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A creeping cold had climbed it’s way up from the kingdom to scale the mountainous walls of the palace. Ice and snow took dominion over the giant, exposed corridors. Snow piled high and bleed out into the roofed halls. The palace's towers, massive atop a structure that dwarfed it’s kingdom already, made impossibly larger by layers of ice, shining and twinkling in the afternoon light. The palace was beautiful, untarnished and momentous. A place truly meant for a king. The curve of the mountain gave sight of a well paved path of luscious stone, framed with crystal-wreathed trees.
Yet even with the beauty atop the hill, the war ravaged kingdom held no valor. It’s burnt, hulls of buildings the stage for grieving families and traumatized children, adults clinging to their mothers like babes. It’s walls a false comfort. It’s very ground a mosaic of everything lost.
A war won held no value to these people.
His goal, his life long toil, accomplished and laid out before him eviscerated. Here he was, standing atop the battle where he was crowned victor, with nothing but guilt and a bloody crown to his name. He had hoped for some comfort, some little taste of relief. Yet, the myriad of reactions had only lead to more self disparage, positive or negative.
Veterans came to thank him, cried and told him they would stand by his side until their deaths. Groveling while already looking most the way there, war wounds and severed limbs, gauze on every inch of their bodies.
Peasants came to ask what would become of them, to plead for justice and mercy. All looking as if their last meal was a sewer rat and quivering before the murderer of kings.
Mothers came to cry, to ask why their children’s lives meant less than the crown. To tell him he’d taken all that they care for, and that their own lives were forfeit in his name. Their deaths would be gingerly brought to him later. All suicides.
He was Eridan bloody Ampora, feared renegade of the north. Deserter of the Empress and seeker of revenge!
But he’d gotten his revenge, and what had it done for him?
He growls at the window, chucking the fuchsia-stoned crown across the room. He winces as the sound barrels around the giant, empty room. He had started this to rectify his own pain, not cause pain for thousands of others. Not be feared but praised, and loved.
So here he was, wallowing in a self pity so strong he was sure he stank of it. He takes one more look out the window. Eyes glazing over as he watched thousands of people swarming like ants to help each other. He simply stares. Stares and stares, mind a cesspool.
That is, until something catches his eye. He realizes...that some of them are smiling. Some are laughing, chucking debris at each other. Laughing and playing. Those that are crying are being held. Some people looking to be complete strangers comforting each other.
He realizes, in the wake of death, he’s just witnessed a birth. The birth of camaraderie, the birth of a new people. He realizes then the uselessness of watching. Of standing there observing the valiant efforts to start anew. He’s being useless to the people that, for now on, make him.
And he figures he’s been useless enough of his life.
He changes out of his robes, and into commoner clothes. Strips himself of all official identifiers, wears a hat and walks down the path to join in.
He smiles for the first time in months when a peasant thanks him for the hand and tries to give him a single, rusty copper coin. He shakes his head, laughing, telling the man he appreciates it, but really, there’s no need.
By the time night falls, he’s covered from head to toe in muck, snow and ash and he does something he hasn’t done since he was a teenager. He goes to a bar. He sits and chats with people, keeping his recognizable stutter hidden with clever phrasing. He avoids all questions about himself, maneuvering his way out of them with well polished ease.
He is, still, after all, a politician.
When they ask him his name, he tells them it’s ‘Ed’. They take it to stand for Edward, or Edwin, and he thinks both of those names are far less ridiculous than Eridan, anyway, so he doesn’t complain.
He makes an acquaintance in a smart mouthed guy with weird eyes and a lisp who berates everything about him that he can tell from appearance in a breath, and then proceeds to ask him ‘what his damage’ was while drinking enough ale to put an elephant under.
Eridan spends the rest of the night trading barbs and belches with the guy. The guy asks him if he’s still got a room over his head, and he bites his lip. He lies and says not at the moment. The guy smiles, and offers him a place to stay the night. Eridan flushes at the kindness.
“My name2 2ollux, by the way. Miinu2 the lii2p,” the guy says, flushing right back, “Weiird parent2, you know...”
Eridan snorts. Oh, yeah, he gets that alright. He nods, “Ed. Nice to meet you, Sollux.”
He decides he likes the weight of the name in his mouth, and spends a moment thanking the guy’s parents for being eccentric.
Sollux chuckles, “Niice two meet you two, Ed. Going to start comiing here often?” He takes another freakishly large swallow of hard ale without wincing, and Eridan is starting to wonder if he’s doing it intentionally.
Eridan shrugs, “Are you? I’d hate to drink alone. Loneliness is a bitter spice.”
They decide to meet up again half a week from then, and Eridan -for the first time in months- finds himself with something to look forwards to.