The Rough Road to the Stars

by Capella A. Morningside

Summary: Sequel to "Hinc Illae Lacrimae". Slight shounen-ai. After the tragic events at Fort Dragonia, there were those left behind, with no comfort but the chill of empty words and winds. This is their story. Incomplete.

Author's Note: Something just wouldn't let me leave "Hinc Illae Lacrimae : Hence These Tears" as it was, with no true closure. So I present to you: "Fear of Empty Places", the wake of Glenn's death, the effect on those he left behind, and Serge's struggle with guilt. I'm guessing this will be about three parts in length.


"What in Dragoon's name happened here?" inquired Karsh. The lavender-haired Deva pushed the heavy iron doors further apart, marveling at the mess of broken stone that lay before them.

Marcy was the first to step inside, followed within a moment by Zoah, but for a reason he couldn't quite place, Karsh was hesitant. Something tugged at his mind, a nagging feeling that wouldn't leave him; it'd been there since the Devas first set foot in Fort Dragonia that evening. The boisterous sounds and explosions they had heard on their way up the elevator hinted at nothing less than catastrophe, and that's exactly what he'd expected to find.

"YOU!" came a yell from Zoah, and the axeman rushed to catch up to his companions. Levitating before them was the boy he'd come to call 'junior', the supposed ghost that he'd been sent after a couple of weeks before, none other than the one he'd fought also that very afternoon and shamefully lost to. Yet, before anyone could say anything more, he vanished, along with the collapsed form of the weird little blonde girl he was often seen with. The three were left alone in the barely-lit room, the only light peeking out from underneath piles of rubble on the glowing floor.

"Like, what's going on here?" asked Marcy, her voice sounding out from the vague direction of her silhouette somewhere across the room from Karsh. "There's something sticky all over the floor here, and..."

Silence, save the sounds of rubble being displaced by the steps of whom Karsh guessed to be Zoah. "AND WHAT, MARCY?" The iron giant asked, pausing in his search of the rubble.

A simple answer. "I found... Glenn."

By this point, the dragoons' eyes were much more adjusted to the lack of light, and Karsh only stumbled twice on his path towards where the nine-year-old stood. She was right, the 'sticky stuff' coated the ground; from the dark shade and scent he knew it was blood. His mind was in a panic, the usually minimally religious man's thoughts pleading to any god that would listen for his friend's life. Without the usual hesitation that came with the inevitability of staining his white clothes, he fell to his knees, blood around him splashing in the wake. Straining his eyes, Karsh struggled to gain more vision in the dim light.

Marcy's voice came softly from the darkness behind him. "Karsh? Is he, like, okay?"

Cautiously, Karsh extended a gloved hand towards their fallen friend, to whom they'd just declared their enmity for just hours before, and took a gentle hold on Glenn's wrist. All the begging to the higher powers had done him no good. No matter how hard he wished to feel the steady rhythm of life flowing through those veins, nothing came, nothing save the cold quality of a corpse and heavy silence. The dragoon was almost surprised to hear his own voice as it deadpanned the words; "He's dead."


I bet they all wonder why they never hear my voice. But they don't treat it with concern, they don't regard it as one of their many problems. It's more like a wonder to them, a question they can all ponder over the campfire or while lounging at the inn to simply give them all something common to discuss, this ragtag group of people I've been picking up like curiosities for the last few weeks. I'm fairly sure if I wasn't quiet, a diverse bunch like Sprigg, Norris, Harle, Van and Irenes wouldn't have anything else to talk about.

I didn't ask a single one of them to follow me around. Sprigg and Harle helped me get back to reality, but still won't leave. Irenes, the mermaid, made me a pawn in her quest to restore Marbule, Norris the Porre commander is just curious, and the painter kid Van is looking for a way to pay his rent. None of them have anything alike, not in looks, not in personality, not in interests. All they have in common is me... this awkward, towering cat-man that doesn't speak.

Harle is the most irritating, because she knows exactly why but chooses to make silly speculations with the others whilst continuing to call me by the name that is not my own. Perhaps it's all part of her surreal style of thinking, and she never wavers under my accusing stares. She knows it all, she knows everything that happened that night, but... perhaps I should thank her for not revealing to the others just yet that I'm a murderer.

And I know what she would say, should I confront her: "But of course. You are Monsieur Lynx. Monsieur Lynx haz killed très many people. Un more is but a minuscule acomplissement." All in that nerve-wracking, strange accent, and that permanent smile on her painted face.

I guess you could say time and guilt have made me bitter, and, of course, quiet. I was never talkative to begin with, and nor could I be now if I wanted to, since my knowledge of these demihuman vocal cords is still agonizingly small. I simply rely on the others to speak for me, which they do, the ever-sarcastic Van always has something to say anyway.

The first moment I had alone when I got back to my home world, I cried all night on Opassa Beach. I wept and wept, the sound of my inhuman wailings and howlings only making my sorrow more complete. Even by then, only a couple hours since my return to reality, I hadn't properly cleaned Glenn's blood from my silver swallow.

I relived that moment a thousand times the night I cried, seeing over and over again the accidental blow that had sliced through his body... the blood on the ground making that particular area glow a surreal red. And for at least an hour I wanted to share his fate, and contemplated it seriously. With the swallow against my own throat, I remembered the sound it had made when it had stabbed Glenn in this same place. I touched the dried élan vital that the weapon retained and foresaw mixing my blood with his...

But then I'd remember it wasn't my blood, and lower the swallow to the ground. What kind of travesty would I have committed then, mixing the blood of a loved one with that of this monster, this demon? Should I take my own life... I will only do it when I have regained my true self.

If it means anything, I haven't shed a tear since that night.

I feel a lot of bitterness now. Perhaps it's partially because now, according to Harle, I have become Lynx. I think back to the people I knew then, and even the people I know now, and somewhere inside me I conceive that I hate them all to a certain degree.

But not Glenn. Never Glenn. Speak no ill of the dead.

I hate Kid, for her complete lack of concern that night atop the fort. There was Glenn, impaled on a scythe right before her eyes, and all she could be concerned about was her vow and her vengeance. I knew it would have been different if it were, say, me, but Glenn and all the others were just third wheels to her, a disposable group. Don't worry if we lose one, we've got plenty of others, right, Serge?

Or she saw him as competition, on many levels. She was the type that demanded your constant attention, and if you didn't give it to her, she'd 'kick your arse so hard you'd kiss the moons'.

I found it much easier to talk to Glenn than to Kid, and he was always willing to listen or to share stories of our less intelligent exploits for a laugh or two. He'd been very interested in my weapon, calling it 'unconventional' and pestering me playfully until I taught him the basics of how to use it. Kid, however, wasn't like that at all. She took everything seriously, and her pessimism was even too much for me to handle. To her, nothing in the world was pure or true. Kid would say love didn't exist, and by the time she said that I did quite beg to differ. And somewhere in her mind, she'd made this deep, 'fated' connection between the two of us that I don't believe was there. Or if it was, I didn't feel it. Unbelievably cynical, bleak outlook on everything, constantly distrustful, Kid just wasn't the type I could easily tolerate being around for very long. Because... she was right, in the end. It all fell apart. I'm sure the first thing she'd tell me, if we were to see each other again, would be: "Told ya, mate."

If you haven't guessed it by now, yes, I had feelings for Glenn. Not the type that a teenage boy should be having for another male, of course. I didn't say anything, it became my dark secret, the only other soul I was sure was aware was Lynx, by now. When he forced the switch through the Dragon Tear, our minds crossed each other and, if only for a split second, they were one. We have no secrets from each other now. The one thing I wouldn't tell was in his possession, and I think it amuses him still.

From the moment I first realized my emotions for that knight, it was as if my entire twelve years of being Leena's unofficial fiancée were suddenly buried deeper than Lavos himself. Maybe I deserve to be hated too, not only for being able to throw away such a promised relationship so easily, but for being a 'fairy-boy', as I'd heard the other village boys putting it. I would rehearse my confession sometimes, I did plan indeed to one day tell Glenn how I felt, but preferably just before I was going away somewhere for a very, very long time. I only prayed that until that day came, he wouldn't guess it out of me.

Perhaps I'm thankful that Lynx wouldn't be able to accomplish anything with revealing that one anymore, now that the one in question is... is-s...

Is dead. Glenn is dead. There, I said it.

I just wish I could accept it.