Chapter Text
Black hair matted with blood. Even in sleep, the unfamiliar sight makes Kishiar’s skin crawl and heart feel like lead.
Each cut, each burst vein of mana, even the mangled limbs, should have been luckily unfamiliar to Kishiar. It isn’t, and he feels it in each muscle, each sinew, each nerve, each blood vessel. Even his heart feels dead as it threatens to jump out of its cage.
Kishiar awakens, and it is only due to the habits and grace ingrained into him he doesn’t break down in the cover of the darkness. Nonetheless, cold sweat pools in his palms, it drips like the blood on the smaller palms he can still see in the darkness if he closes his eyes.
Yuder’s eyes snap open to a day years in the past. The shock settles, just like that bond between them. It’s a jarring reality, one moment he’s tearing his body to shreds, in the other he’s become a living miracle that many would envy.
An opportunity. To save the world, and to save his commander.
Yet, another reality settles inside his heart. His hands are empty of a weight that had become comfortingly familiar, a warm and breathing miracle, whose skin and blood ran warmer than the cruelty that surrounded them. His blood, his flesh, his wonderful son.
Yuder sinks into the mattress. Would…would he need to sleep with his commander like that day? Recreating the situation would be difficult, considering how suddenly he had dropped down on the floor with no preceding symptoms that fateful day.
He contemplates, and he looks at the sun, closing his eyes to let the rays burn through the delicate skin of his eyelids, tinting the darkness a bright red- just like those eyes that had once glanced sadly at him.
He raises his hands, like a puppet dancing on incomprehensible strings; he doesn’t question it, it feels natural to do so. And to answer his call, his son returns to him.
Yuder is not an unloving father; he recognises the warm and plush skin of the small boy before he sees him, that child who appears through the folds of reality, shrinking the realms of impossibility. He holds Ian close, burying his nose into the smooth curls of inky black and while tears do not come, Yuder's heart feels like it has been liberated.
No words are exchanged- one cannot speak while the other refuses to. Ian stares up with his wide and dark eyes, innocent and untainted and unaware.
They leave the capital, and Yuder’s feet take him to the Blue pavilion. Ian stares at scenes that surround them; he had been a secret for far too long, and the world in turn remained a greater mystery to him.
He does not question himself when he doesn’t immediately register for the selection, instead roaming about and helping a few candidates here and there. Ian’s grins manage to negate his father’s deadpan, shy as he buries deeper into his father’s warmth each time a stranger smiles right back.
Something pulls at Kishiar’s body, and he nearly stumbles forward and off his chair while evaluating another candidate.
Broken flashes of the past-future flit in front of his disbelieving eyes like light off broken tinted glass, enchanting and confusing to his greedy and humane heart. Confusing enough that once the candidate finishes, Kishiar stands up.
“I must go.” He mutters and he smiles with an anticipation that one cannot comprehend. And he forgets to stay, an act befitting the lecherous and lazy Duke of Pelleta. Sure enough, he can hear all the whispers trailing behind, yet he cannot find himself to care. He never has, it has been his modus operandi, but he has never cared less in his life. He doesn’t understand why, nor does he need to.
The sun blazes bright like it rejoices, bearing down on the earth. Kishiar’s white clothes illuminate under the yellow rays, his body feels warmer than the star as the surroundings greedily suck in and then throw up the reflections. It threatens to flow, a dam of an imperial duke’s life teachings, all too human manners barely hold back something bigger than comprehension.
All things on his path glimmer, except for a spot of darkness that stands as his destination. Rest are blinded by a noble, yet this person regards him as a human. Those eyes do not bear hatred, just cool apathy that soothes his burning soul.
“Yudrein.” The word leaves his mouth, and it sounds like the sweetest melody. He looks at the small child in the arms of the other half of his soul, and a pride wells up in the once calm surface. “Ian.”
He doesn’t know what either of those words mean, yet he feels that they all fit just right.
“Commander.” It is a title that does not belong to Kishiar yet. The cavalry is a thing of the future, no matter how near. A future that blossoms in the barren crevices of his mind, unfurling a memory at a time. It is kinder this time; they trickle through drop by drop through the small cracks in the dam that Kishiar allows.
No words are needed; they seem unnecessary now. Their minds have the same thought, heart working as one. Ian reaches out to Kishiar as well, a sweet face of infancy Kishiar had to be heartless to refuse and gladly accepts the precious weight of the small boy.
No, even a heartless cannot refuse them; they are the life essence that remains hidden underneath the skin, beating beside the tangled knots of energy that blaze their trails through the mortal flesh of Kishiar’s vessel. A body couldn’t survive without its heart, and as simple as that Kishiar knew he couldn’t survive without this little family he had learnt of a few moments that stretched for eternity. Kishiar
Kishiar was never the religious one, yet takes all the strength his body possesses to not fall down to his feet and worship and pray and-
“Let’s go.” Yudrein remains composed, while Ian tugs and plays with the gold buttons and lapels. The boy fits into the crook of his elbow with ease, and does not move as they walk amongst the stares they earn; neither Kishiar nor Yuder expect understanding, nor do they need it.
The sun sets on the horizon, and the colors of gold gradually fade to a deep purple. Somewhere in between, Ian falls asleep; somewhere in between Yuder explains it all.
“I’m sorry.” Kishiar finally finds his voice again. The purple gaze turns to stare, piercing more than the sharpest knife. Yuder doesn’t offer any condolences, nor does he berate. He remains silent; lets Kishiar digest it all- the silencing horror and the bittersweet memories he must’ve seen.
Yuder does not meet his eyes. “Do you hate me?”
It’s such an outlandish notion that makes Kishiar speechless for a short second. Then- “I could never.”
Yuder doesn’t seem like he believes, so Kishiar comes closer even while they walk, swiftly intertwining their fingers together.
“I’m sure the other Kishiar couldn’t either.”
A long sigh threatens to escape Yuder. “You remember it?”
You. It’s a disrespectful pronoun that Yuder had gotten used to. Even then, Kishiar does not say anything. He never has; respectful address is a trivial thing.
(In another world, he insists on the name of ‘commander’, and abhors the title ‘Your highness’ from his cavalry. Yuder calls him neither, and he says nothing.)
“Yes.” Kishiar answers after deliberation. “I believe I do.”
“Will you help me?” Yuder hesitates, and that is all that nearly crumbles Kishiar.
“Yes.” He doesn’t know what Yuder wants, but it doesn’t matter- he’d give all that Yuder needs, even if it is the world he demands.
Yuder stops in his steps. “You haven’t asked what it is.”
“I don’t need to. I’d help either way.”
“Save the world.” Yuder instructs, and he resembles all parts of a commander he had once been; each syllable is heavy and slow with authority and Kishiar nearly shivers. “From the catastrophe.”
“As you wish.” Whatever you wish. “Will you stay?”
“Yes.” The answer comes unhesitant. The cavalry has been his home, even if it were a sad one. There is hope still. If Kishiar does not leave, Yuder may have more neutral relations with his fellow comrades.
Future isn’t bleak as it once was; it is not the wilted rose that falls from the sepals of peace it had once clinched desperately to, destroyed and rotted by the destructive fury that crumbled its foundations. It is now a young bud, protected and peaceful. It could be the grandest tragedy, or bloom the world into the best it can be.