?
A genuine smile appeared on Logre's lips as he briefly glanced in the direction of where Tharsis could be seen. With its sandstone buildings and windmills. Where airships of both local and imperial departed and docked.
Yeah. That was home. His real home. Where he lived with his prince, with his guild. Where he'll one day allow himself to actually be happy…Maybe.
"Sure, let's go. I'm getting hungry anyway," Logre said casually as he and Isiah walked together back to their awaiting guildmates.
… … … … …
It was well and truly dark as Logre stepped from the Researcher's Clinic. The voices of his guildmates were joyful and carefree as they relaxed in their after dinner rituals. Chatting, bonding, just spending time together musing and wondering what they should tomorrow.
Normally Logre would join them, their chatter actually allowing his mind to still and just enjoy the moment. But tonight he felt restless. Perhaps restless wasn't exactly the right word. He felt surprisingly light tonight. Energetic. He supposed it was because he felt better after finally visiting his Emperor's final resting place.
Whatever the reason, he decided to spend perhaps an hour or so just strolling around the city. Maybe chat with a few of his fellow imperial knights to see how they were settling in. Or maybe visit the Count just for old time's sake.
He walked around aimless for a few minutes. No destination in mind. He encountered a few imperials here or there, receiving dutiful salutes in return. Logre just nodded his head in a friendly manner and continued on his way.
It had been a perfectly peaceful night and he pondered about returning to the clinic just to check up on His Highness. But as he moved to step down a narrow pathway that was a shortcut, he found himself stilling. There were already two figures in the centre of the path. Dressed suspiciously in dark clothing. Seemingly trying to conceal themselves while looking imposing.
And they were facing him directly. Their legs set firmly apart in the power stance. Their arms tense at their sides. Shoulders back. Eyes forward.
…They were obviously trouble.
Logre wasn't exactly in the mood for trouble.
"We've been waiting for you," a low, masculine voice stated. Dark and purposely menacing. Not at all friendly.
"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to keep waiting as my guild is waiting for me," Logre returned as he too took on a firm, power stance.
He wasn't meek by any means, but he would prefer not to get into a fight with a few assuming locals. Despite the events of the Cloudy Stronghold and Elder Gratiana's return, of which eased some of the tensions between the citizens of Tharsis and the natives of the Empire, things were still tense in some regards. He could only assume that the two in front of him had some kind of beef with the imperials and thought they would confront him about it.
Better than Baldur or Achyuta. And probably better than Zesiro, who would no doubt be thrilled to show these two that he's no shrinking violet when it came to brawling.
"That's a shame," the one that spoke early piped up again and took a purposeful step forward. "You see, we've got a few words we want to have with ya. A bone to pick even. And we're not in the mood for a no."
Typical. Just when he was in such a good mood.
…Fine. He was sure the Count would understand. He had the right to defend himself, after all.
An arm suddenly wound around him from behind him, seemingly attempting to pin his arms to his sides in a restricting manner. A moisten cloth was then placed over his mouth and nose by that same someone who had managed to get behind him.
Intuitively Logre held in his breath. He knew that anything forcibly placed over his mouth was not something that was healthy for him. No, it was obviously meant to incapacitate him.
God damn it, he didn't hear a thing. How did they sneak up on his so easily? He had no idea what they were trying to do, why anyone would go after him personally, but that didn't matter.
His instincts kicked in not shortly after. He immediately attempted to struggle and twist his head away from the hand. All the while he tugged relentlessly at his arms. He managed to free his left arm within a short struggle. The arm that his assailant behind him could not completely impede on his own. He grasped at his attacker's arm with his left hand to forcibly pull and tug the moisten rag from his mouth while he jabbed his right elbow back, hoping to nail him in the ribs or stomach.
The other two adversaries immediately realised what he was attempting and lunged forward. Logre managed to lift his leg to kick one in the stomach, simultaneously pushing him away, kicking him towards the third man, and pushing off of him to ram the one restraining him against the brick wall behind them.
There was a telling crack followed by a guttural gasp of pain as Logre rammed his assailant into the wall at full force. From the sound of the crack, he had managed to smash the guy's head against the wall. The arms around him immediately loosen and he immediately attempted to slip away.
But the other assailant somehow dodged his flung companion and lunged toward him. He managed to snare Logre's right wrist in his hand while the other clamped the moisten rag firmly against his mouth and nose again. With one assailant struggling to his feet while the other slumped against the ground, the third man shoved Logre against the wall and pinned him there.
"I was warned you would fight back," he hissed.
Warned? Shit. It wasn't just an attack of opportunity. Someone planned it. But who could be behind this attack?
Despite his best effort, Logre needed to breath. And had unfortunately managed to get a good whiff of what was soaked into that rag. He immediately recognised the smell to be that of a sleep potion. Favourable in regards to poison, but still not something he wanted to endure right about now. It made him weak and dizzy.
And he knew that despite anything that happened in the next few minutes, he was going to succumb to the potion and fall asleep. Pass out. Or simply faint. Anything to do with unconsciousness. And he couldn't fight back if he was unconscious.
Even so, he still had to attempt an escape. He just had to do it quickly.
There was the sudden sound of feet scraping against the gravel-ridden ground. Then, seemingly appearing out of the darkness, a fist enclosed in heavy duty armour that was the colour of dark green, smashed into the side of his assailant's face. Logre could practically see chards of teeth mixed with blood and spittle fly out into the air from the force of the hit. The man's head whipped around to an ungodly angle before he was flung off of his feet. And fell to the ground.
When he fell, he fell hard. He didn't even bounce. He just hit the ground and stayed there.
Logre slumped against the wall behind him as he drew in deep breaths of fresh air, hoping to counter the effects of the sleeping gas used on him. He managed to stay on his feet, though he did rely heavily on the wall for support. Not good. The sleeping gas was going to take full effect soon.
As he panted, he peered at the figure in front of him. Though his vision was a little strained due to not only the sleep gas, but the darkness of the night, he could see that the one before him wore imperial armour. Armour that was a camouflage green. And they were tall. Very tall. Taller than him by at least a head.
They…they seemed oddly familiar somehow.
Logre couldn't help but wince though when they turned to face him directly. Because of the helmet covering their face, preventing him from gauging what kind of look they had on their face or even in their eyes. And he tensed when they reached out to him.
As the arms enclosed around him, surprisingly tenderly and yet firmly, Logre found himself dismayed that he was slow in any attempt to fight back. He could barely even manage a struggle when the armour clad imperial began to forcibly move him, pulling him from the wall and against them.
Logre's vision unexpectedly wavered and it took him a second to realise that he was being lifted up from the ground. Actually being lifted into a pair of arms and rested against steel plated armour. One arm was securely wound around his shoulders, the other under his knees. And somehow, despite the sharp edges of the imperial armour, his rescuer seemed to hold him close. In a familiar way.
Despite his current circumstance, Logre was surprised by the welling of embarrassment. He had literally been swept off of his feet and was being carried to safety. In an imperial knight's arms. So easily at that. What an absolutely stupid time and reason to get flustered.
Good lord, that was not a good look on him!
"W-what? Who?" Logre tried to struggle, but was hampered by the sharp edges of the armour his…rescuer wore.
So instead he was forced to tilt his head back to look up at them. Fruitless, since they wore a helmet, but he had to look. They felt so familiar to him somehow. As he gazed up he could see faint threads of red hair behind the dark green helmet.
Red hair. Huh. Joreden had red hair. Bright red. He remembered. He used to make fun of his natural grey hair while flaunting his perfectly crimson locks, as he called them.
…It was just a coincidence. Stupid to think about. He had more important things to worry about.
"I've got you," a husky voice emanated from inside the helmet. "…Logy."
…What?
No…
It couldn't be!
Logre's eyes widened and his breath hitched in his throat. All he could do was stare up at the green helmet, desperately searching for something. Did he hear right? That voice…That nickname.
Nothing else seemed to register around him. Not even when one of his assailants returned with a sword. Not when his rescuer stopped and simply raised a leg to kick the man right in his stomach and sent him backwards a couple of feet. He barely even registered the voices of his guildmates calling his name in alarm.
Despite his vision blurring, despite his heart racing, despite his guildmates demanding to know who the hell this guy was and what the fuck was going on, Logre shakily reached out toward that green helmet.
"Take it off," he ordered as his fingers skittishly tried to pull at the necessarily restraints keeping the helmet in place.
"Not now," that familiar voice replied as he tilted his head back slightly to move just beyond Logre's reach.
But Logre was having none of it. He wanted that damn helmet off. He needed to see. That voice and that nickname. No, it wasn't just some cruel coincidence. It wasn't. It couldn't be!
"Take off your fucking helmet!" Logre yelled as he lunged forward, still resting in the man's arms, and carelessly ripped the helmet from his head.
And he found himself staring into a pair familiar golden-coloured eyes.
Gold eyes. Red hair. Dark skin. A mole on the right side of his upper lip. Though there were a few added wrinkles and lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth, his face was exactly the same.
Jeroden…
A half smirk that was tinged with teasing mirth and was oh-so familiar slipped across the man's lips. "No need to be so rough, Logy," he said as the helmet tumbled from Logre's lax fingers.
Logre's arms fell listlessly over the man's shoulders as he continued to stare at him with unblinking eyes. Eyes that were slowly starting to blur. From the effects of the sleep gas.
And maybe even from tears.
…It really was him. Jeroden. He was alive.
That was the last thought that rolled through Logre's mind before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped forward against Jeroden's shoulder as he finally succumbed to the effects of the sleeping potion.