Chapter Text
Deon wasn't a good person. He never said he was.
During the Eight Year War, he killed people who had families waiting for them so he could survive. Every day, he declared his life more important than someone else's, and if it hadn't been for the Empire, and he hadn't been killing to 'protect the Empire,' he would be locked in a prison, cursed to never see the sun again.
But that didn't matter. If he was hated, fine. He was used to that; and it wasn't like he could protest, not when everything they were saying was true anyway.
He wasn't fighting for a just cause either. Other soldiers claimed they were fighting to protect their families, to make sure the Empire stayed strong, but Deon fought for himself.
To survive one more day, he had to fight like he was mad. Like he was an animal, slashing at anyone he saw as long as they wore the enemy's colors—but even then, he sometimes got it wrong, something that earned him quite a reputation among his fellow soldiers—and using his bare hands if stabbing them with his daggers wasn't an option.
He had to live, because dying wasn't an option. And at first, his only motivation was just that. He had to survive, and that was the reason he raised his blade, even if everything hurt and he was starting to wonder how much longer he could stay standing before it became too much.
However, at some point, his reason to fight became something else. Instead of simply fighting and barely scraping by each day, he needed to live to fulfill his wish.
That wish was a simple one: to make those who made him suffer feel a pain worse than anything they had ever experienced. To suffer just as he had.
It burned in his chest and gave him life; a will to survive.
So when the emperor asked what he wanted, he had only one answer.
Finally, after years of waiting, Deon's goal was finally in reach.
Deon prowled the empty corridor, ignoring each room that held peaceful snores and slow breathing, stopping at the door at the end. The door was unlike the others and loomed over him, almost twice his height. It was decorated with symbols and patterns carved into the wood. He spared a glance at the meaningless art before resting his bloodied glove on the metal handle.
Years ago, he remembers struggling to open them, the doors too heavy and too tall for his meager size.
But now, the doors swung open without effort, inviting Deon in without hesitation.
Across from him, the windows let in the moonlight, illuminating the room and allowing Deon to see every inch of the room; how empty the room was, with only a clear desk and books filling up the shelves lined up against the walls, and the three people in the room. One wore a suit while the other two wore humble yet rich attire that could only belong to a noble.
Deon's gaze stopped at the two people hiding near the back, and his body froze as his mind connected just who the pair were.
His mind flew back to long forgotten memories—a kind voice whispering words he would never forget late at night when he was supposed to be sleeping, and a harsh voice scolding him, telling him everything that he did wrong and turning soft whenever addressing someone else.
He still hadn’t moved, standing on the edge of the room and far away from the ones that threw him away; who birthed him and raised him, and who he once proudly considered his parents but were now his targets.
A distant, buried part of his mind was asking what was he doing, why is he not moving, they're right there, while the rest of him was staring, stuck in place.
But, even if he was looking for them and he shouldn't be surprised in any way, imagining them was different then seeing them with his own two eyes.
His mother looked... older. More wrinkles decorated her face and she was wearing a dress Deon didn't remember.
But she looked the same as the mother from his memories as she tightened her grip on her husband's shoulder, a silent cry for help. Her husband answered her call, moving to hide his dear wife behind him. As if that'd do anything to help.
Deon smiled. Found you.
"Mother, Father,” he greeted, taking a step forward. “How are you these days?"
He wasn't dumb enough to expect a heartwarming welcome, not when he was holding a dagger and he returned after eight long years so different, but the silence was still deafening.
Seeing the dagger Deon held at his side, the third figure, a servant Deon didn't recognize—they must've hired him after he went to war—launched himself forward, holding a weapon of his own and aiming for Deon's neck. Huh. He didn't know they provided training to the servants.
Deon wasted no time in dodging the small blade and stabbing the servant in the chest once, then twice. Just to make sure.
It was over in a second. The servant died before he could say a word, falling to the ground as Deon made his way to the center of the room—to where the two people he hadn't seen in almost a decade huddled together, tense and silent.
He knew it would be embarrassingly easy to run forward, catch them by surprise. He could see it now: his dear old father would use himself as a shield, and Deon would gladly take him up on the offer, stabbing him through the neck before moving on to his mother, who would most likely either be frozen in place or run away—either way, she wouldn’t live. She would die the same way her husband did. By Deon’s hand.
"Did you miss me?" Deon asked instead, taking a step closer and watching the couple take a step back, always maintaining the same distance between them and the devil. "I've missed you. A lot, actually. It's really lonely, out on the frontlines."
Stop talking. Why are you spouting such nonsense? Just kill them. Isn't that what you're here for? Your entire purpose ?
Deon ignored the voice.
Moments passed. The man and the woman did not answer, their mouths glued shut.
He took the chance to take in his parent’s expressions, the emotions dyeing their faces.
His father was wary, with his nose wrinkled and eyes sharp. His mother was… well, she was terrified. Of him. Shaking silently behind her husband, her eyes wide and never leaving Deon.
It’s still the same, Deon thought. Only this time, it’s not scorn or disgust. Just… I’m not welcomed. Which makes sense, considering… everything.
"...You never sent me letters." Deon whispered. He stopped walking forward, standing straight despite the ache in his shoulders. "The only letter I received in the past eight years was one promoting me to commander.”
He hesitated. “I… I thought that maybe—”
"Why are you here, Deon?" his father finally spoke, sweat lining his brow.
His father spoke with a familiar disgust that he hadn't heard in years. It sent shivers down Deon’s spine, and a fear he thought he’d killed.
Despite that, it still caused Deon to relax.
Of course. It's still the same.
"...Just wanted to repay a favor," Deon said before dashing forward with speed he couldn't dream of in his childhood, appearing before his father who could only adopt a shocked expression as a dagger dug into his chest, making a home in his heart.
His mother screamed, and as Deon ripped out the blade, the man fell to the ground, clutching the wound.
Deon couldn’t deny a part of him was satisfied by the blood coating his dagger and the man on the floor.
But he also couldn’t deny that a part of him couldn’t ignore the heart-wrenching sounds his mother made.
He watched as his mother fell to her knees, crawling over to her limp husband and shaking him, calling out his name as the life faded out of him. He was a mere spectator as her voice became hoarse and choked with tears running down her face.
Deon loomed over them, his dagger clutched in his hand before he raised it high above his head.
What are you doing? A different voice asked. They’re your parents. Why are you doing this?
Shut up, Deon thought. And the voice listened, for once.
The woman who he once ran to with a wide smile upon seeing her was still sobbing, saying things Deon couldn’t understand.
Deon didn’t know what the feeling stirring in him was, and he didn’t care to know.
A grin consumed his face, wide and wobbly. "Goodbye," he whispered before the blade fell.
It was a swift death; straight through the back. She didn’t last any longer than her husband.
The room was silent once again, this time for a different reason. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of ragged, stifled breathing before it faded into a somewhat steady, normal breathing.
He was on his knees, having fallen at some point, his dagger stuck in his mother's back and cutting through her still heart. Trapping her, and if he looked up, he wouldn’t be able to see what kind of expression she was wearing in her final moments.
His head was bowed, his hair falling to block his view and his eyes stubbornly stuck to the floor. The red floor, replacing the blue carpet.
It’s… it’s done. I did it.
His goal was complete. He did what he had wanted to for years. It was over.
At that, Deon lifted his head slowly, eyes moving from the floor to what was in front of him.
Deon almost wished he didn’t look up.
His mother laid on top of her husband, her face hidden and buried into the latter's slowly cooling skin. Her dark green dress was ruined, and not a trace of her normal elegance could be found.
His father was facing away from him, and it was almost like he was drowning in the blood.
He didn’t freeze up. He didn’t. He was just staring. Looking at his work, reminding himself that it was over.
A laugh bubbled out of his chest, and Deon's shoulders shook.
"Hahaha... look at you! Just look at you!" Deon shouted, a hand reaching up to cover his face, his unrestrained smile. "You shouldn't have done that to me! You shouldn't have shunned me or locked me into my room!
"When I wanted your love, you should've treated me better...! You should've... you should've..."
You should've loved me, he wanted to say. Maybe if you did, it wouldn't be like this.
But the deed was done. Everything he had been working for was completed, and Deon should feel fulfilled.
The bodies were getting colder, and Deon's hand trembled around the knife buried into his mother.
Deon should feel… fulfilled. He should feel fine. He should be happy.
But his chest still hurt. Everything still ached. The pain plaguing him all this time should be gone, but it still persisted, refusing to leave.
"Why..." Deon trailed off, the red staining the carpet taking over his vision. "Why couldn't you love me?"
Why would you abandon me?
He closed his eyes, ignoring the wince that traveled through his body as he remembered a familiar sea of blood and countless piles of bodies littering the floor as far as he could see.
Questions and thoughts he had harbored in his heart spilled out, one after another.
I tried so hard to be good enough, and it was never enough for you.
It was so dark in that room, and everyone looked so happy from my window. I wanted to be there, too.
I wanted to go outside.
Why wasn't I enough?
I loved you, so why couldn't you love me?
Shut up, Deon ordered. Shut up. Stop asking questions you already know the answer to.
The questions didn’t go away immediately, but his mind, his thoughts, slowly seemed to… shut down, like it was going to sleep.
Distantly, Deon wondered if that was a good thing.
His knees were starting to hurt, but he didn't move. He wasn't sure if he could.
He should move. He should stand up.
…But everything ached, and every time he breathed it felt like he was being stabbed, over and over, as if punishment for his sins, and—
"De... Deon?"
He raised his head, and to his surprise, someone was standing in the doorway. Someone who invaded his thoughts almost every day during the war, and someone he wasn't sure if he wanted to see again, because he wasn't sure what he'd do when they met again.
It was his brother. Cruel, who looked exactly the same as Deon remembered, just older.
As predicted, Deon's body stilled, but it was easier to snap himself out of it this time, his body following his will without protest because it lacked the strength to do so. One of the few pros of having such a weak body.
It was obviously Cruel, but at the same time, he'd changed. He was taller and more built than Deon remembered—it was clear the past eight years had treated him well. Back then, he was always healthy and excelled in everything, and it showed. He looked like a knight, standing tall and proud as he always did.
His clothes were pristine and belonging to a noble in every way—not covered in blood like Deon's were, for obvious reasons.
When Deon's gaze trailed upward, he saw that his brother's eyes were blown open, wide with more emotion than Deon had ever seen before on his brother's face.
Deon wondered why his calm and collected brother looked like that, then he remembered the three corpses on the floor, two of them being Cruel's parents as well, not just Deon's.
So, even Cruel can look like that , Deon mused.
He smiled, sick and sweet. "Hello, dear brother. It's been a while. Eight years, to be exact."
"Deon, what have you done?!"
Ooh, he sounds angry.
Deon rolled his head to the side, staring at Cruel.
"...You know, all I wanted was to be loved. To be accepted," Deon said instead of answering, his voice empty. "Was that too much to ask for?"
Cruel said nothing, and Deon kept on going.
“Our parents never paid attention to me. They didn’t care about me—they only cared about how I’d damage their reputation. The honor of the Hardt name.
"They loved you. Just not me." Deon caught his reflection in the dagger, noting his dulled red eyes. "You were the perfect child; the one who could go on walks without fainting or coughing up blood. You were strong and talented enough to have a swordmaster teach you, while I couldn't lift a wooden sword.
"Compared to me, you were everything." Deon said. "You were everything a Hardt should be, and I was a disgrace to the family. A failure. An imposter."
He scoffed. "And when everyone was talking about how weak I was, you just watched from the sidelines.
“You let it all happen. You never helped me.” No one did.
Why wasn’t I worth the effort? Your anything?
The words continued to escape, and Deon let them.
"The first time I went outside, some noble brat called me a monster. The disgrace of the Hardt family." Deon tilted his head, his grip around the dagger loosening before it tightened. "Do you agree with him, brother?"
Cruel remained silent, but Deon saw his hand twitching toward the sheathed sword hanging on his hip. Deon let out a sharp laugh—of course.
Deon finally stood up, dusting off his pants. He lazily raised his dagger, the edge lining up perfectly with Cruel's neck, and he imagined the blood sliding down the skin.
"Tell me, brother. When you look at me, do you see a monster?"
Deon waited for Cruel’s response, his patience being stretched far and wide for every second it was silent. His fingers flexed around his weapon, testing his grip, but other than that small movement, the world was still.
Ever since his first day in hell, Deon had wondered. Just why did his family abandon him? Why did they send him to the frontlines, list his name in the draft, to die?
He knew he didn’t look anything like them, lacking the signature dark hair and green eyes, and always fell short of their expectations, but… why?
The question tormented him for years.
And, anyone else would’ve accepted the conclusion that it was simply hate. They hated him, and saw him as dead weight, a stain to the family. Thus, they sent him to war instead of Cruel, the healthy, better choice.
But Deon couldn’t accept that. There had to be something more—anything. Something he wasn’t seeing, something he couldn’t understand.
If they wanted to get rid of him, they would’ve done so, long before the war. It didn’t make sense to use the draft as an excuse, not when no one would care if he died anyway.
Right? Deon reasoned in his twisted thoughts. Right.
A part of him recognized that it was the fourteen-year old in him who thought that way. Those thoughts belonged to the child in him that was buried far below, hoping for the impossible again even though he vowed not to.
He had been given the full picture, and still demanded for the last, nonexistent puzzle piece because the picture was all wrong, and he was unwilling to accept what was right in front of him.
He wanted to know. Even if it was too late.
Was it just something that was inevitable? Something that couldn't be changed, no matter what I did?
He wanted to know if this was the only way it could end, no matter what.
Say something, you bastard. Anything. Give me an answer—I don’t care if it’s a lie.
"Have you gone mute, brother?" Deon asked, none of his inner turmoil leaking into his voice. "Cat got your tongue? Are you speechless at the sight of your long lost brother, finally back from war?"
"...I have nothing to say to a murderer." Cruel finally spoke, unsheathing his sword at last and looking so similar to the honorable knights Deon read about in books.
Now that Deon's beloved brother broke his silence, he didn't seem to have any intentions of stopping. The words left him slowly, allowing Deon to test his muscles and see just how broken they are and estimate how much longer he can stay standing.
"You... have committed an unforgivable act. You have murdered three people, possibly more, in cold blood." The man with brown hair fell into a fighting stance, and Deon watched, shoulders tense and every inch of his being turned to his brother, listening to every word, even if it was poison to his ears.
"And for that," Cruel closed his eyes—stupid, honestly, what were they teaching him?—before he opened them again not a second later, something Deon couldn't name in his eyes. "I'll be turning you in, and you'll be put on trial for your crimes."
Deon’s heart stopped. No, that wasn’t right—his entire being stalled, unable to think.
Cruel was still talking, but Deon wasn’t hearing a single word.
The words echoed inside his skull—murdered, turning you in, for your crimes—until he couldn’t understand them anymore.
Monster, the voices said, joining in. Monster.
A laugh ripped out of his throat, and he curled in on himself, his eyes stuck on the floor.
Of course. Of fucking course. Deon wheezed before a cough interrupted his bout of insanity. His hand flew automatically to his mouth, and when it left, it was red. He laughed again—he had really horrible luck.
Deon raised his head, allowing his gaze to roam Cruel for only a moment before he straightened, small laughs escaping him.
You never changed, Deon realized. You’re still the same as back then.
Back then, Cruel was the perfect son, and he was the mistake. Now, Cruel was the hero, and he was the bad guy. The monster under the bed.
Deon… didn’t know what he was expecting, to make his body curl in disappointment.
Really, what was he doing? Why was he hoping?
There I go, looking for something that never existed.
What kind of idiot was he? Nothing was ever going to change. They were never going to change. They would always look at him with disgust, like he was a monster, and they would never love him.
How could he dare to think he could get a happy ending when he was the murderer and the monster?
Right. Deon thought bitterly. This is how everything should be.
He forced out a laugh, knowing it would come out as deranged as always and smooth. He twirled his dagger, the action second-nature, as he took a step forward. "Really?" he asked, his voice playful and amused while his insides twisted. "But you look like you wanna kill me, dear brother."
He grinned when Cruel's eyebrow twitched. He continued to speak when Cruel didn't. "But whatever you say, brother. Though," his grin widened, "if you want me to answer for my crimes, you'll have to drag my cold, dead body."
"If that's what it takes, then so be it." Cruel grunted, and something in Deon died at those words. But he ignored it, because what else could he do?
Deon let his pair of daggers, one in each hand, and him in a fighting stance speak for him.
The brothers waited, watching each other before they both ran forward, meeting in the middle with sword against dagger, and there was no need for words anymore. Sword met dagger, and the two brothers began to clash.
With his daggers, all Deon needed to do was get close. It didn’t matter how; whether it was from sliding underneath Cruel’s legs or jumping over his shoulders to slice his neck, all he needed was to cross Cruel’s line of defense and he would win.
Deon immediately attempted to slash Cruel in the neck, moving forward with a burst of speed to finish the job before the other could react. But his dagger was stopped by a sword blocking his way, inches away from his brother’s neck. He laughed as Cruel stared at him with narrowed eyes before shoving him off, their weapons unleashing a horrendous screech, and Deon grinned.
“Wow, Cruel!” Deon said mockingly, and he would’ve clapped if his hands weren’t full. “You’ve improved! I’m almost impressed; so you weren’t fooling around while I was gone!”
Cruel, predictably, did not respond, only lunging forward as Deon did, blocking his daggers with a determined look on his face.
Deon’s knife, whenever it tried to stab or slash a vital organ, was deflected. Whenever Deon got too close, Cruel would wisely retreat or stay his ground, always ending up with a few slashes on his arms and legs because he was too slow.
If only he poisoned his daggers. Then the fight would’ve been over by now.
They were at a standstill, with neither of them able to break past the other’s defense and only trying to break through without inflicting any real damage.
But it was clear that Deon wasn’t winning. Or at least, he wouldn’t last long if the fight continued.
Cruel didn’t give him a chance to catch his breath, ruthlessly delivering blow after blow, each strike forcing Deon back one more step. If he failed to block each and every one, Cruel would overwhelm him in seconds, and he would lose. He managed to sneak in the occasional blow, but it was nothing compared to the damage he was taking. That, and combined with his already weak state...
Damn it. He had to turn things around and get an advantage over Cruel, before his body gave out on him.
Deon was fast. A single stab to the heart, a cut to the neck, was all he needed to win, just as he always had.
One opportunity; that was all he needed. The smallest hole in Cruel’s defense, and it would all be over.
There. Deon thought, his dagger following his will in less than a moment and an inch away from Cruel’s neck—
Then Deon’s legs broke under him, and he fell to the ground, on his knees, left questioning what had just happened before quickly realizing his body had finally given out on him.
"This goddamned body...!" he cursed under his breath, and he looked up, trying to get up with strength he didn’t have, and saw Cruel standing above him, his arms raised and his sword glinting ominously in the moonlight.
Oh. Deon could only think. I messed up.
He wondered what kind of expression he was making, as Cruel stood there for a second too long, and Deon was forced to hope, to wonder what his brother would do next. Would he let go of his sword, or would he let it fall? Would he be the brother, or would he be the hero? The honorable knight?
Cruel clenched his jaw before beginning to swing his sword in a downward slash. And didn’t that hurt. Even if Deon would’ve done the same thing.
You really do live up to your name, brother. Deon grinned in his half-conscious state, his eyes daring to flutter shut. That’s not good.
The last thing Deon saw was a sword descending from above and Cruel’s twisted expression before everything faded to black.
- - -
When Deon came to, he was walking and in a place he didn’t recognize.
His vision was blurry and he was pretty sure one of his eyes was squeezed shut and unable to open, and his entire body was shaking, either from blood loss, fatigue, or the fact that it was nighttime and it was cold —
Then the pain kicked in. Almost literally, like a wooden stick to his ribs.
If he hadn’t gotten used to dealing with injuries and ignoring them, he would’ve curled up in a ball and started sobbing. He was pretty sure he had, before.
But he kept walking anyway. His body was moving on its own, pushing through the pain that took over every limb, and Deon let it guide him, even if he didn’t have a destination in mind. He just walked.
As he traveled, pushing aside branches and stepping on leaves because he was in a forest, with enormous trees and the typical sounds of wildlife all around, it didn’t take long for his mind to wander.
First off, where was he? A forest, clearly, he could tell that at least; but it was one he didn’t recognize. Which wasn’t good.
Secondly, how did he get here? Putting aside the question of where ‘here’ exactly was, he should have some memory of the path he took, where he was…
…But he didn’t. To phrase it better, he couldn’t remember.
Whenever he tried to think back, a piercing pain made itself aware in his head, and he winced as he held back a groan, his hand clutching his head and putting pressure on his forehead, trying to soothe the migraine.
Fuck, that hurts a lot.
He grimaced, his stride slowing down as he tried to make the world stop spinning and for the pain in his head to go away. Which it did, for the most part, after a little.
He had stopped walking at some point, and Deon barely noticed, too caught up in his thoughts.
It wasn’t like the memory wasn’t there, but rather, he couldn’t access it right now, not without consequences. Like… it was locked.
…How could a memory be locked? Was that even possible? He didn’t think he hit his head, so amnesia was out. But then again, he couldn’t exactly remember, so maybe…
He cursed as his ribs throbbed, wrapping an arm around his middle gently and hunching in on himself slightly. Right. I’m injured.
His screaming ribs acting as a motivator, he finally looked down, seeing just how many wounds he had to deal with now.
It was… bad. Though that was putting it mildly.
Deon wasn’t sure if there was a part of his body that wasn’t injured or an inch of his clothes not dyed red.
He wasn’t sure how much of the blood was his.
He shook his head—okay. His memory was blurry, and he didn’t know where he was or how he got here, but that didn’t matter; he had to find a place to rest and take care of his wounds, otherwise he’d die a pitiful death from blood loss or infection.
Deon walked over to the closest, clean patch of grass, a frown on his face before he plopped to the ground, aggravating his wounds for a painful, blinding moment.
He quickly got to work, taking off his shirt and ripping off any fabric he could spare, because he, like an idiot, didn’t carry around bandages and had to make do with what he had.
He let out a shaky breath as he finished bandaging the injuries as well as he could, letting his back hit the ground when he was done.
Wow, I’m tired.
Now that the adrenaline from… something was gone, and he wasted whatever was left trying to make sure he didn’t die from infection, he was unable to move, or even begin to fathom the idea of getting up.
I have to figure out where I am, and try to fill in the blanks with my memory, and…
He yawned, the weight of everything that had happened, even the stuff he couldn’t remember, piling onto his shoulders and making him sink into the ground as if it were a bed. His eyelids were heavy, he thought, and his vision flickered as they threatened to close.
Another yawn escaped Deon, and his senses dulled.
It should be fine if I take a quick nap, right?
The last thing Deon remembered was seeing three moons in the sky, not one, before he fainted.