A/N: Prompt from K.I.T.T. RIDER. And I'm going to butcher this prompt omg.
"No emotions or rational thought for anything anymore due to trauma of some sort."
I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while, school and summer have been hell and I've been so busy, so once again, I apologize. Also, I'm pretty sure I got this whole sequence wrong, but whatever, yolo. This is so off from the prompt oh my GOD.
20
Zombie
"I have to admit, the first time was a surprise, ma'am," he tells her lazily, leaning his weight back on his hands while his legs dangle off the side of the tall structure. "But a second visit? Kinda leaves me speechless, y'know?"
The Priestess of her brother's kingdom scowls at this man, not amused, and wordlessly moves to sit a few feet away from him, toes hanging high above her land. A soft breeze picks up and works her hood off her head slowly. She accepts this and gazes at the dark horizon and the ocean view, tasting the salt in the air and savoring a moment of freedom.
"So - not to be disrespectful - but what's a noble like you doing?"
Merag glances over at the servant boy, blinking once, then twice. "What do you mean?"
Number 4 - the name he was given as a child when he was orphaned and sent to work as a laborer in order to survive (she knows because she once inquired Nash about this particular one after their first accidental meeting at this very spot, and he had had an answer) - shrugs and smirks to himself importantly, even if he knows he hasn't even a splash of a right to act cocky. "I'm someone who does everything you ask me to, works for this country and will probably die a slave. You are the sister of the Monarch. So why even bother talking to me?"
"Well," she begins smoothly, "you are in the place where I often times come to clear my head. And quite obviously, I don't think it my ability to banish you simply because I want to sit here."
Of course she has the ability, but Merag has always been a kind woman of power, even kinder than that of Nasch, and he was the one who ordered that all victims of hard struggle and bounds to a life of strenuous work would be paid. He is the only reason that Number 4 can afford food and a small home to sleep late at night.
"You're amazing," he breathes into the cold air, folding his arms across his chest and hunching his shoulders. "And here I've only known you for an evening and sixty or so heartbeats."
Merag rolls her bright eyes and reaches over to push him playfully. He flinches slightly before her hand even touches him and she wants to ask why, but decides against it and doesn't do so again. Instead, she ruffles his blonde-and-red hair like he's some sort of a kid. His face flushes and he doesn't speak.
"You know," she starts evenly, "I wonder what I should address you as?"
"Uh...," he mutters stupidly. "Number 4...? I mean, that's sorta my name."
"That's no name," Merag insists, disgusted at the current state of the United Lands of the Poseidon Ocean for the first time in a long time. There is still so much to fix in this society, and slavery is one of them - no matter how much Nasch eases the strain of it, it is still wrong in her heart. "Give me something else to call you."
His face scrunches up in confusion. "I guess just 4...? I dunno. Don't have anything else to offer you, ma'am."
She's staring at him and he's shifting his weight at the sudden attention, trying to smile that arrogant smile of his and ultimately failing. It astonishes her, really, that someone could be so indifferent to their own name. And she's about to comment when something catches the corner of her vision.
Merag slowly turns her head to face the horizon once more, and she feels her facial muscles go slack in a sudden dawn of reality. At one point, 4 is asking if she is alright, then his sentence hitches when he, too, takes notice.
The sky is becoming a dark maroon, dragging, squirming, inching across the vast stretch of black and painting the atmosphere an intense, bloody color, and it's so violent, so ominous, so soundless, that the entire universe seems to have settled into a hot silence.
4's lips are parted like he wants to say something, but can't exactly handle his voice. Yet eventually, once the sky has been completely choked in a heavy scarlet, he manages a strangled, "Ma'am...you should run..."
That is precisely what she is planning, but not for the reasons her friend is probably thinking of. No, Merag leaps to her feet clumsily and spins on her heel, nearly falling, and darts for the closest stairwell, skipping a few steps as she flees down them. She can hear ragged gasps behind her as 4 chases after her - she wants to shout at him, order him to escape whatever is coming, but her lungs burn so much that the command isn't even audible when her mouth opens. So she lets him follow, stumbles down the panicking streets of pedestrians pounding one way, soldiers maneuvering towards the beach, wildly scanning the crowds for her sibling.
Hell is unleashing and everything is blurring.
There is an ear-splitting crack to their right and the ground shifts unnaturally. Merag desperately yearns to scream but once again, no noise comes from her dry throat.
Someone is grabbing her arm roughly and pulling her down.
She hits the concrete.
Someone is on top of her.
There is another cracking and the air is suddenly very warm, and 4 lifts her up with ease, steadying her, clasping his hands on her shoulders and shrieking over the roar of the wind that isn't so soft anymore, "We have to move! I realize that we don't know each other and I cannot be trusted, but let me help you live."
The Priestess, the royal, the small girl trapped in a chaotic world of shrill squeals and sobs and snarling, nods once and takes his fingers in hers, watching hopelessly at the giant flames crawling toward the red, red, red sky. Grey smoke spirals in all directions, leaving stains on their clothes and in their bodies, they're coughing, searching for a way out. The fire grows larger, lustful, hungry, heating up everything, and her and 4 scramble to find a clear way out.
There is an opening, and it's tiny, but both see it at the same moment and race against the sundial to slip into safety.
But a nearby building is suffering under the fowl, feverish temperatures and downward it crumbles, debris raining down on the blaze's captives like its own ashes. Merag picks up speed, attempting to peer backwards to catch sight of him but can't, and when she faces in front of herself again, a beam of wood from the ceiling is collapsing, tumbling onto her.
It's only a second but it lasts for an eternity; a great thrust from behind sends her flying - hitting the floor painfully - wrist hurts - somehow her hood stayed on her, her attire is still white, and it's remarkable - pushes herself upward - eyes are stinging - the fire is gone on one side, she's fine if she leaves now - but - he's not...
Merag raises her chin, dreading, and discovers only the hand that had pushed her out of the way, poking out from beneath the singed roof of the house.
.
.
She cries, wails, and screeches up at the dyed sky.
She cannot move anymore, is a zombie from horror tales, she can't think straight anymore - Number 4 is dead and she is alive and that feels so wrong, so wrong, so wrong - -
Rationality sweeps away for a long while, and she remains there, the sputters of the inferno drowned out by humans howling every which way.
And then...she isn't weeping anymore.
The tears won't come and she feels so numb and empty and her limbs won't obey her. She forgets where she is in a pool of guilt that also abandons her, leaving her shaking and stiff.
.
.
(Shock begins to fade and Merag dazedly stands, blankly watches the hand for any sort of movement, and walks; the fire obscures and she can hear Vector and Nasch.)
.
.
(She dies along with him only hours later.)
.
.
.
.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Rio's wrist snaps and she recoils, pursing her lips sourly at him. "Nothing."
What she doesn't tell IV is that she is simply happy to see the servant boy living - how relieved and glad and exhausted she is to have him beside her, glowering like a dork - how wonderful it is for him to have left this fire with merely a scar. She doesn't tell him that she knew him in a past life - he'd probably get it somewhat, but he doesn't remember and should continue to live in that blissful ignorance of the-war-never-happened-back-then.
She wants to touch him, ruffle his hair, shove him playfully, place her nail against his wounded eye and apologize for betraying him as a Barian - but he is smirking at her and chuckling, "Too much fanservice to comprehend? You just need to touch me to make sure this much awesomeness is actually a real person? I'm flattered."
Rio just ends up punching him.
.
.
~Finish~