The Ghost of a Flea
"I wasted time, and now doth time waste me."
- William Shakespeare, Richard II
"The sinking moon goes astray; existence must be here now."
- KOTOKO, Re-sublimity (translated by EJTranslations)
'It seems as though time has granted us friendship.'
Those had been his words, his decrepit hand reaching out for Kotaro's own. His grasp had been cloying, clammy, a desire for approval emanating beneath the ceremonial mask he wore, for forgiveness even, and Kotaro could not help but feel a sense of disgust at their closeness, at the need so clearly present.
He had kicked this man to death, he thought dispassionately. It had been the final outcome of a long confrontation, their expectation of each of other at odds for the longest time, the flash of the Kingstone in his belt, the shape of him in the air, Darom's body crumpling on impact.
Immediately after those words of friendship had come hostility, but he understood that the violence was not as it had been, that this was simply their way of communication, the only way to converse when you had known each other for so long, and fought so many battles against one another.
They were dead, shades summoned from the afterlife by Crisis, and the arena in which they fought was the world of the past, that was why his armour had changed—and yet the form he now occupied was not a shape he recalled, foul smelling and sharpened, shaped from chitin, a reminder of the form he had taken following his surgery, his transformation.
He looked down into the shallow surface of the dark water, the flow of the river clogged with autumn leaves; dark, swollen eyes looked back at him. Reaching out for his reflection, his fingers broke the surface, and he momentarily had the impression of himself as older, scarred, hurt.
"A crossroads," came a voice from behind.
He turned in panic, struggling to rise and feeling a weakness in his right leg, the limb incapable of taking his weight, bringing him back down to the ground with a grunt.
He narrowed his eyes, felt the tightness of the skin, the unfamiliar armour as it seethed, writhed, expressive with his pain.
"RX?" he said softly.
Unlike his current armour, the form before him was familiar, the gift of the sun he had received when first overpowered by Crisis, and yet, it was markedly different now, scaly, speckled, very awful.
"Another RX," the other answered, and he recognised it as his own voice despite the resonance, the rasping quality, the sense of age. "Someone you might have been."
Through the branches of the trees over his shoulder, he saw then three women, the first elderly, hunched over, her silver hair covered by a faded red scarf knotted beneath her chin.
To the right was an austere woman at her side, arched nose, flowing brown hair shot through with silver, the white knuckles of her right hand grasped about a trident, a shield bound to her forearm. Atop her hair she wore an archaic helmet, a plume of feathers rising from the top.
To the left stood a tall woman, no less lacking in nobility, a wreath of laurel leaves about her dark hair, her face lacking in lines, in experience, idealism issuing forth from her very presence, eyes smeared with kohl and lips rich and lustrous red.
His body tensed, his weak leg crying in pain as he attempted to drop into a fighting stance, raising his fists.
"Who are you? Friend? Foe?" he cried, ignoring the other RX, quick to abandon the shade.
His senses came alive, the movement of the ghost before him, the squaring of shoulders, the positioning so that the image of the women could no longer be seen.
"The weyward Sisters, hand in hand. Posters of the Sea and Land," the other answered regardless, drawing his attention back.
Kotaro found himself regarding him once more, the smoothness, the unfinished nature of his features, burning eyes which long for moisture.
"They wish you no harm."
Again, he felt the pain in his leg.
"How can I trust you?"
"I am thou, thou art I," the other answered simply, and though he had a face worthy of a murderer, Kotaro found that his voice was one he could trust, the sensation of it so close to that of his own conscience.
He nodded, and lowered his fists. Though his body felt now old, his spirit was youthful. The mandibles of his new appearance twitched.
"You are at crossroads," the man before him said, "an eternal place where desires are on the precipice of reshaping the world, its old magic now having crossed with the ambitions of Crisis. You should not stay here."
He thought of the shades of Gorgom he had encountered when first he had arrived, of the blows that they had exchanged. He recalled the devils who had laid in wait for him, drawing him into the trap, flowing black robes, bleached white bone.
"I didn't ask to come here."
Still feeling the pain in his leg, he made his move past, finding the restraining hand of his counterpart firmly on his shoulder.
"Along the way, you will find echoes of yourself. Honour them, Black. They are not your enemies."
Beneath the weight of the hand, his leg gave out, and he stumbled, all but dropping to his knees but for the aid of the other.
He turned, lifted his head, gazing up at that mask, that which first appeared a monsterous creature whose bloodthirsty instinct was imprinted on every detail of its appearance now offering him a sort of kindness.
He had kicked Darom to death, he remembered once more, and yet still, in this ghostly in-between place, they had experienced a freedom between them in the pain they inflicted upon each other.
"W-Why do I feel so old?"
His voice trembled as he spoke, full of doubt.
"In another time, in another place, life is not so kind to you, Black."
Over the shoulder of the other, he saw the three women now each wearing the same face, dark hair, the red sash of state, the trailing white dress of Princess Garonia.
"That is not this place, Black," the other continued. "Take the first step. March into your future."
Uncertainly, he advanced, stumbling, weary, one leg dragged through the autumn leaves and mud. Beneath the chattering mandibles, he ground his teeth together, and with each step he took, the pain alleviated, and he gained confidence, the ghosts of the forest fading, until, at last, he was running.
From his shoulders, the unfamiliar armour was shed, and once more, he felt the vitality of youth.