Severance Reprise

[Frostdrop1 1843]

 

Severance Reprise

Spoiler

 

 

Nickolai held up a bit of the pastry he had acquired to Reinhard. A gloved hand stilled in the process of lofting across to ruffle the brown locks that matched his father’s. It was a sweet treat, earned from his escapade to the tavern Reinhard had otherwise avoided. Life was slower, these days. At least, some days. Dull, jagged eyes of a husk scoured the pastry to determine its meaning. 

 

Poisoned, is it? You know what happened.

 

Idle conversation followed. His hand lowered to take the snack instead. He peered at the boy for a long, dry moment, before turning his observation back upon the pastry. It was an act that might unsettle some, and yet between father and son it was nothing out of the ordinary. It took work to understand the boy. To understand anyone. Meticulously, he scanned the gift, even picking at it. A slow thanks was given from father unto son.

 

Nickolai chittered softly and wobbled his head from side to side, with the kind of uncontained energy only a child could hold. He proceeded with a bubbled giddiness to his speech, waffling on to Reinhard all about the man at the bar. How drunk he was. How he wasn’t allowed to drink. How sad he was. With a soft scoff, Reinhard assured the boy it was normal.

 

How familiar.

 

Reinhard raised the pastry to bite from, finally determining the act of sharing to be meaningful. Love. 

 

Cute.

 

Reinhard’s gaze had slumped elsewhere to scour the library for stairs. The section above had bored the elder devil, or, rather, what was above had become too menial to escape the chiding. Behind, Nickolai followed closely as his father set off without warning, to take the stairs down into the lower reaches of the library and grant access to a new variety of more meaningful texts. Reinhard scanned each book with an intensity as fingers trailed the spines. And, all the while, Nickolai continued to talk of the man and his drink like some fairytale.

 

What will he do when he learns of your manner?

 

A text was pulled, favoured. His reply to Nickolai came as pages were flicked through, before the book was promptly unfavoured, snapped shut and returned from whence it came. He spoke of coping, and how many adults required the substance. His teaching was dry, if gentle for the purple creature that was yet too fragile to understand the world. Musings followed: that the man would manage, one way or another.

His dulled look turned to meet Nickolai’s brighter one as he still persisted. Smiling while sad, was that man. How unfathomably strange to the younger devil that was. Surely, sad people cry. Sad people don’t smile, in his world. A distant gaze peered, before more assurances came. As young as he was, Nick had tried. Nick did his best. Nick did the right thing - but some people had bigger problems, and some things weren’t so easily solved over a smile or a song or a kind word.

 

Idiot. Tell him how it really is.

 

Battish, pointed ears extending from the elder flickered, in some mundane motion. Irritated. The spiteful, feminine voice resonated in his head, unheard by the boy but equally as determined to have Reinhard’s attention. And further still, the boy was persistent in his present chatter. Not of drink, but of how much he disliked when either of his fathers were sad. Happiness, he wished on them. A rare gem, in reality. Nickolai hugged himself to Reinhard's arm in untarnished, blissful affection. 

 

Enjoy that while it lasts.

 

Albeit, Reinhard shoved what remained of his pastry into his mouth before shifting off to another shelf to trawl through, merely pulling the boy along. With it, the discussion finally progressed. Brightness was reflected in Nickolai, in his heart. Reinhard, somewhere, was glad of that. Nevertheless, he feared it too. Oh, how he feared. Even so, he spoke that Nickolai should cling to that; that it was hard to keep a heart as one grew. Confusion met this notion from the young boy, who couldn’t understand. Everything always required explaining. Yet, he continued in a puerile glee for Reinhard grew no more happier, nor more solemn.

 

“Et ist niet like the heart in vyr chest. Et ist  the heart vy feel with. The world ist mean. Ag when mean things happen to people, et makes them mean back.” 

 

Details. You know they only learn with details. Give him some Truth.

 

Nickolai enquired, then, as to what awaited him. Reinhard’s words had naturally brought about the question of meanness and how one comes to be it. All the while, the boy leant to peer an invasive gaze upon every book Reinhard tugged upon.

 

An array was taken and withdrawn, with titles all beyond Nickolai’s understanding. Books on canonism, shorewalkers, spirits. For a time, he finally settled on a chunky religious text to flick through: The True Word. A darkened front did it bear, and slotted in amongst the many texts of ‘The Light’. An amused trace of a smile left the elder. His gaze did not raise to spy Nickolai’s look, ever-curious and yet edged in the tell-tale signs of worry. He turned and turned the pages until it settled on a familiar phrase, cast to the far-reaches of his shattered mind: it does not feel, it does not rest. It is inevitable; indomitable. 

 

The elder pressed his lips into a hollow smile and he cast to his son a wisdom hard-learned:

 

“…When the pity people have for children wears off, all that remains ist the truth beneath.”

 

 

---

 

The day he collected his mother from the bitter, northern snows, was not one he quite expected. Earlier had he, too, collected Asahiko from those same snows, tumbling to Reinhard’s arms in his cloven step. He babbled and drabbed on about a disgraceful act, something Reinhard had long warned against. Something he had once rejected. And yet, all he could do now was hum, nod and apologise on the turn their lives had taken. Feeling was not a matter in it, for no longer did he care for that which had become a threat.

 

Both his hands clasped around his mother’s as he guided her out of the biting wind and within the small space the fugitive devils had made home. His hands, unusually, were ungloved and each ran in poignant black markings. If one didn’t know better, it would merely be pretty inks. Overlaid on those were branching scars, by nothing weapon-born: they told of pain on pain. He held the door for his mother as he ushered her within. There was a hastened apology, a mention of Coco being present, but in a state, as he stepped in after. A final glance was cast to the obscured distance in caution until he closed the door to depart from that sight.

 

You trust too easily. You always trust. Insufferable!

 

At the end of the room sat the other devil in question, wrapped tightly in blankets and giving no word of greeting. It was comfort that he found in the darkened, shaded patch. The mass was cast in a mesmerising blue glow, which wisped from the fire freely. It burned bright and strong like any other flame, crackled like any familiar orange, and yet, its wrong colour oozed an eeriness into the room.

 

Verena’s gaze scanned the home with a skittish discomfort, and yet raised no voice about it either. She scanned the many bowls of washing, the toy figures on the table that told of other, younger occupants. Her hand gently pulled from her son to instead fiddle with her sleeves. Reinhard moved to squeeze her arm, but it was a brief gesture before he passed off towards the huddled blanket. His hand rested to the mass, scrunch upon the bed, as he enquired as to whether they knew one another, trailing into glances between the two. He pushed for an introduction, when it was time was required to settle nerves. 

 

The green devil did not dare to free his head from the bundle with the murmur that followed. Grey eyes instead, from the shadowy beyond, slid back to catch upon the matching look of Verena. There came a passing moment of shared understanding between mother, and ‘husband’. Reinhard followed this with a snapped look across to the woman. At one time or other, perhaps he would have pleaded for something else from her. Yet, what followed was merely a almost disappointed observation: 

 

“There ist irony there - somewhere.”

 

The voice cackled.

There was a solemn look evident in her features. Beginning to step fourth, her hand routed within the confines of her bag as she assured Reinhard that things would have been different, had he not needed a mother. That she, duty-bound, could not leave her son behind. A different route, he suggested. She could just not - and, yet, this was not a remark she returned upon. Left in quiet, Reinhard failed to contest her further. The topic had troubled him deeply in years prior, but now it was just another thing among many things that didn’t matter.

 

“You can't tell him that I'm taking Reinhard. I plan on staying with him, to protect him.” 

 

And how weak he is. You can’t rely on that.

 

There came a shaky breath as Asahiko pulled the blanket closer about himself, rustling around in an unhinged nervousness. His instruction was almost a snap, encased in a protectiveness from he, who was there, against she, who was not. Jagged pupils swivelled off towards Asahiko, as Reinhard’s hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. Trust was passed then. This was his mother, who wished as Asahiko had. Of course, he trusted her.

 

This is doomed to failure.

 

Verena jerked her look up at words of past desires, as olive eyes scanned the back of her son. Cracking open her lips, she made to speak, but didn’t. Instead, her brows gave the subtlest pinch before she returned to picking through her possessions. Even so, the devils continued without noticing the small act. Asahiko murmured once more - now, about return, the soonness of what was to come, and an uncertainty in his state as to whether he could care for Reinhard.

 

You see? Even he knows he cannot. The king will devour you.

 

Aside, the bewildered mother took a wild guess at their connection - roommates. Despite the many prior times she had heard Reinhard speak of his ‘Coco’, that was what spilled from her. Stepping past her boy carefully, she stood beside the bed upon which Asahiko rested. She offered out her fist towards him, clenched tightly around something. The wall of blankets shambled in return, with a wheezy noise that emanated from the depths of the mass. A claw lifted as the darkness within lessened and lessened, until it was just green. A green devil, hidden and injured, was clumped under those grey protections. Charcoal, of all things, was pressed into his palm. The black of it had smeared her hand, and now, too, did it smear Asahiko’s. Amidst the exchange, both devils made to correct her nearly in sync, one in mild offense as he gestured upon the singular bed and the other in softer tones.

 

When Verena heard, there came a twinkle of liveliness about her - fleetingly so. Again, uncaught by Reinhard who had disappeared off to the door and clasped the handle tightly. From afar, he promised without thought of what would truly occur next that he could care for Asahiko. Or, perhaps, he was simply unaware. And, in the next breath, he invited his mother along. Perhaps, just perhaps, familial comfort may prove useful. A rarity, that there was a wish donned on her. A rarity, that he requested the presence of an absent mother. 

 

The door was opened. Wind whipped through the home. It threatened the uncanny flames, blowing them into a chaotic rise. Reinhard’s gaze lingered on the white distance, blotched short by the storm of snow. Extending a hand aside, raised, he swept it down and in a brief moment he tore a hole through reality. Palatial hues blazed around the edge as the hellish gateway whispered and bade him to enter in the least inviting manner.

 

You need me, Reinhard.

 

Bundling themselves together, Reinhard stepped back within to aid Asahiko to the gateway as his mother moved ahead. There was not a glance given back to the home they had made among dark times, and the moment they passed through the inferno imploded, leaving nothing of their presence.

 

 

---

Spoiler

 

 

 

“I'll have you know this, whelp. I do this not for your sake. I have seen the joy wrenched from the common man as his loved ones perished in front of him. I have seen sickness claiming village elders and betrayal from one's own kin. However, they at least continued to struggle in the face of this, though prey they might be. You forsake the tools to break your own shackles and expose yourself to the whims of those around you.”

 

The voice of the king bounced from stone walls, upon which shadows cast of flame taunted. They danced, in some ritualistic whimsy and their catching movements forced to the forefront of Reinhard’s mind. Briefly so, for the flames that flickered in the space were some cruel broadcast of what was to happen. It surrounded him already, entrapped him in a chosen fate. Amongst it all was the warmth of a smile missed, and the longing of one to outreach and embrace. And, too, was one face he direly wished to see not present at all. When Reinhard replied to the king, it came not in firmness, but in ragged dread-laced stutters. And then, disgust came of the lead and with it a rising rage of cinders.

 

 “It would be untoward of me not to excise you from our ilk. It will be interesting to see if your so-called allies prove sufficient in protecting you in the future.”

 

The rattle of the king fell heavy on overwhelmed senses as lurching fellflame engulfed the devil’s body. Around him was sprawled a pentacle, traced in a fresh, deep red. Below was almost a mockery of the scene, a reflection of the rite above where the accursed writhed. It echoed in the wash of colours above that would be beautiful, if they weren’t of the damned. It would be mesmerising, if the whispers that crackled fourth were not pleadings and snidery. 

 

“Do you challenge my will?”

 

The devil failed to reply, deaf to his own screams that consumed his voice. A horrid, hissed shrill rang deep in his ears: it cursed him, and bade the worst upon him, and then it fell silent. What was wrenched from his soul was a detested gift; a false promise wrapped neatly in familial sophistry. It was a callous protection granted, at the cost of his everything. It was love, and so it was to be stripped from his soul, shedding parts of himself with it. Yet, what remained was not something whole: it was damaged, and scarred.

 

“It is good that you still have hope. When that is torn from your grasp and you are plunged into helplessness, it will prove formative to your growth. Only then will we see if you have any mettle worth preserving.”

When flames died back, the devil was coiled tightly to the ground. Once-blackened brands ran then with fresh burns, glowing in oozing, sickly colourings of yellow and blue and periwinkle. Marks of the chosen, turned marks of inadequacy. They seared his flesh and it marked him as out-cast. 

 

The winding tail whipped through the remaining embers as he had scrunched over on his side, ashen claws scratched at the glowing remnants on his neck: once merely ink-like things, now an intricate network of fellflame markings. They burned. A low rattle came from his throat, as abyssal eyes opened to scour the mirror-room. Blearily, his gaze rose to the king, and a grated breath was heaved in. He hissed in a quiet tone, barely dragging his feathered cheek along the sleek surface of the mirror as he tried to move. Sheer defiance.

 

“Et- … shall remain.”

 

When he finally pushed up to a sit, the discussion of the remaining parties was lost on Reinhard. Flickering about the space in a disjointed manner, his mind raced to place where exactly he was, as both hands raised to claw at his cheeks. It burned. Even with an end, he could not escape searing of his flesh. Instead, rather than further move himself, he was dragged gently into the lap of the green devil. There was no ounce of resistance left in him to give. His hands were pried from his scratched face to be clasped in an embrace each and, in turn, they held on for dear life. Cradled, as the two fragile things barely held together. 

 

When a look from Reinhard managed to drag upon Asahiko, one word escaped him, in dwindling strength: 

 

“Home?” 

 

The whisper it ended upon seemed almost cut short, for the head of the rust one lolled off to the side. His consciousness had simply not lasted, and quiet cries fell on deafened ears.

 

 

---

He awoke different, in a place familiar and yet not; to a face important, and yet not known. His time out had been brief, as the frail woman and bandaged devil tried their best to heave Reinhard’s mass through a rift. Instead, he gave a murmur of ability in half-awareness, driven to help - them, or himself? Feet scrambled to find perch, and helped ease them all through the rift.

 

He collapsed upon the bed once through to a familiar room, even despite the best efforts of Asahiko to ease him down gently. They spoke to him as if in familiarity, peering with an intensity that rang with echoes of hopefulness, or somberness, of gentleness. Coiling himself on the bed, Reinhard was bundled beneath a blanket by the other devil as his mother left to garner aid. A pillow was clasped and raised over Reinhard’s face. Then, choking on his own words, he assured the smaller he was well. Anyone with passing thought knew better than that. Asahiko’s hand settled over Reinhard.

 

“You can cry.” 

 

And so, the once-prince let globbed tears fall which he hid from the unfamiliar world he had stepped into. He babbled an apology but for what, he didn’t know; he asked of where he was; he whispered if he could stay in this old home. It was important, he knew. All the while as he cried and made to ask small questions, Asahiko dragged himself up to lay by the outcast. To be close, and to comfort. His replies oozed a care that felt out of place. He sounded too hopeful, and yet Reinhard wasn’t sure of why. Instead, his hand grasped for Asahiko’s attire and scrunched tightly in desperation, barely managing a beg for him to stay. And, following, he meekly assured himself that Asahiko would.

 

Asahiko’s clouded eyes wandered over the blanket heap as Reinhard’s hand twisted fabric. An echoing of that assurance came, desperate to see Reinhard well. For years, he had stood by Reinhard. For years, he had reminded him that there was hope. For years, he was the sole figure he could rely on. Lush hands blindly sought Reinhard’s cheeks, to thumb over and dry them. And then, there was a clamp of maddening fear that gnawed. It started innocuous, then grew. Then, he could not resist to ask that which had plagued him, his breath hitching the moment it passed his lips. In some way, in his injured state, in his desolate attempt to keep things together when all had become unbearable: he needed to hear it.

 

“Can you- … can you tell - that you love me now?” 

 

A sudden quiet fell. Stuttered breaths slowed. Reinhard dribbled off an uncertain affirmative, silently questioning if that was a matter he should know about. At such wariness, Asahiko pulled away, and the next Reinhard saw was a letter, unfolded. With great care, it was settled where he might see it, before some measly crack at the base of the pillow where slender fingers lingered to keep it pressed flat. As he read, it became apparent it was something of an affectionate charm. Well-thought, heart-felt. Or so, it would be from anyone else. Inked in perfect poise were words from a prince that could not feel what he wrote about. It was good-will at best. A fanciful lie. Love. All at once, the request became a boiling point amidst the numerous tensions. With a vicious lurch, Reinhard’s clawed hands snatched for the page, leaving Asahiko stuttering and reaching. He crunched and crushed and strangled what life there was in the delicate memento, ashen claws surely tearing the declaration under his own disconsolate deluge. A cry, a plead pierced the act.

 

“Why?” 

 

It was raised, to be thrown - and only then did Reinhard hesitate long enough that Asahiko could flounder the balled memento back into his safe clutches. Proof they shared something amidst darkened lives, ruined and rejected. Reinhard turned away after, coiling in on himself. Unable to look at the other, and the array of colours that marred him, Asahiko retreated to a corner. He too coiled up, alone. What hopefulness there was had been thoroughly impaled, the gentleness tossed aside. All that remained between them was the somber reality of what was supposed to be fresh hope. It was supposed to be redemption.

 

 

---

Over the next month, things became a blur. Sleep was a terror unto Reinhard’s mind. Forced to fight. Beaten. Drowned. Days were waking hardship. Objects were thrown, the rust devil yelled. He drank. At times, he would exist in a dazed panic. The green one tried, and when all was too much, he collapsed into tears himself. At first, Reinhard fled such a thing. But, gradually, it came to be that shared comfort followed - care that didn’t belong between them - then terror-filled sleep began it all again. Mocked. Drugged. Carved. 

 

Promised aid fell through time and time again. He was left in complete need of Asahiko, but all he could return was befuddled difficulty, ensnared in a rush of emotions he didn’t grasp, or understand, or have the ability to tame. Even in his state, Reinhard knew he was a problem. He was a broken burden and uncalculated risk. Such thoughts toyed in the back of his mind, like the little voice that used to whisper in his ear. 

 

Eventually, they returned to where they hid away from the world. Reinhard plonked through a rift, enwreathed in horrid flame - yet burning none. Tightly, hands raised to wring, ever-trembling in the sear which remained. His gaze fell aside of the shabby bedroom to a chest against the wall, and a wizard figurine sat atop. A ball. A plush. Pupils narrowed on the sight as thoughts whirred. 

 

“Do vy ... Keep toys?”

 

Asahiko followed behind, head dipped in an uncertainty. Together they sat, guided by Asahiko’s hand to the edge of the bed. He squeezed the fabric of Reinhard’s shirt. Confusion followed, and Asahiko’s gaze shifted to track that of Reinhard’s. Heavily, he explained that they were not alone. A family. Of all the things, they had a family. The smaller devil’s brows furrowed in the preciousness of it, the wound it had taken, and a slow breath was drawn to steady himself. Above, Reinhard stared at Asahiko, then laid back, taking the smaller devil with him. Thinned pupils scoured the ceiling as his hand raised to run down his face. How undeserving he was, of that. A family. 

 

“Nickolai... Aedith... Amya. Ich will... find a way.” 

 

The promise was murmured into the quiet of the cabin, and yet the only one to hear was Asahiko.

 

 

---

Spoiler

 

 

 

“Vy must be … Nickolai.”

 

He greeted the boy he saw next with such unfamiliarity that it was unavoidably noticeable. Thin, white slits watched Reinhard with young, expectant eyes. Closer, did the boy approach. Except, no answer that Reinhard could give to his lack of understanding was going to help. There was no ‘Coco’, so affectionately termed, only ‘Asahiko’. There was no ‘Nick’, but ‘Nickolai’. When the boy’s eyes watered and little hands pawed at the elder devil, he was met with a twisting of features - a furrowed brow, a wrinkled nose. 

 

“Stop that. Stop - looking like that.”

 

Such words were like strikes that shook the shimmering gaze into true tears as small claws reached up to Reinhard’s matted cheek-feathers, to preen them to a more familiar fluff, and beg his father to remember with an onslaught of empty memories. It nurtured a discomfort in the rust devil, who moved to grip the hands which touched him; although, he was so flimsy that even the child fought him down. 

 

“Ich don't know just- stop et. Nie - crying.” 

 

It was a snap towards a boy that couldn’t understand, from a father that never did. 

 

“Go- go- get... One of those snacks vy mentioned or something. Just- ja.”

 

Sniffling, the boy shifted away with a scrape of hooves. Once he returned, it was with an apple outstretched. Without much thought, it was taken and raised to bite from - though eyes which sought to avoid sight of the boy who cried could do nothing but flicker back in hapless guilt.

 

“Stop.” 

 

He continued at first, in careless frustration. It helped none. Biting into the apple, there was a low crunch as thinned, jagged pupils were unwavering from being settled on the boy who cried quietly before him. Ever so desperately, little hands raised to choke back the noise, to no avail. Rather, it only grew worse under the sniffling and shuddering of his shoulders. Not alone, and yet surely feeling the oppressive weight of loneliness. Reinhard eyed the apple, before he twisted it and lowered it for Nickolai. He murmured in something tamer, some bid to not do further harm and spare the boy the state of being he was in: an invitation to eat too, to share in the simple snack. An offer to share something that wasn’t hurt.

 

Nickolai hiccuped, peering at the peace offering with bleary eyes. He clasped it on either side, and took a small bite. For a few moments, his cries were muffled in his tentative chewing. Crawling up to sit on the bed, he warped his arms about Reinhard. The small child rested his head to his father’s chest, and his body shook as an autumn leaf might. It took the whole of the boy to speak with any clarity.

 

“E-ea want Papej b-back.”

 

 

---

Spoiler

 

 

 

Over the next months, Reinhard proved weak. His hands shook in flashes of agony, and liquid medication was breakfast, lunch and dinner. Important was Asahiko - he knew that much. Yet, he couldn’t return any sentiment of love. Nickolai, Aedith, Amya - his own children - he couldn’t recognise. It made those around him cry. He made those around him cry in reckless outbursts; in unwitting, hurtful things that were said. Painfully slow seemed the recovery, as frail knees turned to stumbled falls, then shuffled steps. Day by day and month by month his memory improved, and yet life simply wasn’t the same. It were as if something had fundamentally broken. Quickly, he began to miss the infernal magic, and the shield it gave him. He soon missed the voice that had chided in his ear, guided him even when he stubbornly refused. They were always there. He was a volatile mess, and though he grew stronger, and his fogged mind eased, it was suffering.

There were times he spent out on travel. He never went far. He was barely able, and far too afraid of everything that felt so new. Every day, he got a little further. Soon, he came upon a statue. It was tall and blazing, and the engravings around it so incredibly fond. Villorik. They loved him. Yet, all he could recall was the lash of mountain-peak air and the tone of a thing that held no care. Each day on his walks, he stopped by the statue. At first, he was angry. He was petty, and the sharpest of rocks were pelted upon the radiant memorial. Rocks turned to quiet questions as he murmured ‘whys’ to the wind. Questions fell to silence as it became a place of long rest before he progressed on his daily travels.

Some months later, he came to recall certain promises. He came to recall who needed to know. He wrote, in haste. He waited. Every day, he stood before the nearest aviary by sunrise, his gaze souring for the flickered silhouettes of birds on the wing. Every day, nothing came for him. With his volatile state, betrayal ran more deeply than ever. Surely, he had been fooled. Again. Oh, how he had been warned. Truly, he had been warned. But that’s all he was, wasn’t it? He was a fool. A defect. He didn’t deserve help. He never had. He deserved one thing, and even that felt out of reach with those around him who peered with hopeful eyes. They wished him well. They loved him, and he hurt them. 

 

More offers of aid came, that never fruited. Offers of rituals to help his memory, to help his pain. It was normal, by now, the disappointment of it all. At the very least, he was more talkative. The desolate wastes of his loneliness only stretched so far, and, eventually, he came to feel a certain spark of warmth for his children: pride. Even when angry, even when disappointed. Even when what they did hurt, the warmth lingered. Aedith was sweet, Amya never caused an ounce of trouble. Nickolai - for all the panic he caused - had a kind heart. It was a new feeling. He couldn’t quite place why it was a positive experience, but it was a small light in a glum world.

 

Pressure built and built. Not only was it pressure for Reinhard, but everyone around him. Especially the one he relied on wholly. None could cope eternally under such pressures; the green devil found it too much. His exhaustion consumed him, forgotten by all. He lashed his tongue at Reinhard: did he care about Asahiko as a person, or did he care only about redemption and the utility he served in it? It was a difficult question, but deserved. The heft of the circumstances was breaking them all. For all the affectionate gestures Reinhard showed, they did not mean the expected thing. Left in a tumult of emotions, he never knew what he felt. Even months later, everything was intense. Asahiko was the only person he reliably had in the world, who was no child. He so desperately wanted to keep him, lest he end up entirely alone in a world out to destroy him. What was love? Did he love? Could he love? He hadn’t truly loved Asahiko before when shadows lurked over his heart. It was convenient. His proposal, mere convenience. It shattered a world, the revelation. He wrote to him in good will of love, and crumpled that same thing. He could not express what the other wanted; yet, Asahiko remained.

“Go- … Go think of the promise we made, that no wound can't be soothed and go- go figure it out. Figure out what to do. Because we will be together either way. I chose not to leave, and I'm still not.”

 

And when they travelled together after that, for another failed bout of help, the gloom of it was cast over Reinhard. It was cast over Asahiko, too. Yet, he turned, even if he chided Reinhard’s insufferable misery - his inability to see when things were a little better. However, it was the soft plea that followed with which Reinhard could find an anchor in:

 

“Please keep holding on.”

 

It was a big ask. They devolved into argument. It was bare honesty that shattered the heart of the poor devil that cared. Who they were to each other was finally an unavoidable question, and neither liked the answer. And even then, they could not take comfort, for the tears of one were a frustration to the other. Even as what little world of comfort they had created shattered by their own hands, they stayed.

 

It took more before they found any real sense of comfort in one another again, as lies became the norm as a fickle means of mercy. It wasn’t forever. Eventually, they did come to talk. Then, it wasn’t just one of them figuring out how they felt - but both. And for the first time in a long time, Reinhard managed to smile something fleeting. Later, in the comfort of home, a simple conversation of a warm dinner had him smiling wide enough that Asahiko oogled it as one would a diamond, and the light laugh that followed only emphasised the brightness. It was precious.

 

Slowly but surely, hope leaked back. It was a somber kind of hope, drenched in a painful reality that things could never go back to how they were. There was no real redemption in the eyes of the world. It mattered; it weighed. Nevertheless, it didn’t mean they had to end. Not yet. There could be an element of control in their lives, somewhere. They could choose to find a way to manage. They could choose a fate, even if it wasn’t the fate they truly wanted. That became hope: a modicum of control in how they lived, and how they ended. To give up was easier. Both knew it. They fought anyway with every ounce they could give. For the first time in many months, on the cusp of a full year, Reinhard finally sank into enough comfort to acknowledge what Asahiko was - who Asahiko was.
 

“Et’s Coco, isn't et? Vy are Coco.”

 

Some weeks later, Reinhard had travelled his way alone to an aviary. Every day, he still checked his mail. Every day, he was disappointed. He was forgotten. He was a tool for others to feel better about themselves. It still hurt deeply, but it no longer ruled his life. Another came by, a familiar face. One he once called aunt, or thought so, at least. A face he loved, or once did, at least. He called over something snide, resting between earnestness and spite. Except, the conversation that ensued proved enlightening. It was a much-needed closure. His anger faded off with it, even if they did not agree. Even if, in quiet, in his head, he wanted to growl of the whisperings of  a boy that screamed for help, but had not the understanding to know how to take it. Now, they screamed that she was wrong. Yet, he understood. He had been hard to love, amidst the mess of everything. He had been hard to see, behind the spined wall he built. An apology rolled from him. He didn’t truly believe her words: that he was a ‘wonderful experience’. That seemed almost laughable, after everything else she said. A callous woman, she seemed to be. But it was love. He chose not to focus upon it. Instead, he babbled. On and on he did, about one thing: Coco. His luck of having him, the danger they attracted, his incessant attention to detail, how much of a rock he had become. All of it was fond, even in the worst of his comments. On reflection after-the-fact, the reality between the two was clear.

 

 

---

 

 “Ea wouldn't, Schwarz.”

 

The hate rolled off of the Weiss' tongue with ease. The way the devil rode his steed up to a stop, even at a distance, bore a confidence unfit for his circumstance. He was more gaunt than last the two had met. The pallid, sickly lines of glowing colours creeped up his neck and down his hands. His cane laid across his horse, secured in his lap. If one didn’t know him, one might think the devil was taunting his cousin - the boy he so inspired - and yet he wasn’t. To see his family, his blood, on such an outing was an impossible temptation. His isolation was an impossible pressure, and as much threat as everything posed, it was his family. Karl knew. He was quiet, but he knew. Surely, he had spread some word. He trusted.

 

The glower that was returned through the pattering rain should have said it all. But Reinhard, in all his wisdom, wanted to talk. A gabber, at heart. Shouldn’t be here, so his cousin claimed. Well, there were lots of shouldn’ts! It was light-hearted: ill-placed. A fool he made of Karl, or so they said. Couldn’t accept what he’d admitted to, or so he said. An axe was unclipped. And still, Reinhard gabbed. Not this, not that. He’d admitted to something minor, in his own head. A trick, and the use of the tool forced upon him. He admitted to helping the girl set up a new life, to helping organise the matter, for favour of her life. Surely, he did not determine it anything worthy of a fight. Of course, not that his morality was ever typical. They never scrutinised his manner closely; he couldn’t help that. However, his tone grew snide, it grew mocking. It wasn’t like Petyr could understand, and yet part of him was still expecting him to: that if he just spoke enough, he would understand. A fatal flaw, many times over.

Ire was drawn at the words spoken, and a march fourth. Chiding, more weapons unclipped. Unsettled, the devil backed his horse off. He made clear he didn’t want to fight - couldn’t, truly. Yet, Petyr was begrudging of it. He understood, he claimed of the devil, his distrust, despite their fundamental difference. How he knew that Karl had told them, and that should have spelled everything. Despite how obvious it was they didn’t understand one another. That their perspectives did not align. Finding mark in the shoulder of the steed Reinhard rode came Petyr’s thrown axe, and the animal utterly panicked.

 

The next minutes were nothing but brutality. Colliding with the fencing of a jousting rink, the horse toppled; Reinhard was flung. The collision with the ground came with crunches, shattering his horns and bones within, leaving him dazed on the muddied ground as the rain grew heavier. Petyr didn’t stop after that, either. Huffs puffed from the devil, thudded beats strummed in his ears. When he pushed up, black ran down his face. He scoured through what remained of his usual arsenal, much shattered. Vials - vials on vials of medicines, and weaponry. He clasped one, and scrambled to stand, but merely collapsed in a heap with no cane and the sharp agony that radiated up him. He resorted to pushed crawls on the ground as his breathing laboured. No longer did he have words to say as the two drew close - too close.

 

Lobbed, glass shattered at the base of Petyr’s stride and calcified coatings clung to his form. A titan, he lugged on - but it grew and clawed his way up his form like a disease. In turn, another axe was grabbed - and quite suddenly did Petyr seem furious as a swift strike cut down. In some desperate bid, Reinhard hurled himself down a slope to roll, battering what was cracked within. An awkward splutter left him as his glance passed over a watching child, and he dug out another vial, even if glass cracked into his hand. A quiet plead to stop among it all went unheard. When the axe came down again, the devil pushed up under, one hand raised to divert from the shaft and the other bearing the vial, rattled. His disadvantaged position left the axe to dig in behind his left shoulder. In their close proximity, Petyr drew his fist back and it squarely seated upon the devil’s jaw. The force buried him back upon the axe - and yet, the clasped potion was swung in as if to slap. A cornered creature, in the utter throes of desperation.

The blast caught them both. Petyr was left with flesh seared, glass embedded deep within him. Blinded, deafened. The axe was yanked, and in the fray of movement, it cleaved up through Reinhard’s cheek and eye. Left with a maul of flesh for a hand, black dribbling from broken chunks, as darkness consumed part of his vision, Reinhard blindly sought his dagger. It didn’t swing; it was aimed at no target. Some hapless means of feeling secure, when he was done. The two were left in wretched, grotesque sights. The devil’s shock-addled body found his feet in a hunched stumble back, blade shakily pointed to his cousin as the enemy dragged himself fourth.

 

Steps stilled, but not by will. The steady growth of the cockatrice overcame Petyr, who’s remaining gaze remained fixed in wrath. It gave the devil but a moment to breathe, until his gaze fell on the child that returned, axe in hand. He could not simply turn and flee, not truly. It was a painful, slow shuffle to which he was reduced. However, the child looked to Petyr - and remained. And barely, just barely, could the fugitive drag himself off to staunch the bleed in what haste he could manage. Mauled. 

 

It was Asahiko who saved Reinhard, finding him pooled in a safehouse. The devil had done what he could for himself, but he could only do so much in his condition. He kept himself from bleeding out, he sustained the needs of his body, barely. He functioned on threads. The rust devil Asahiko knew the sight of, had been reduced to something thoroughly battered. Overcome, he came to plead with the foolish injured that dared to hope. The one whom he cradled, whom begged for the home he wasn’t permitted for the danger that lay in wait. He pleaded.

 

“No… No more Dima, no more Weisses, no more- … No more, Ame.”

 

Home proved painful. His hand was tended by someone real. He wanted to stay. He just wanted to stay. Guided by feelings, he was willing to risk his life to just stay. His son saw his state, his daughter. Their mother’s exhaustion proved all too real, as even she raised hands to cover her face in a rare display of agitation from which she usually eschewed. New anger meant new problems. The ‘duel’ with Dima, the talk with Karl. Now, the fight with Petyr. More had come seeking him, more threatening to burn his home down - all of them, with it.

He could not stay, for his own safety. Yet, it was all he desired in that time. And it was his fault, in their eyes. That he ran did not matter. That he sought peace did not matter. 

 

“When someone wants to fight him, he does.” 

 

Advice became a blur to his ear. He left the cabin. Stay in the cabin. Three years, it had been. Barely two months he had lasted, she said. He retorted he was told to act. He tried. It wasn’t her advice, but another’s. Act. He tried, to what he understood. And, then, she claimed he knew that wasn’t what was meant.  

 

“Ich don't know that! How am ich supposed to know? Niebody comes. Niebody writes. Et's just... Niething.” 

 

Frustration rolled from him in waves. He was no expert. He was just supposed to know. He was just supposed to know what was wrong, supposed to know how to handle himself. He was supposed to know exactly how to act, how to react. He was supposed to cope amidst everything Yet, even through his agitation did she give her assurance. She promised to visit, and all bade him to stay inside. 

 

It was then, with his father half-dead, as all was settled - beginning to settle - that Nickolai said he wanted to move away. All the rust devil could do was bear it, passively accept it, and hope the boy grew to want something different. He could only enjoy it while it lasted. Just like the rest of his battered form, his heart broke.

 

 

---

 

The next years passed without much incident. Reinhard retired his reckless manner, and year after year crawled by. It became rare for him to see another soul beyond his immediate family; in fact, it became quite the celebration. However, his general attitude towards people only grew worse. He loved his family dearly, for they were all he had. Sometimes, he scrawled maddened letters that were never sent but were instead relegated to a hap-hazard pile. They were the scryings of the closures he would never receive, and bitterness manifested. Reinhard and Asahiko found comfort in one another in earnest. They were two fragile, outcast beings. They planned to marry, one day.

From the side they watched Aedith grow. Their Star, they called her. They struggled with her as she grew older, and wanted to expand her circle. Yet, it was Reinhard who always had the first word. It was Reinhard who pushed to support her choice. At times, he was the glue that bound loose, fretting creatures together. At others, his walls broke and he crumpled again, out of sight of the children. But Asahiko was there each time he could be. The outcome of it all was inevitable to them. All they could do was advise, and whenever Aedith came back in distress, lend their support in whatever manner they could. Aedith knew the two well, well enough that she preferred them to any blood family even through all their flaws. As a daughter, she was all they could ask for. They loved her dearly, and even if their anxieties grew into the occasional argument, it was resolvable. One day, Aedith returned gravely injured - and that ended her foray into the world. A relief, in some ways, to the two who otherwise had become hapless onlookers.

 

Amya never stepped a foot out of line. A little strange, perhaps, but her fretting of the world kept her safer than the rest. In that sense, it was a godsend. A rare blessing. A calmness. Their Moon.

 

Yet, Nick had a fire. Every day, Reinhard was reminded that they were too similar. He was bright, unmissable. Their Sun. Except, Nick never quite seemed to grasp the severity of potential consequences. Reinhard partook in teaching his son to fight. He instructed him on what to study, and gave him indications of where to find the materials. More importantly than that, at each opportunity he took time to talk with Nick. To pick his thoughts, to warn him of the world he delved into time and time again. It didn’t seem to phase the boy, all their warnings; it didn’t seem to phase him, when any of them came back in pieces. It was comforting that he wasn’t distraught, and yet worrying all the same. And they knew, those fathers, that one day he was going to leave. And they knew, from early on, they would lose their son. But they could hope for something different. Yet, if they knew anything, it was that one could not blur worlds. 

Hope and love were not to be. He made his choice - a half-choice, truly. Reinhard knew that. Nick couldn’t commit. How could he? He never understood what he was giving up. It became a duty then, a purpose, to see that the boy maintained a straight choice. That he walked without questionable means. There were those that judged his harshness, and the flimsy, weakened devil easily caved to a harsh contact, or word. Still, he tried. Even in parting, he barely managed to hug the boy owing to the coaxing of Aedith.

 

He was no strong thing. The years had worn on him, though some assembled scraps of hope remained. It was hard to let someone go. It felt like all they ever truly did was lose. A boy, no less, under circumstances earlier than it should have been. Reinhard tried to believe it was for the best, he tried to believe when Nick wrote ‘I love you’. Except, he couldn’t bring himself to truly take it to heart for all he recalled was his wanton desire to leave, and the empathy he seemed to lack. They were burdens to the boy, and Reinhard understood they weren’t worth it. Despite it all, he supported the boy how he could fathom. Deep down, he hoped Nickolai succeeded. He hoped Nickolai could do everything he was never able to. That was love.

 

 

---

Spoiler

 

 

 

Issues quickly began to pile. With Nickolai gone, he was a father in mourning for something which still lived. A letter he received became a tell-tale sign of something that was sure to bite: a deal gone awry.

The night Nick left, the fathers had struggled. Yet, they had each other. There was security in that - promise in that. It was love and hope and everything that made the situation bearable. They could survive. Albeit, that night, Reinhard couldn’t sleep. He slipped away in caution, casting a glance back to assure himself he had not roused Asahiko’s frame. He did not go far. He didn’t desire to. He had long learned that going far was a bad idea. And so, he lingered outside of his room, admiring the mural: worn and cracked yet ever so bright, it had always felt out of place among the dank stonework. It was just an act to be away for a while, and clear his head. However, hefty steps grew louder. Claws scraped on stone and an undeniable presence lingered behind. Amid the air of the tunnel, it began to stink. It was bearable, but the metallic stench was inescapable as it perforated every nook.

 

“And everywhere I looked, I saw fractured memories. A broken mirror. A thousand images - all the same, yet each a different angle.”

 

The voice of The Tyrant was rumbling and methodical and embedded a stilted dread somewhere in the depths of the devil. But he stayed. It was something of a terrible connection, those two. Reinhard reached to run his hand over his cheek, and scattered, molting feathers fell freely from him. It left him looking ratty, changing. When his fatigued and weighted look turned back to the beast behind, there could be no doubt that once more that creature had impeccable timing. He preyed upon the weak. Rattlesnake-like eyes took in every detail of the once-prince, every glance done in malice.

 

“And what an angle this is… You're falling apart, it seems.”

 

Reinhard didn’t have the heart to smile, or play games. He was read like a book, worn and aged. No doubt, the day had sanded away the wall he built. Time had cracked it terribly, and a hefty push or shove made everything come to spill like a dam. Though he wasn’t alone. For every crack, there was a patch - and that patch was skillfully applied by Asahiko. The Tyrant was not as worn as he, tiring nought. The cracks of his once-human self were fixed not with tender care, but by ridding himself of walls entirely. He approached in slow strides, craning his head down to peer upon the devil from a respectable distance.

 

“There is poetry, in gazing upon the damned… To see such finality. To see such futility. A desperate raging against a predetermined fate - to keep going, knowing that your destination is one of destruction.”

 

The devil did not budge, too worn to care, and too confident in his manner. Complacent. The next rumble came with the faintest him of sincerity - a foreign thing, on infernal lips.

 

“It's rather inspiring.”

 

With such a sincere tone, Reinhard’s ill-matched pools glowered across. One eye ticked with the unnatural murmurings of invention, the other a bloated heap of twinned pupils. Rather than engage, his look turned off to the stone floor. Ungloved hands sought each other, unusually, so that sable claws might pick at each other with an obnoxious grinding. One hand, a familiar pale orange. The other, a moulded heap to his arm of flesh and sinew: a hand thoroughly skinned, yet seemingly to cause him no pain. Over each ran now-scarred patterns of waves, glowing in pallid yellows and blues and periwinkle. He smiled faintly to himself, though a deep somberness hung behind his gaze.

 

“Ich would say life ist boring without a fight, but et’s quite miserable. Et’s all ich can do, to keep fighting or… give up, again. Ich never have liked being told what to be.”

 

Abominable, alien clicks left the rumbling throat of  The Tyrant. He began to prowl around Reinhard with heavy footsteps, a weight matched only by the judgement that lingered in their unearthly gaze. The stench of heavy metals clung to the air around the two of them, growing thicker ever-still.

 

“Admirable. I believe that you were always determined, to be exactly as you are at this moment. You could never accept what was given. You always had to make a mess of things. Looking back now, I can see more of myself in you then perhaps even Siegmund would have cared to admit.”

 

His gaze trailed after The Tyrant in close tacking, and the notion drew a tenseness across his lips. It nagged at him as if it were some crime or personal slight to make such a comparison. Albeit, The Tyrant was not alone in such a thing. It didn’t stop Reinhard hating it. He was not Siegmund. He was not like Siegmund. Whipping his head to the other side, utterly aware of the beast in every manner. Always wary. Reinhard’s gaze once more met thin pupils as the creature lowered his toothed jaw over his shoulder and a basal hum left him, akin to a deep consideration of a mind long made.

 

“Siegmund's fallacy is that he believed there was a way to destroy the natural world's rules, without bringing an end to the things he loved most.” 

 

There was a drawn out pause as the thought lingered between them, The Tyrant’s eyes turning off to the floor in complete security as the devil could do nothing but watch, on edge. Hanging uncomfortably in the air, the implication grated.

 

“He believed- no. That is not the proper phrase. He Hoped.”

 

Jutting up and pressing fourth, the snout filled with conical teeth found itself inches from Reinhard’s face.  Liquid bubbled in the maw; the stench was suffocating. It was a defilement of personal space. A bubble invaded. A rarity for the Herald of Revolt. 

 

 “Do you, Reinhard. Do you still hope?”

 

Reinhard’s ears subtly tilted in with a tenseness at the closeness, naturally inclined to take a cautious step away. 

 

“… There are some days, that ich dare. .But hope ist a fickle thing. Et ist like a venom. A slow-acting one, that saps upon what vy are with each disappointment… ag then vy need to learn to hope again.”

 

How appropriate. Venom. Even the king nodded his agreement. Their point was made, thus even the king moved away. Or, perhaps, even the proximity was too much for them, not that Reinhard dared to make a comment.

 

“It is Siegmund's love. His desire for something better. That tender longing, that I have learned to twist into the truth. That at the end of all things, hope is merely a symptom of misery.”

 

Reinhard dared to disagree. He had to. All this time, he had fought for some idea of hope. He fought to keep hold of some bright love to his life. He fought for some fickle glimpse of redemption. Impossible hopes.

 

“Siegmund didn't know love. Hope hurts, but et doesn't… have to be terrible. The position ich am in just makes et… rare for anything ich could hope to be a reality. Ag yet, there are… doable hopes, too.”

 

Words came next, twisted. Aimed. The words came twisted, but not without a wrinkled grimace from the beast. Caught in the brief churning of his gut, the king fell to quiet. It was short, and lasted only until the king bothered to turn his gaze back upon Reinhard - beamed gaze settling squarely on the devil’s features in a blinding directness.

 

 “Your misery feeds you lies, and you devour them. Doable, unachievable. It is irrelevant.”

 

There came a hardening of the defect’s countenance at some remote idea that Siegmund was capable. There was once a man that took his son out to play on the greenery. There was once a man that taught him how to play the piano, and together they perfected their duet. There was once a man who empathised with his boy, who was disgusting to the world, like Reinhard was. He was a man long forgotten and twisted by a warped mind; in this sense, it truly did feed falsehoods. 

 

“He liked to have things.”  

 

“Yet, he would have died for you.” 

 

The Tyrant spoke in quick retort, allowing that fact to simmer in Reinhard's ears. It burned something hellish. It was an offense to everything Reinhard had come to be, and yet he knew there lay some truth in it. At his lowest, it was Siegmund that saved his life. At his lowest, his father tended and soothed him. They played their duet, and everything the younger devil had forgotten, the elder still remembered.

 

“He damned you, so that no other may use your soul against him. Did you ever pause to consider that was also because he wished for you to make your own fate - rather than be weaponised?”

 

His mouth crept open slightly at such an assertion, stilted into a quiet as he processed the idea, and the implications. Weaponised. It wasn’t long before he knew what was being referenced. It wasn’t long, before the lashing gales of northern peaks brushed his mind and the hardened look behind a winged helmet stuttered his heart. The white cape fluttered at the ferocious wind-blows, casting the man as but a phantom. With a faint breath in, Reinhard’s demeanor was shaken. Words were blurted.

 

“He took away the life ich built - the - what ich wanted. What he knew ich wanted!”

 

The Tyrant straightened as it stood tall, and in the gloom of the caverns the spotlight it held upon the devil was all the more blinding. As he continued to speak, Reinhard only became more incensed. He could not have known. This manner of thinking - this philosophy - was wrong. Surely, it was wrong.

 

“Yes, he did. That is why you took his hand. It was your choice. An offer was made, and an offer was taken. You did not know, because all of it came from love. Love is the ultimate weapon. It is the death of all things. Reason, justice, hope. To Siegmund, damnation was also protection. To shield you. To shield himself.”

 

When Reinhard stubbornly raised to reject the notion, he was brazen. He was too brazen. Emotions were a curious thing. More than anything, they spoke loudly to the devil. The Tyrant did not flicker, he did not smile. He did not tense, he was not hasty. Rather, in the time he allowed the devil to rant and rave and reject his Truth, he revelled in success.

 

“It is curious that you admonish him so, considering it is he that is now indirectly responsible for the family you now cling so desperately to.” 

 

Reinhard barked back in something thoroughly defensive. For, in his own way, he already knew what the beast was speaking of - and he hated it. The voice had whispered in his ear for too many years for him to forget how things came to be. He could not simply ignore the way Siegmund played life like chess, moving and shifting the pieces in Reinhard’s life to his liking.

 

“This fear that you are feeling, it's simply a fear of a Truth that you are not yet willing to face.” 

 

The Tyrant came to step fourth, and boxed the devil in as he hung upon the words he knew were coming.

 

“All this happiness that you now cling to,” 

 

The maw lowered as malignant eyes leered.

 

“Is the work of Siegmund Weiss.”

 

In all his maturity, in all the years Reinhard had grown, in all that he knew the nature of demons and the happenings of his past he retorted with a spiteful energy that wholly bristled in him, leaving him clasping his fists tightly in some tremble, lest he lash out terribly unwisely. He cursed out the king, having little to retort in the throes of defeat. Preyed upon, he was, as one does a mouse. A plaything to the monster in his life. The years he had built that life on, that he had found happiness in, were being reduced to the work of the one he spited most. That even now, after all his running, he had not escaped Siegmund’s board.

 

The methodical beast drew back its scaled lips, letting conical teeth glimmer in smug satisfaction. He chided further on how Reinhard yet needed to grow, to face the shadow in his heart. That the devil, for all he tried, was not the wise thing he thought he was. That he, fearful as he was, could not possibly face it. The vulnerability that came with it all, he simply could not afford. That the devil simply could not imagine it.

 

Reinhard gaped like a fish for a moment or two, stuck on-loop in the sheer degree of control such a notion held over him. Tighter did both his fists squeeze; however, before he took to using them against The Tyrant, he whipped on his heel to head for his door. Outstretching a hand he reached for the handle in his haste - to simply escape the circumstance. To run, as he always had, and find himself back where he began.

 

 

---

 

The Tyrant lived in Reinhard’s head. He became a new voice, whispering in his ear. After so many years, vulnerabilities of the past still weighed heavy on the devil’s shoulders. It was a wound too deep, pressed in not only by Siegmund, or what remained of him, but the many who scorned Reinhard. It was a wound gouged by those that never cared to look closely at the relationship between them, that failed to see the desperation behind his anger to the world, that thought Reinhard and Siegmund the same. 

 

The devil simply did not have the resilience to fight the shadow that wrapped his heart, in the wake of all else that failed. What he Loved, what he Hoped had been mutated into new shackles. Redemption was a failed experiment. And yet, he wasn’t ready to seek Truth, either. The devil ran, and ran and found himself back where he began: recklessly in the wary sights of his oldest friend-turned-traitor, clawing in struggle against a world for which he only held wrath, and to the substances that let his mind rest, even if just for a little while.

 

It does not feel, it does not rest. It is inevitable; indomitable. 

 

Spoiler

I have to extend a massive thanks to the people who have made this possible so far, unwittingly or no. I have decided against making a list of pings because it may be too long... It's quite the joy to pull together loose threads into something cohesive. However, this has been made much easier by people taking on a number of different themes that overlap at different points!

And a special thanks to @RingAroundRoseyand @SethWolffor letting me play this idiot.

 

[ChainedDragons 1374]

Spoiler

A swell read and made me cry. Babej niiiiick