"Gabriel, this might be way too little too late, but pick up some ingredients." Tharja orders me emotionlessly. Another order like usual, which some might consider better than some frank aggression or repulsion. But a cold nothing can be way worse than the fullest of angers, or so says my stupid mind, as always.
"The usual?"
"Yes, the usual."
And then Tharja brings her small list to me. A careful read through its contents reveals some typical stuff, eyes of some ox, elixirs, and some other stuff. All in all, "the usual".
I think one week or a couple of days might have passed since our last interaction, in other words, time is still the same. It's always funny to think about it. One action can destroy a whole relationship that took months or even years to forge, but such is life. To always lose no matter what, the one maxim of life. It seems Cuba's bug has taken some hold on me. Who uses the word maxim, except philosophers and delusional fools?
"Gabriel, you have a task to do. Go now." Tharja gives me a glare, of course. Oh yeah, another maxim of life: you can never recover a destroyed relationship, just the semblance of it, but the essence can never go back where it used to be.
"Ok" And I left with no remorse. Tharja's glare has returned back to when we first met, of a stranger. Not anger nor disappointment, just an alien to deal with. That whole talk was for nothing, but that is life.
And so I get out of the room in a ringing silence. Just another task to be completed, as usual. How funny, we are inching ever close to the war and bloodshed, but it has been the most habitual of weeks. Repeat the action and what is left is just the same actions, leading to the same result. What a stasis! What a wonderful disconnection, to keep repeating until everything has become the same! In the end, it only comes to the old saying: old habits die hard.
After another round of ramblings and the boorish speech of the idiot foreigner, I pick up the same horse from the same good old Mustafa, to go the same route and to have the habitual delusions of my being! Seriously, what has gotten into me today?
Rambling and more rambling, don't you resemble the thing that mother always said? Stop angsting so much, what a selfish thing to do. In the end, you have this sole task and you must complete it, then await the war as usual.
...when will this war ever come?
Another question. It's funny how time works, it keeps repeating the same beats like a broken record, but before long it ceases to exist and everything stays the same, repeat for every single second, and alas! You have a lifetime.
Oh well, just another rambling down to the rabbit hole. Seriously, who can keep listening to this mess must receive a prize. After all, these ramblings inside these pointless riddles, in this purple prose of meaningless terms, what the hell do you think you are? A writer who never gets to the point!
Before long and after more of my downright rambling confusion, the desert I've always passed flashes through my eyes. But instead of the emptiness of the sand only inhabited by the daily solar heat, the Grima's skeleton seemingly grew up an inch, revealing more of its remnants. When did this happen? Is this a trickery of my foolish mind or did a bunch of bones moved around? Whatever, one more thing to ramble on. It is better than to face this utter boredom of a crossing.
The city comes to my gaze. The burning spices of the place forming a moribund red mist in the air, soaking the location in all its festive glory. One could say it is the soul of the city overflowing from the outside, however, the presage could be read in other ways. Whatever it is, it isn't that important.
Besides, is that one festival or event happening already? Well, if that proves to be a false answer, where it was only a simple prelude to something bigger, I may not want to see how cramped this capital will be once the real commemoration finally arrives
Coming to the crevice of this gate, instead of the usual patrols and robust and strict security enforced in it, the doors are open and even the most devout of Ylissean's priests could enter without a single hitch. Is the power of this so-called commemoration finally making these gatekeepers relax? This is going to be a weird day after all...
Meanwhile, while I watch in wonder at the abnormal happening, a gigantic procession enters the place. Every single men and women are dressed in black, as in the color of the darkest night, their clothes covering their entire bodies as their chants and prayer flow into the burning sky.
"Agrima Agrima Agrima," they whisper in conjunction as if they are one massive organism, one unstoppable machine, whose sole end goal is fanaticism and pure and utter devotion to the cause. Behold the power of it, the extent it controls and how we are a bunch of pawns to it. How scary is belief, our savior and destroyer, the messiah leaving us to sink down with a satanic savior and shaper of worlds. I'm merely an ant towards it.
I leave the horse and await the procession across the gates. Despite the extraordinary context and somewhat creepy scene, all returns to the same old habit. The guard watches just as anxiously as I'm bored. Another year, another festival, another war. Plegia still hasn't changed a single bit.
From there, I finally entered the place. Still the same labyrinthian mess of alleys. Even though the streets are empty, no doubt a preparation for the event to come. Still, a procession isn't the most likable of companions in a walk. Sadly, there isn't much to be done, just wait for them to get out of the way.
After that, I go straight to the store. The path was finally memorized. I just wish the bastard didn't decide to move to another place, but then again, I don't know how real estates are in Plegia when festivities happen. Wait, does Plegia even have real estate?
I enter the store.
"You again. Why did you come here?" Khalid says, quite irritated by my presence.
"I'm just here to buy stuff," I reply
"What do you want then?
I give him the list.
"Alright, let me pick up the items" And as such he starts to move away from the countertop and starts picking the items off the shelves. I tap my feet while I stare down at the place, waiting for the thing to be done.
"I'm still quite perplexed as to how you got way more talkative in these mere months, or dare I say it, more fluent." He sounds perplexed by the fact, almost as if he is still grappling with the implications.
"What are you talking about, my skills on plegian are rather lacking, I fear."
"See, I doubt someone with middling skill in plegian would be capable of uttering such phrases," Khalid replies with anger.
The doubt creeps out on me again, while I start to mentally count how many items are in the store. "Are you sure about that?"
"Of course I am! You, in a few months, came from not speaking at all to coming here and questioning me about politics in the messianic clans! Don't you see that your speech has developed at an absurd pace?"
Oh yeah, could be that.
"Perhaps. Still no," I replied to him as bluntly as possible.
"You are a clueless idiot," Khalid retorts while staring me back.
"You are right," I confirm, bitter with myself.
"Even then, I don't know who is a bigger fool. You, who somehow are still alive; or the people who tried to kill you, that somehow made a dark mage put a pointless goodbye insignia."
Well, I guess I made some weird achievement in ignorance, although quite an awful one at that.
"Probably me."
"How can you even know that? You are still alive for crying out loud! You have that sacrificial dagger! I guess your killers are the bigger fools here, only someone stupid would lose a treasure like that," the man spat, while he finished picking up the items and putting them in a bag. "Here it is, it will be 20 coins."
I give it to the man and pick up the bag.
"I will be closing down now. The festival is going to happen soon. Tell Tharja that I wish her a very happy Grima's happening," Khalid happily whispers a bittersweet feeling. In the end, this will be the last happy celebration for a while.
"I see. I will tell her that."
And I left.
To say I never had ever experienced a big commemoration would be one of the greatest lies I would ever tell anyone. Christmas, new year's commemoration, and of course, the cursed thing called Carnaval. Especially Carnaval, I didn't go out of the street to commemorate it, and when I had to get out, the smell of piss and alcohol and the loud music being played out which crossed entire blocks by itself would overtake and suck any good experience that I could have. But to say an entire week of lay off without going to school wasn't a good thing would be a great lie as well.
The thing I'm trying to say is, I really don't want to be in the epicenter or wear anything related to this event. But alas, life likes to sing in the same tunes, but in different keys. Or rather, as I might add, the irony is the world's greatest composer, making our little lives into his foreshadowing and often annoying music, making every victory more bitter and every loss sweeter.
"Gabriel, you shall be wearing this."
Tharja shows me the piece of cloth. To say it is revealing would be one of the understatements of the century, despite being luxuriously filled with obsidians and royal dark purples and blacks provided by the Fatimid clan's wealth.
I'm not at all thrilled with wearing this. Most of my chest is exposed while my arms are covered only by tiny amounts of cloth, and that is without the lack of pants or a more covering skirt. The only thing somewhat redeeming would be the headgear, since it's only the eye of Grima and nothing else, besides a subtle feather.
"Are you sure that I have to wear this, Tharja?" I ask a little confused, and at the same time horrified by the prospect of wearing the piece of revealment.
"Yes, you do. There isn't another option."
Fuck me.
"Ok, Just give me the clothes already."
I grab the clothes away from her and go to a more secluded place. I remove my robes and place them near my backpack and put on the revealing suit. It isn't all bad, it's way fresher than my old clothes, but the way it reveals my body parts, and would probably make me easier to spot for the general public to my utter dismay.
When I go back, I can see Tharja wearing her version of the commemorations fest. It is similarly skimpy like her usual clothing, but with navy blue coloring instead of black.
"Here," I say while pointing at myself and these ridiculous clothes.
"I already knew you were kind of sickly, but never to this point," She says while looking at my pale and skinny body while struggling to not make a surprised face
"I don't have any muscles to show, and that is way besides the point Tharja, even for yourself."
She sighs "You know you can't survive like this, right?"
"But somehow, I did".
"You are a lost cause." She stops caring and moves her face.
"I know."
"After this pointless discussion, we shall go to the festival, do you understand?" Tharja glares at me and my lack of fortitude.
"OK, I don't care anymore."
"You should be more grateful, it isn't every day that the Vessel is the main attraction," She complains, almost angry at the lack of devotion towards the Vessel.
"Whatever, is this more of a feast or a religious event?"
"It's both, but we are here to commemorate Grima and all the good he brought to this world and to remind us to do our duties to him," she states as a matter of fact
"And the duty is to do a massive feast in the capital?" I reply a bit confused.
"No, but most people treat that as such. I don't blame them, most of them can't read, so they wouldn't understand the whole point of this ritual."
"Wait, is this a ritual or not?"
"It is, but since the foundation of Plegia it has turned into a festivity, where we commemorate Grima."
So basically it's a party with religious symbolism. I wonder why that reminds me of something anyway.
"But why do we have to wear these clothes?"
"I don't know. Nor is it important. What is important is that you pay respects to her and watch her passing from afar. Sadly, I'm not allowed to get closer to her. Orders from my father..."
"I see, does it apply to me?" Tharja sweats at this innocent question.
"... since you are my assistant, the rules also apply." Although the answer couldn't be any simpler, hesitation came from her voice. As if the question was some kind of weird interrogation. To be fair, I have been interrogating over a murder attempt. She can't relate to it, she is too gentle with me to have any bad intentions on her mind.
"Any more questions, Bilac?" Tharja whispers to me in a cold comment. When did she ever call me Bilac? There is no bad intention from her, remember that Gabriel. Everything bad from people all around you is a creation of your mind, you are just trying to create an aggression where there is none.
"No, let's go."
She and I head to the festival.
As much as I have crossed this same path in different times to do the same thing, it is the first time in a while that Tharja and I did this stuff together. The passage to get into the city is a monotonous and, more often than not, quiet affair. No doubt over our lack of speaking skills, and, of course, not because of the event that transpired the last week or so….
We enter the massive gates mostly unharmed by the massive crowd pouring in. As if they decided it was a good idea to let most of the audience enter at the last possible minute, no thoughts given about possible consequences.
The massive crowd clinging to each other as ants to their queen marches towards an unknown route. A priest, wearing revealing clothes like mine, although with more religious overtones, like the Grima eye marking and way more purple, serving as the shepherd of the flock of common people. The ritual-festival comes across as for the entire world to see and wonder.
"We aren't going to cross this path," Tharja says while looking unsurprised at the crowd in front of us.
"Do we have another way in?" I question her. How the heck could she possibly know that? But then I remember she probably knows her way around the city way more than me. After all, she isn't the one who decided that being stuck in your own room was a good idea. Stupid me.
"Yes, wait," Tharja replies.
But before we could wait any more in this boredom of descriptions and crowd control, two guards came lavishly wearing chainmail with a golden touch, swords finely adorned with damascus steel, and helmets hiding their faces with only two eyes visible. Quite a contrasting figure compared to our more revealing clothing.
"Emir Ibrahim has told us to lead you to the main stage, Lady Tharja. Please follow me," says one of the guards, while both crouch in reverence towards Tharja. As for me, I'm ignored like just another rock. Not that I'm complaining.
"So lead us, then."
The guards look at each other in doubt.
"Us? We were told by Emir Ibrahim that you were alone, without anyone else."
Tharja sweats at the question, but she doesn't falter.
"Whatever, this isn't important. He is my assistant and I will bring him, like it or not. So do your task accordingly," she orders while gazing at the deep end of the eyes, therefore their souls. Both gulps at a high volume, the dark mage more threatening and powerful than any of the men hope they could ever be.
"Understood. We shall inform that you have brought a special guest-" But before they could finish, Tharja interrupted with the will of a monarch, the iron fist of a dictator and the coldness of Grima gazing down at her enemies, if they were only mere ants.
"No, he isn't. You two shall not communicate that I have any assistant nor that he has come to see the event to my father, understood?"
"Yes." and they escort us to the location.
"Tharja, why were you so blunt about letting myself not meet your father again, Ibrahim? Is something wrong with it"?
I ask while knowing the answer. Of course, Ibrahim is involved, but Tharja…of course she doesn't know this. Maybe it is to avoid embarrassing herself, or another attempt to create an image of an awful, edgy person. She isn't related to this case at all.
She hesitates before giving out any answer to me, almost gulping at it in sadness.
"It isn't important, Gabriel. It isn't important at all. You just need to follow my orders and everything will be fine., she says, almost trying to calm herself and hope for the best.
"I see. I will shut myself up, then."
We arrive at this "special" destination, an exclusive place of high society, where they can't mingle with the people of the lower classes.
"Here we are. Now Gabriel, please get out of my sight and don't you dare be anywhere close to me, understood?" Tharja threatens me with the furious lull of a high revolting sea.
And as such, I comply with the order and go somewhere as far away from the dark mage as humanly possible. With that out of the way, Tharja gets out and follows the guards, disappearing in the stairways located in the center of this ring, leading possibly to an exclusive cabin to her and her dad and, of course, the other messianic clans.
But as for me, I shall have to contend with this floor. Not that I'm complaining about it. The place is made of bright hues of purple and saffron in the constitution of the walls and the ceiling, the ground covered with expensive tapestry retelling the mythological foundation of Plegia. Validae and Fell dragon. The numerous kings and conflicts. The place smells like aged wine, which makes my stomach churn at it, but I ignore my sickness and begin to explore the circular area.
Most of this area follows these patterns of tapestry. There isn't a chair or any type of pillow where one could comfortably sit, and there is always a statue of some messianic leader. Did they put them inside this place to show how much they truly control Plegia right now or was it always like this? Well, messianic history is something way beyond my grasp, what a bunch of wasted months.
And upon entering the final room, where a wall separates the ring, there is a massive painting standing as big as the height of this entire floor. Reflet stood in it with a regal image to her, a crown and a mark of Grima etched onto her, while the whole old figures of plegian society all looked up to her: kings, prophets, poets, calligraphy, and so on and so forth. The leader of this new earth smiles smugly as if the messianic sect knew from the start that she would win this conflict, but that we shall see. Although I can't complain about their plans, after all, I'm betting the same as them.
Still, I can't help but look at it with a bitter feeling in my gut. Despite the artist doing their best to represent her, they only represented her physical side. Although she could have a smug smile like that, she isn't the Reflet I know nor is she only this God reincarnated being. The truth is, she is way more than this or whatever they want to represent, but it's a political image after all.
In the end, as things often are in history, biases are ever present and should be the job of a historian to try to reflect what she changed and not what she exactly was, but I hope one day they can see her alongside her role as the Vessel, but that is enough rambles for one single day already.
In front of the place where I am, nobles crowd this place with conversation and their little intrigues, but thankfully there aren't any topics related to me and more for the Vessel, the first one after that war with Chrom's dad. A different topic being told for once.
As for me, I don't recognize anyone here, and with my rather asocial attitude and lack of love for meeting these new people, all while getting a gut feeling and my brain screaming to get out of there, I move out of the final room, towards an area with more ample space, and go straight to the rails and gaze at the stage of this new commemoration.
It is an oval arena, surrounded by all sides and with four major gates, where even massive arms could be put inside and they could go out towards the center and there wouldn't be any problem in their occupation, the area is more than enough for over 10000 people. But beyond it, there are four black obelisks facing each direction, etched with religious scriptures and the most important part is a massive pillar, which could only be accessed by a humble stair. Whatever the person who is standing in there, to become the main attraction and star of the show
But beyond the area, there are common people in their seats, waiting for the show to start. I like to think this is like their Carnaval, with Reflet and all other possible spectacles being the blocos and we, the audience, waiting for them to come. Add some more religious flavoring on top and then you got the name of this event, which I can't even be bothered to remember anymore. Talk about a guy who should know more.
And so we wait, but it doesn't take too long. The first sign that it would begin soon arrives: Validar himself alongside two other people comes in. Do they belong to other Grimleal sects? Or is this some kind of self-exaltation of how the messianic are way better than other sects? I don't know, but back home I would be betting on the latter, as religion isn't something to joke about and fanaticism can lead people to do something even they themselves wouldn't probably do without the context in mind.
The few seconds waiting for his speech are of an insatiable anxiety, a sickening and alienating wait upsets my stomach and mind. It will start sometime, won't it? But the more seconds pass, the more the idea this show would start becomes improbable and absurd as if staring at the wall waiting for that one moment where things will click and start. Then his voice comes.
"Oh, Children of Plegia! The great followers of Grima, the Fell Star, and children of the fallen moon shall suffer no more! For as of now, after the numerous ends and beginnings of the ebbs of Plegia, the Vessel stands before us ready to receive Grima and end this cycle once and for all!"
"For this commemoration is not only the beginning of the end but the birth of new time, where the cycle lays broken and the revelation becomes the law! Oh, children of Plegia, isn't this but the greatest bliss and reward one can hope to attain? For in the end, what matters is Grima and their law!"
"But as of now, I shall no longer extend my words. They are unnecessary and only serve to stop our glorious future. Agrima."
Validar gets out and pushes the other two men alongside him.
And the world goes silent again. But before any of the dust can settle and people can process the little speech of the high priest of the messianic sect, a column of men and women enter from the four corners of the arena, the procession from earlier reuniting to form this black mass of clothes and flesh as the sounds of intense and steadfast prayers pray upon the ear.
"Fell start, cyclebreaker"
Not this again.
"Rescue us from this age,"
Damnation is what awaits you in the end.
"Of lies and deceit,"
For in the end, Grima will not save you,
"Burdens and false gods,"
And bears the same fault as you.
"For we await you, messiah"
For I await you, Reflet.
"The child of the fallen star,"
The good person hiding beneath this vessel image,
"Leave this reality to asunder"
You don't need to be this
"To rot away like many other"
Nor need to destroy the world.
"Leaving only it, ash and blood"
Nor kill its inhabitants.
"And punish its maker" just bear this little world with us.
"To a new being emerge"
For me and you just have little time.
"To recover the sun"
To read a small part of it
"And recreate the moon"
And discover its wonders.
"To the rebirth,"
For death is our only constant.
"To death,"
And rebirth may not exist,
'To the broken sun,"
To be able to savor the moon
"To the created moon,"
And see the bittersweet sun
"AGrima,"
Reflet.
The prayer doesn't affect me as much as I thought. They are only people doing what they think is the best for them, but isn't that true for every religion anyways, or even human beings for that matter? In the end, the few things in life common to everyone is to struggle to no end and to try to find refuge in something and not sink into the abyss.
Then, a lady with white hair comes out, not a single smile irradiates from her nor a frown. Just pure blankness. Despite wearing clothes of commemoration just as revealing as mine, she is even a worse fit than me, the colors otherwise fitting her figure and regal imposition to the world, just mark her foul ascent into the stage. Now the center of attention of the world. I wonder what she is feeling, anger, disgust or just sheer embarrassment? Whatever it may be, what a bitter reminder.
The audience looks at her, waiting for the confident Vessel they heard so much about. The one who stood amidst the higher world and would give a new reality to every one of them, the world that the messianic want. But she doesn't do anything, just stands there like a worn-out statue. Is the spotlight affecting her that much?
A visible aura begins to emit from her, a faint purple, almost always seeping from existence as if it is afraid to show itself to the entire world, the image of this powerful and all standing Vessel seemingly cracking into our eyes. But from the sudden flash of this hidden power, little tendrils begin to emerge from this floating magic, spreading like roots in the ground as it forms a humble base to spread its foliage.
But from these humble seeds of power, the tendril stops being an orderly and ornate being. It eats the air, consuming it into becoming a bigger possession in the world, slipping into every single vacuum of the air. A blob in which everything becomes dark as every single second passes, as the power accumulates into the crevice inside as the Vessel goes from a person to something else.
From there, a humble hand emerges from the inside of the power blob. Burning eyes light up in it as they become red dots into the amorphous form. And with that, the Vessel closes its hand.
What once stood as a spherical form, a cocoon from which Grima may emerge in this metamorphosis of being and power, ruptures to greet a new single being. The energy contained inside this shell forms into a tendril that contortion, agglutinate, and pierces into the air with uncontrollable nature, the jaws and the claws of the Grima standing with us. The dark god within her.
But among these unstoppable surges and crescendos of power chipping away from reality, one stands out from the others, eating all others to form this one massive tendril, from which Grima makes a massive obelisk above her. A solid black cloud without inscription, devoid of any symbolism or other mannequin of power. From it, rays arose from the tip connecting into the other four. A star-like shape forms above and from there, spikes of electricity come out and then there's a sudden explosion.
The central obelisk is still intact and Reflet unfettered as the location rumbles in the will of the Fell Dragon, cracks emerging from our humble location, as the tremors make me almost fall to the ground, the world submitting to the whims and wishes of Grima, as she makes this place her personal sandbox.
From the explosion, bright hues flicker into every crevice of the room as the energy seeps into us. Her eyes gaze at every single form it could watch, as the painting moves from their limited space, springing to life, speaking in prayers. The distinction between what is real and what is not, becomes null, unexisting. The spectacle of non reality begins and takes the helm of the absurdity.
The fright consumes me into submission. How can one even stand inside it and not cower in fear? The being promised by the messianic shows its true power into the world, turning even the most powerful of dark mages into ants. Such is her fascinating and terrifying control over her powers. What can be done, but to just gaze at her? Grima, the conveyor of this power and its sole owner, stands emotionless in front of it as if it's only a mere spell even children could do without effort.
But with a single flick of her fingers, the ensuing chaos stops, the paintings stop talking and the obelisk ceases to exist. The rumbling ends while I recover my footing on the ground, taking my sweet time to breathe again. But instead, everything just becomes void, nothing.
There is simply nothing, only the sound of people. Every single source of light is extinguished, as whispers from everyone wait for what shall be her next course of action. Besides them, I look for something to stabilize my ragged breathing as the anxiety consumes me as if everyone were gazing at me without a single care.
Despite my lack of vision, the sound of ash being pulled out from the ground cracks the place, as the scrap coming from the destruction floats in the air. My presumptions only come from these faint sounds.
Then these fragments of ash covering the stadium form into a ball, little nooks and crevices being created and holes being formed, grey in its color. Humble lines of aura cover it and it emits a light, so weak it's barely perceptible. It is a moon, a created moon, as some might say. What is she planning to do? I fear what may be her next action, but can't do anything except watch.
Then, little by little, rays begin to emerge into the darkness of the area. It isn't the dark purple color favored by the messianic or the Grimleal. But rather than the bright orange that one could see in a sunset of a passing day, a bittersweet one. And as it moves, another massive ball begins to form and from there, the two celestial bodies rotate around each other. Could she be trying to form this world's version of a solar system?
The moon is illuminated by it. Despite its massive form, it's more fickle and fizzles on and off from existence, instead of giving storms of solar rays.
From the sand of the pit, Reflet makes a humble earth, not as colorful as the one I would find in a map, but still way better than anything I could make. And put between the sun and the moon, despite looking stable at first, the orb trembles and shackles a lot in this performance. Could she be starting to falter?
Cracks begin to emerge in the construction, a bright beam expands from the inside of the earth's crust and it shakes. The earth explodes and from there, a blinding light comes from it, everything ceasing to exist. The darkness again ensnares us from its shackles, but underneath it, it feels more warm than it could have possibly been. As if something was hugging me and refused to stop.
Then, notes spread into the air, the sound of multiple ouds resonating their melodies against the backdrop of snaring drums, a symphony for the being on there. Chants in ancient plegian with indecipherable lyrics screamed at the top of their lungs by the invisible choir. And from there, the purple light from the mouth of infinity comes as powerful, illuminating the world in its knowledge. The massive fell dragon emerges from it as the audience remains silent.
But in the center of it all, Reflet dances and dances, contorting her body to the rhythm of their song, but with all the glory befitting of her standard. Moving her arms, controlling all the light in the arena, every single strategic movement done to make Grima the most impressive creature that ever existed. To some, they might say, this sole dragon is the true maker of these fantastic events and therefore the most memorable thing in this event. But as for me, I have another opinion.
And from there, the dragon comes to the top and explodes into the eye of Grima. All gazing eyes, the cherry on top of the Grimleal symbolism and wonder. And from there, it irradiates Reflet and a new earth, one entirely made from the purple rays of magic. It sheds into little parts and the audience explodes in euphoria, acting as if it were the most wonderful thing in the world.
The sheds begin to disappear, never to emerge again. One comes in contact with me and I grab it with my hand, holding it tightly and it never flickers away from existence. The particle is humble but happy at the same time. I can't help but be content with its little existence.
I decide to look at the main stage. And from there I can see Reflet doing her usual greetings, but then she notices me and conjures a stupid big smile that covers her face from ear to ear, as its warmness comes to me. I can't help but greet her back and hear her say
Glad you liked it
Reflet is happy.
After the ovation of the main course, most of the nobility and others decide to focus on their internal intrigues, Reflet at this point goes out of the center stage as other acts make their way. Of course, all of them are related to Grima in some capacity, but I could care less to see them. There is so much more to be done, like discovering whatever Tharja is doing and how Ibrahim relates to it. So if that's out of the way, I begin my little search into this general area of the building.
Trailing off from the scheming nobles, I look for a way to go directly to the stairs. Guards are standing over there, wary for any outsider to be able to enter. Sadly there isn't another entrance, so I begin to circle around the guards, like a bear attracted to honey. To be honest, I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
The guards notice: "Why are you circling around here?"
"I want to go there," I tell them bluntly. "I'm a servant of the Fatimids, after all"
"We got it. You aren't in."
"Why?" I reply surprised
"If you were a servant you would be with them in the first place, so get out." They don't scream, but they keep their blades at bay, in case I enter without permission. What am I going to do?
Then a suspicious man comes towards me
"Psttt, here you shorty."
Oh no, that goddamn spy.
I approach him and we go to a more secluded area of the place.
"Thankfully you were going to the area of interest," he says relieved.
"So the mission was always going to be entering there?" I ask the rhetorical question.
"Yes, I can offer you a way in, but…"
"I have to do the task then, right?"
He smirks at my question. "Exactly. Your objective is very simple, you only need to do some slashing, if you know what I mean?"
Implying the thing is the most obvious thing in the world.
"What?" I remain steadfast in maintaining my poker face.
"You didn't understand? Anyways you will need this," he brings out a dagger from his pocket. The sacrificial dagger!
"Did you look at my stuff!?" I immediately grab the weapon away from him. The bastard will pay for doing that with my stuff!
"Yes, but that isn't important, considering everything you ever wrote is a bunch of unintelligible scribbles."
Seu filha da mã-!
Calm down, it would be way worse if he was capable of reading this stuff. I guess I got something out of that other Bilac after all.
"To be as blunt as possible, you are going to need to cut some things," he says without a single hesitation.
"What?"
"Do you want to get in or not?"
Fuck. Whatever, I'm going to take whatever this slashing is. I need the guy to get out of my feet
"I want to get in."
"Good. It's very simple, when you look at something with a white cloth, you will cut it no matter what, only that," he states without a second thought.
"Don't need to be people, just white cloth."
"Only that?" I'm surprised, only that?
"Only that and you will be free. You will also be handsomely paid." He says without a single hint of lying.
"I got it. But how the heck will you be able to make me get into this place? They already know that I want to get in."
"I have a plan."
And he goes towards the guards.
"Why did you stop him from entering the stairs?" He asks politely, even doing a humble gesture.
"He didn't enter, because why would a servant not be able with his guest?" they reply, not giving a single damn about his "kind" gesture.
"Sadly, you seem to have forgotten that in fact, he is a servant. Don't you see the dagger he carries?" And he points at me while I hold the dagger.
"Why would a servant be carrying a dangerous weapon along with him? He is clearly someone with second intentions, sir."
"Well, what if I told you that the weapon is in fact a sacrificial dagger?"
The guards are taken aback by the question. Khalid wasn't kidding this thing was a big deal
"What? How did one of the families lose a treasure of theirs?"
"Well, you don't seem to remember, but a while back there was a man who was judged for killing a fellow noble?"
"Do you know how little this narrows it down?" they reply without a single care in the world.
"Well, boys don't hasten yourselves. We are here to allow a proper man to go serve his lord."
"He could very well want to kill them."
"If so, why do so in such a blunt manner and with such a weapon? If, as you might say, he truly wanted to kill his lord, he would have done so earlier."
"What makes you think that?"
"Well, do you want me to go into the arguments or allow this humble man to do his job correctly?"
"We aren't here to discuss things." The spy's tension became obvious. His every single attempt failed. What the hell is he going to do next?
"What a shame then," and he brings out a seal with a sign out of his pocket.
"Wait, you are with the entourage of Lord Jibril?' the guards ask exasperated.
"Yes, I am. And I know this man well enough to tell you he doesn't have any second intentions."
"We will allow it then, but you are going to guard him. The king doesn't want any interruptions. Do you understand?"
"I understand you very well., I wouldn't do it in any other way."
And he managed to get us in. Walking on the stairs, doubt comes to my mind.
"Why didn't you show that you have an entourage with your clan earlier?" I bark at him. He could have avoided this mess from the beginning, but no. I have to try to conceive someone!
"Shut up, this is the last resort. Do you understand how risky that was?" He snarls at me, as sweat begins to form on his brow. "We need to be extra careful know. I will reunite with my lords and you do your objective: slash any white cloth"
"How do you want me to search for any white cloth in the first place?" I question him, perplexed at how he thinks this is the simplest task ever
"Simple, you can gather in the messianic area. They don't search for anyone and so they will not care if you enter. After all, you are a servant. You just go directly straight and you will be in the messianic area in no time. I think I don't need to tell you what the symbol is, right?"
"Uhhh" I falter and let my ignorance be shown.
"You are completely clueless. Anyways, when you see a mark of Grima, you shall know you are there. And you will go now." He separates from me and does not even say goodbye. To be fair, it wouldn't be any different if I were him instead.
And with that out of the way, I cross into the area relegated to the upper nobility. And to say the extravagance of this place is enormous would be a massive understatement. Tapestries adorn every single floor and wall of the place, all of them telling stories and complex geometrical patterns inscribed into it.
The food made with the finest spices, the smell of nutmeg, peppers, and cinnamon floats in the air with single care as the smell of wine permeates the entire place. New orders coming from everywhere, entire families reunited. No doubt every single major clan is in this place.
Instead of focusing on sightseeing the place, I decide to focus on searching for this symbol. Time is of the essence, and getting the guy away from me as early as possible is a blessing unto itself.
After a round of searching in what possible place this lion's den or, as I should put it, dragon's lair, I encounter the symbol indicating the area restricted for the messianic religion. To my surprise, the guard just shrugs off my presence and lets me in, while the eye of Grima watches me, its pupil almost gazing at me. I pay it no mind and enter.
Inside the place, the architecture changes. There is no saffron, only purple, black, and golden. The stark contrast from before doesn't go over my mind. It's like entering into a void and knowing how everything is different from the outside. Dark contrast of purple laiden walks with the dark rocks in the ground, while the pillars contort themselves to hold this place together, looking more like roots than concrete.
Shivers go down my spine as the same contraception of the shrine in the Palace appears.
Grima's skull bleeding out from the eyes is the main calling card of the place. Almost as if it is their version of Christ crucified back in the church back home. I notice its pupils staring back at me while they cry in pain. I go near it, and before long it stops gazing as if it wasn't sentient at all.
How long will it be before this gets far worse? Despite my luxurious clothes, most of the people are wearing the same type as mine, just with different variations of color design. I wonder how I couldn't be recognized by the guards before, considering my design is probably messianic. Well, probably Tharja's guard told them not to allow me, but that doesn't explain how they allowed me in so easily. This day is getting worse
Whatever, there is no turning back in here. Going without a single smile or care in the world, I cross the barrier between the somewhat sane world to this insanity. The place where the messianic mingle with each other.
The place is packed with people with all colors in their vestments. Reds, blues, greens and so on and so forth. The waves of discussion float in the air, as the conversation goes from how mind boggling the Reflet's amazing performance was to when Grangel and Validar are going to announce the war to the public. Sadly, there isn't any presence of any white cloth. The mission is going to be long, isn't it?
Did they decide the war is going to happen already? I don't know, but what I do know is the gaze of someone. And a disbelieving voice comes with it. It isn't Tharja, though.
"Hey, you" I try to ignore them, but they pick me up by the shoulder and turn me around. What comes to my visage is a tallish man with pale skin and dark long hair, almost like a male Tharja, with navy blue as the color of the clothes.
"What do you want?" I reply annoyed. Of course, time is trickling down with every second wasted in these meaningless conversations.
"You look similar to someone I've met many months ago." He states. What the hell is he talking about?
I give no thought and give him the blunt message. "And this matters in any way?"
He shrugs it off, although he is quite taken back by the rudeness. "Well, sorry. You remind me of a guy that was never capable of speaking the language. I heard he has died." he says while having a somewhat solemn look. "But this is for the better and a merciful thing to do. He doesn't need to suffer anymore. And besides, he has become something way more than he could ever hope to achieve individually. If you know what I mean."
This isn't related in anyways to Tharja. How many other foreigners could apply for the same role as me that I don't know? We are dealing with statistical facts, right? Of course, I'm not supposed to be dead, right?
"Yes, I know what you mean. Anything more to add or can I go now?"
"Sorry. I don't blame you for not being interested, but It seems that the war council war is going to start. I guess we should go towards it, right?"
Oh no.
Anyways, I got the first seat to the tragedy. What a wonderful gift to this most wondrous day. Funny how death follows me, huh. "Yes, we should."
And from there, we go to the council, before any announcements can be talked or revealed, the room gets fuller, as people want to watch the council what would be decided for the future. I gaze at the area downstairs. The leaders of each house and their heir or advisor are in their seats, while at the farther end sits, with boredom on his face, Gangrel. And, on his left, Validar. Let's see how the left hand fares much against the right hand. On the other side, I spot Ibrahim and Tharja.
Wait, was Tharja the heir all along? How much is she hiding from me exactly?
This isn't important, what matters is the smug look on Ibrahim's face. The man makes imaginary pirouettes all the way, satisfied with himself.
The other houses, not so much. The grand majority grab their fingers all the way through, the tension and what must be the final verdict. If this goes as planned, we can say this council was rigged from the start.
"Your Majesty, frankly, could you stop being so stubborn in your ways and listen to what we have been saying since the inception of your rule? This war is going to cost our relationship with the other nations and kill our economy! Could you rein yourself in for once?!" A noble snaps, failing to hold his anger.
"Emir Jibril, could you please listen to your own madness? This war isn't going to end only the Halidom, if Regna Ferox is also out of our way, Plegia will dominate this continent. Wouldn't it be good for this holy place's profits to hold a monopoly over the landmass? After all, Walhart and his empire are doing pretty well with their conquest. Why should this be any different?" Ibrahim replies, scoffing at the man while giving himself a shit eating grin. Tharja recoils from her father.
"Of course, Ibrahim. You and your gang of messianic crazies are driving the king to madness! These clans are a disgrace to Plegia. Can't you accept that the fell dragon died a thousand years ago? Know when this daughter of this madmen claims to be this vessel, you come and take the rightful throne of the people to destroy this sacred place in the name of a cult who never, since the inception of this holy place, was ever capable of achieving the so-called resurrection of Grima. What you are doing is a disgrace. I hope your majesty Grangel comes to your senses and stops this crazy war from happening." Jibril almost screams at Ibrahim. He barely controls his anger before going back to his seat, trying to restrain himself.
Gangrel rises from his lazy throne and announces with a snarl. "As much as your naggings could help Plegia, I find them to be useless. Just shut up for once and listen to me, you idiots. The war is going to happen. You will have to accept it. Unless, of course, you want your titles to be stripped, right? Go for it, attack me!" No leader dares speak against him and he just starts laughing at them, thinking they are his pawns.
"Finally, you people understand. You graduated from being idiots to being less of idiots. We hold the power here. This is my final decision. Ylisse will pay with blood and there won't be any moment where you fucking cretins are going to interrupt it, understand?" Gangrel almost screams, resembling more a child with an imaginary revenge list on him than a proper regal king. Truly, a child to lead them. In the end, nobody tries to respond or make some sound argument. After all, speaking with a wall can only lead to being called insane or a waste of your breath.
"Finally! I'm so happy you people get it for once!" he says, cackling to himself.
Then comes Ibrahim with a smile, almost trying to congratulate him, and asks "How are you going to announce this to the public?"
Gangrel rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Who said we are going to tell the public? This is war and the ylissean shall be completely clueless on attacked them. They need to know how much I- we suffered. They don't deserve a single good thing. So Ylisse and the ylissean will be punished no matter what." The man rants with the vivacity of a wannabe dictator, but without any of the charisma. Most would assume we are dealing with a person who was born a thief, for fuck's sake.
Regardless of this "speech", I gaze at the person in the room who is the only thing in this place I give a damn. Tharja is frowning all the way through, although she hides behind her father. And not exactly from the war, I feel. More like from how the mad king portrays himself to be. I don't blame her a single bit. To even give the creep a single thought is already enough to suck the entire energy from my body, but that is a common thread for all people who hate madmen in power. Such is the commonality of man, or so I like to tell myself.
"The war has started huh? I thought it would be a little bit ceremonious, though. Don't you agree?" The pale man speaks, I don't reply to him immediately, and let my mind do the work for me.
"Not really. The Gangrel's speech is ceremonious enough."
He laughs at my comment. "Right, right. From a guy who has the most dour face I've ever met, you seem to have a sense of humor."
I don't reply back.
"C'mon, don't be so negative. We still have to commemorate, things are finally in motion." he says with a happy face as if the war was only a pressing thing for the future and not a present engulfing us all.
I entertain him. "Maybe. I have yet to see what the consequences of this are."
And I frown at it. This isn't going to be pretty at all. Besides that, I have cut some white cloth as of now, and I'm free from the bastard in the end.
"Oh, stop with all this being negative and frowning." he laughs. "You are reminding me of my sister."
I listen intently."So your sister is also antisocial and frowns all the time." While having a stoic face, and trying not to crack over meeting some relatives.
"Yeah, I care about her. But she sometimes gives glares that give me shivers. She has always been like this, this frowning person. But she cares deep down."
Don't tell me, he is…
"It must be somewhat awful, then." I reply, while trying to avoid his face.
"It isn't that bad, just leave her to do her things and she becomes very docile."
Define docile, but I don't think the definition would apply to any version of her.
"I got it" And we talk until we go back to the normal area, where people meet, then I keep noticing people with a white cloth over them. I keep my gaze on them.
"Have you ever seen Abbasid in your life?" The pale man asks
"Wait, Abbasid?"
"Yeah, they are the people who wear white most often."
No, oh no. That was his plan from the start, wasn't it? Filha da puta! Filho da puta! I grab the dagger as tightly as I can, as I try not to freak out over the new torrent of information. That was it, that was the reason, he didn't care at all. I was only a pawn, I was supposed to do the final mission.
To assume this death. To turn into a martyr for a cause I didn't join. To be born into another, to live in my world until 16 years old. And to live until and die at 17 years or 18 years of killed death and not died death. What a severine life and death, the one which nobody wishes, but always receives.
What a cursed life in this place, to plot and fail and to not be able to thrive, but only rot away in this guide. Everything will get worse, no doubt. Everything that can get worse, will get worse. This is only the tip of this iceberg!
"Are you alright?" The man replies a little bit worried. I notice my mistake and go back to what is supposed to resemble a poker face. I doubt it will work though.
"I am" I whisper to myself.
"Are you really sure? You seemed like you were about to explode!" He talks exasperated. Did I affect him this much?
"Just ignore it. it is nothing"
"If you say so, then it is"
I Keep imagining the ways that I would end his life. How to kill him in the most painful way and the other colorful imaginations of an angry mind can only conjure. I breathe in and breath out, trying to remove this little bit of anger in me, and slash it away.
Then the all-powerful shame comes to haunt me in the worst way. Gnashing on my spirit and destroying me more than any possible physical pain could, no matter how excruciating it may be. A hateful day for a hateful person, I deserve this in the end and keep my head somewhat lowered, but not enough to not be able to see what is in front of me.
"Were you able to contact your sister?" A female voice comes from somewhere, a little bit cold and without any single restraint to hide it.
"Mother, I wasn't able to do it yet. Tharja is with father." The tallish man replies. There's no shadow of a doubt, I'm speaking with Tharja's family. Could this get any worse?
"I see. I have something that I must speak with her about."
"Don't worry, she will be here soon. Father is probably dealing with the leadership about something," he replies without any worries.
"Besides, what is this sickly man you are walking with?" Oh no, why did this happen to me?
"Oh him? I don't know his name, but he is a fine person. Don't worry."
"What is your name, young man?"
Dammit, what should I answer? "My name is Gabriel."
"A foreigner's name. Were you invited here? Foreigners don't often appear in this place, you know that?" Tharja's mother interrogates me. I scramble, trying to find a single answer or something that could make it plausible for me to be here.
"Well, I work for a dark mage and they allowed me to enter, although they quite got lost among so many people." I reply while trying to make the straightest face possible. Not that it wasn't as hard, I'm technically telling the truth.
"So why aren't you trying to find them?" The woman presses even further with her eyes. One small misstep and I can say that my life will end in a single moment.
"You see, my master... they are rather antisocial, and they prefer for me to abstain from making contact with them." I answer back. So far so good, and the woman seems to be a little satisfied with the answer.
"I understand. Dark mages are indeed hard people to work with. My daughter is one. And she is a little bit hard to deal with, doesn't make her any more lovely." Is Tharja's mother somewhat normal? What is going on? Is this some kind of weird prank?
"I see. It's nice to meet you," I say while humbling myself to her. She doesn't get flustered or anything, it is another bow of another man to the lady of the clan Fatimid. It's weird when I think about it, I've never met any of her brothers, sisters or even her mother. And for the first time I'm meeting them, it seems the fact is mutual.
They never heard of the foreign Gabriel until now. Life only keeps getting weirder and weirder. How didn't they notice my clothing? It isn't a Fatimid design? Or is it more generic? if it is the latter, I'm forever thankful to Tharja, then.
"Oh well," I say, "I might as well reunite with them-" but before a reply comes, a man comes. There isn't any anger in his voice. I feel just plain old familiarity in it as if I had heard it a thousand times as if I truly knew him from the start. But within him, he gazes at me with perplexity, as if the impossible just happened. As if in the end I should have…
"Why is a dead man speaking amongst the living? How is it? He was supposed to have died long ago. How in Grima's name is a carcass speaking with my family? What is a damned being is doing among us?"
I gaze at the man. It is Ibrahim. The man who employed me so long ago. The man who, right now, claims I'm dead.
"Why is that foreigner still alive?" he claims high and loud, insinuating that, like a broken being, I'm this impossibility. The very fact that I stand in his gaze at this very moment results in the inevitability of a clash. Is this the end? Why is he claiming my death? Oh no, he was related from the start, wasn't he? The single time I watched him back in the palace, where he gazed for the first time in a long while at me, he was seeing a supposed dead man.
"Wait, you aren't Bilac, are you? Tharja's brother says as surprise comes to his face, that of one who sees a ghost, a corpse walking.
"How are you still alive?" Tharja's mother whispers in a cold tone, disgusted by the very fact I exist among them. They were planning my death all along. Tharja isn't related to this, isn't it? No please no. For the love of everything that is sacred and loving, don't tell me this. Please no. Stop, stop.
"Gabriel, why? You aren't supposed to be here," she says in a cold tone of disappointment.
"Tharja, please don't tell me you are all related to the assassination attempts against me. Please, tell me!"
For the first time in a while, I could see the first crack in Tharja, the embarrassment as she looked away from me. My denial no longer stood up to the truth, Tharja was related to it all. The memeoriam told me that from the start! Why… why… why!? It was all related!. In the end, I was trying to hide from the cold truth all along. Tharja was related to it, and I wish that weren't true.
This was pointless from the beginning. I start laughing to myself while trying not to cry. In the end, does either of the two options matter to the truth? Tharja bears the responsibility in my murder attempts and she knew it from the start. Why didn't she tell me earlier!? Here I was thinking that she cared. Did she ever truly care? I hate this, all of this.
"So that was it, I was supposed to be murdered and my life was never important to you? I was only a mere lab rat, truly disposable at that?" I scream at her from the top of my lungs, as my limbs and mind give in to dyscontrol and anger.
Tharja whispers to me "Gabriel… that isn't the truth…. I-" she cracks as if the mask of stoicism and frowning were no more.
"Stop, just stop! I shouldn't even give a single damn anymore! Just why? Just give me the truth." I couldn't stoop any lower. I resemble more a pathetic creature, in the end, a being only made to be sacrificed. "To your eyes and every single Fatimid bastard, I was only what? A random sacrifice? My identity isn't important and I should be eliminated and fed to a god?"
This is truly hell. This is the only hell that is. I'm so tired… I'm so tired…. I run away from everyone stumbling through the crowd, leaving everyone behind too, and leaving Tharja alone.
In the end, you can never trust people. They are always going to betray you. Just like mother. Just like mother said.
I don't scream, but I can't help but lose complete control of myself as I breathe my way into vomit. Everything becomes a blur. And I curse this hellish city, this cursed place that brought me in. And the person who I thought I could trust. What a naive asshole I am. In the end, to be betrayed is the law.
I run away from the city and cross this place, this decrypt and wretched hive. But before I can get in my room and never get out of it, Grima's skeleton rises, its bony wings ready to fly. And underneath the shadows made by it...
There is a rose blooming underneath Grima.
That was part I.
Now Gabriel is in an even better situation than in the beginning, it makes you wonder if he has been blessed with the luck of someone like Candide, well at least he doesn't have to contend if this is the best of all possible world or if optimism is a viable philosophy after all.
Anyways special thanks to Cavik for Beta reading this chapter. And also, I want to thank all for the people following and reading this story of mine. I still didn't know how you people read the first chapter of this fic, with all bad grammar and at the same time obscure and way too obvious references with my pretentious writing style, and decided "This is good, let's read what there is to it. For that, I'm very thankful!
Also, I want to announce that I will be taking a hiatus for the month of July for two reasons. First, in July my IRL will be pretty occupied, so I will not be able to update the story as much I would like to. Second, my writing schedule is pretty late, because it was a headache to write chrome leaving me without any chapters to release, so in that month try to write as much as my time in that month allows it to do and this will also allow me to give more an in-depth look to see what can work in the second part because I want to be way better than this first arc ever or could ever be. I do not promise miracles though, so don't expect much of the next chapters or so.
I can be found in discord if you want to discuss fics, you can hope in. Here is the link: discord. gg / 9XG3U7a
UDtimburrhog: Thanks a lot for the review! Glad are you liking it so far, but I will say that It doesn't feel that I have progressed much in my writing, but I may be very wrong.
Stormtide Leviathan: Yes, hope this change of perspective makes the war a little bit more spicy and more interesting. Yes, I pick up a lot of the way I narrate and write out of books of literature because I really love lit fic and poetry, heck I named Gabriel's full name after Olavo Bilac and Raimundo Corrêa, two parnassian poets.
Although I will be honest, I feel quite ashamed of my interest, because I consider my knowledge of the classics books of Brazil and other countries' literature to be really shallow at best, I didn't read all the poems of either poet and what I can claim of reading is the most well-known books of literature and never really the more obscure, because of my utter lack of knowledge.
And also, because, in general, lit fic isn't a popular thing to read about, like fantasy, sci-fi, and such, especially on fanfiction circles and such, so I feel that read something that isn't that worthy.
Anyways, I take a lot out of the way I write out of Machado de Assis, his cynical and witty narrators, dark themes, fourth wall breaks, and tons of references to other works of literature, to the point of quoting a phrase of a book in its original language. Influential to this fic were his Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas, which I quote a lot in this fic, and Philosopher or dog? ( The original title in Portuguese is Quincas Borba though), this is cheating considering that is his most well-known works, so I doubt that I have many credentials to reading literature. But thanks for reading my stuff and enjoying the flawed writing that is
2010si: I'm very glad that you loved this work, it isn't the best fic ever, but nonetheless glad at the same time. Still surprised that my fic is your first time reading a fic focused on Plegia that has SI