Disclaimer: I don't own Star Ocean, but I own this damned fic, and the cat that has been sitting on my lap this whole time.
Depending on the reviews I get for this thing, I might update faster. Motivation, you know?
And I might discontinue my old fic. Yes, I was inspired by LeFox to write an Albel/Romero fic, so here goes nothing.
Ahem Anyways…
Pairing: Albel/Romero
Warning: Well… I'm sure everyone knows the warnings for a pairing fic.
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The steady pattering of rain against the window resounded through the cozy, sparsely-decorated room. The firelight sent shadows flickering and dodging through what few furnishings there were, giving off the illusion that the room was quite wild and alive. In truth, there was but a lone soul present, gaze fixed on the storm outside. That soul was Albel Nox.
A warm sensation flourished near his hip, and Albel quickly untied the strap pinning the sword to his side. As it fell to the floor with a dull thud, he sighed as he inevitably heard and descried the Crimson Scourge's cryptic message.
Are the eyes in the reflection comprised of red flame? The sword asked, already knowing the answer. It always did, but it asked only to torment its Chosen One.
"…Yes," Albel answered after a long pause. The silence weighed heavily on his mind, forcing him to restate his answer to break it. "Yes, they are."
The sword was referring to an event taken place nine years ago, his failed Accession of the Flame. His mind always meandered to that forsaken day, the day he lost the one man he revered. The bloodcurdling cries of his father plagued his dreams and haunted his consciousness, sending him through a Catholic guilt-trip.
My wielder is weak.
"…" Albel's gaze shifted to the smouldering flame that vaguely illuminated the quickly-darkening room. As the heat from the hearth deteriorated, the room became algid with the insurmountable wintertime temperature of Airyglyph. It was a frostbite inversion of calefaction comparable to the dark swordsman's caustic retorts. Said man sighed softly, watching his breath curl in futility as its smoky form dissipated in the cold room.
Glancing about himself in a haphazard attempt to survey his surroundings, Albel's bored gaze settled on the mirror on the far side of the room, framed with frost. He silently scrutinized his reflection, finally classifying himself as a living contradiction. He wore violet thigh-high stockings under a revealing violet sarong, and a skin-tight violet crop top exposing intemperate amounts of skin, enough visual alcohol to send the mind through a stupor. Jet-black, tousled hair framed his tantalizingly alluring yet terrible countenance, and the faded gold ends of his locks brushed against his fine, ashen skin. Blood red, black-ringed eyes met blood red, black-ringed eyes in quiet contemplation. Once again, his gaze drifted and settled on the claw reflected in the mirror. Its polished surface was flawless, each scale-like plate overlapping the other, offsetting the bright reflection of light with shadow. Each deadly blade-talon that encased his fingers was sharpened against whetstone and honed to perfection. Despite the countless lives felled by his left metallic hand, there wasn't a fleck of blood as evidence to its atrocious acts.
Albel Nox couldn't resist smirking at himself; that macabre smile that earned his nickname of the Twisted one contorting the contours of his mouth and exposing deadly, pearl-white fangs. He laughed sardonically at the frail-looking man reflected in the mirror, slowly raising one sharp talon of his claw to the side of his face and watching his reflection hopelessly mimic his masochistic intentions. His cheek stung acutely as he raked his claw across the tender skin. Blood slowly dribbled down his face and he could feel stinging pain pulsate in synchronization with his heartbeat. He apathetically wiped the thin film of blood on a rag thrown on the table, thus restoring his talons to their former shine. However, he neglected to tend to his newly acquired self-inflicted cut.
My wielder is weak. The sword hummed in response to Albel's actions. You are not a Stoic man, Albel Nox. You are weak. You administer pain upon yourself to escape the thoughts that will lead you to come to terms with your father's death and your survival. You are weak.
Albel rounded on the sword dropped carelessly in the corner. "If I'm as weak as you say I am, then why did you choose me as your master? Why didn't you just claim my mind like you did all the others? Watch your tongue, you damned piece of scrapmetal!"
You were my choice merely because you are the blood relation to my last master. You passed my test through self-loathing.
"You said 'hate is the root of power', and my father never hated anyone-"
You're wrong, the sword interrupted. Your father harbored hatred for the woman that wronged him. A personal vendetta fueled his rage.
Albel glared angrily at the sword. "Who? Who wronged him? Tell me, you useless whittler's knife!"
The sword yielded no answer, once again returning to the visage of an ordinary sword.
"Damn it!" Albel cussed loudly, slamming his metallic fist into the table, splintering wood. "Damn it all! Why can't you tell me anything! Why must you always criticize me like this! Just give me one goddamn answer! Why can't you tell me anything…" His voice trailed off as his throat constricted. His vision misted in revelation, the room before him gaining a surreal demeanor. "Goddamn her… my mother…"
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The tall, lithe man meandered listlessly through the barren landscape of the Traum Mountains, maladroitly kicking snow into burrow holes, hoping it would pack like permafrost and suffocate the damned rodent. When he wasn't cruelly hellbent on the destruction of innocent creatures, his mind settled on the events of the past month, after the war ended and other complex events subsided. He simply could not, for the life of him, identify and clarify the turmoil within him.
Biting wind from the north roused Albel from his thoughts, and he instinctively turned his attention to the opaque shine of the sun shut out by steel-grey clouds. Only a faint sliver of the sun could be seen from behind the bleak mountains, and the Twisted One took this as his queue to return, once again, to the stagnant pit of a castle that was now his prison.
Upon revisiting his room, his eyes were immediately drawn to the table where he had splintered it. Apparently someone had trespassed and either repaired or replaced it, as it was in pristine condition. Albel disregarded it, as he had nothing to hide in his room, and collapsed on his bed to think idle thoughts.
A staccato knock at the door stirred the man from his ponderings, and he directed his bloody gaze toward the knob, watching it slowly twist with apprehension. A messenger stepped forward from the shadowed safety of behind the door, visibly shaking as he entered the asylum of the Twisted One.
"E-excuse me, S-sir…" The man stuttered.
"Spit it out, idiot, I don't have all day to listen to you fumble for words." His patience grew steadily thinner for gutless men.
"Th-the king… wants t-to see you…" Having delivered the message, the man hastily bowed and sidestepped out of the way as to accommodate the dark inhabitant of the room.
Albel slowly rose from his place on the bed and regarded the smaller, cowardly man with quiet abhorrence as he made his deliquescent exit of the room. He traversed the hallways with mellifluous grace, finally stopping in front of the king in the audience chamber. "You called?" Albel asked, voice laden with contempt.
"Yes, I did," the king answered, with blatant disregard for any subliminal messaged the moody swordsman might be trying to imply. "I want you to explore the recently-discovered catacombs below the dungeon. I've sent scouts to survey the area, but none of the six have returned. Ergo, the situation warrants a capable warrior. Since you've been restless, I've decided you would be the best choice."
"So you want me scurrying around in a filthy cesspit prodding rotted, maggot-infested cadavers for your own curiosity?" Albel retorted.
"To put it in crude terms…"
"You're out of your fucking mind…" Albel concluded, turning on his heel. His sarong whispered about his legs as he stalked out of the room. Once out of view, he shook his head, rattails mimicking the motion sinuously. "Out of his fucking mind…"
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Note 1: An anachronism used as a degree to describe how miserable he is at the loss of his father. Don't sue me, as I am not trying to bash this religion.
TFC: And so ends a chapter in the life of Albel Nox. It didn't go as well as I wanted it to, but… I've seen worse on this site. At least it's grammatically correct. For the most part. So there's no yaoi or anything of the sort just yet, I'm sure it will surface in the next chapter. What an insipid word document. Perhaps I'll have better luck in the next one.