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Reblis flicked the dial one last time, causing it to finally unstick and reach its proper place. One can’t go flying with a faulty compass, after all. His lusus, a viscous and demanding stark white creature which served as his parental guardian, perched itself on the nose of the plane and nodded, signalling that it had finished the refueling. The only thing the two of them could bond over, it seemed, was their desire to be airborne. A massive jet like this, which made Reblis look like a wriggler in it’s cockpit, needed a helping hand to get started. Usually he confined himself to his balloons, and biplanes, and occasionally a helicopter, but today he needed the grandeur. He needed the speed, the altitude, He needed to get truly lost in managing this finicky and complex beast. He hadn’t yet told his lusus why, which was well enough for it, what with the hooked beak affixed to its face betraying it was obviously just as eager to soar.
Trying to block out his woes, Reblis considered birds, as he often did. They were born to sail the wind, and did it with such natural grace he wondered if they could even enjoy it. After all, if it’s so second nature, then where’s the fun? The fun is in the struggle, the struggle against the laws of reality itself. Trolls weren’t born to fly, the luckiest stayed in the sea and the rest of them washed up on land as writhing bugs. They weren’t supposed to fly. Yet, as his engine fired up, hot plasma and fire burning inside a circular engine begging to be let loose, it felt like the only thing that mattered. He pulled back on his yoke, what laymen simply called the steering wheel, and finally let his whirlwind upon the world, exhaust and fuel and pure power propelling the vehicle forward as his lusus quickly flapped itself airborne, circling over and over as the jet turned onto the runway. Nothing but flat land and the horizon in front of him, Reblis waited with bated breath, barely inhaling inside of his mask, for that feeling. The feeling that convinced him the sky was his true home. The weightlessness of lift, that knowledge that his plane was fully off the ground and he was untethered from the laws that governed anyone else. Trolls weren’t meant to fly. Yet, when he rose and rose, one hundred meters, then two hundred, seeing the land underneath him grow smaller, seeing the sky swallow more of his vision, seeing himself kiss death inside of a metal box, he came alive so completely that he could not imagine any place for himself but the clouds.
Nothing mattered up here, save the view and his controls. He trusted the hull, he trusted the weather on this stagnant planet, he trusted his lusus to swoop by his viewport and warn him of any dangers. There were only his hands and feet working overtime to keep him airborne and on track, and his eyes shifting from the ground, to the sky, to the dials assuring him he was stable. Nothing else mattered except the tiny pockmarks of foliage that he once would have gazed up at as mighty trees, and the sparkling expanse gently shifting back and forth that he once feared as the roiling ocean, now a mile beneath him and stretching onwards to infinity. He should have felt small, so small, and yet now he could see the whole instead of a tiny sliver. The sea stretched on, past his gaze, but the islands that dot the ocean’s breadth stick out to him now, something no troll at shore could gaze at with the naked eye. The forests and jungles and mountains may run on until the curve of the planet takes them out of view, but he sees the edges on at least two sides, sees the tops of those grand peaks and knows the other side isn’t getting any bigger. He was yet small, so small, but up here he could see more than the tallest beast of the land, and that was enough.
Of course, eventually, he would come down. As the minutes ticked on, and his fuel gauge slowly began to tick downwards, he remembered this feeling wasn’t eternal. If it was, it wouldn’t be so special. The oil-slicked mechanics, the trips to the restroom and the fridge, the scrapes and shakes that grounded his machines for days at a time as he welded and painted them over, were what made the act of finally returning to the sky so cathartic. Everything has a drawback, though, and a return to the confines of his hangar would mean the connection on his phone clicking back on. It would mean a return to the social sphere he had chained himself to, not realizing those years ago that being friends meant they’d want to interact with you even when you didn’t. It would mean continuing those futile “sea vs sky” arguments with Napedi. It would mean politely parrying and nodding along to the jokes and memes sent to him by Wex and the esoteric aesthetic pictures from Averna, which they sent haphazardly to everyone on their contact list. It would mean having to scan over Mimira’s tag, and feeling that burning itch that comes with the aftermath of an argument, and the stomach churning knowledge that they wouldn’t reply even if you had the courage to say something.
It was something so stupid, yet it escalated beyond belief. He was harried and in the middle of patching up his hot air balloon, but he didn’t think to stop until he was finished. She was led on by her boundless curiosity and never stopped to consider if those short messages she got back were a sign she should wait. When he finally snapped after one too many paragraphs explaining the process of her alchemy, just as he felt a huge gush of air from the bag as the stitching he was replacing fell apart on him, it came down hard. He called all of her concoctions and books and “:O nothing but hippy witchy fairy tales” a waste of both of their time, something he wished he could chuck into his furnace and his fuel tanks because the pretty colors they’d make were the only value they had. Perhaps, if she had said anything, if she had responded with anger or sadness, he would have snapped back to reality and been able to say something. She simply logged off without a word. He wished he was doing nothing at all at that moment, that he was entirely unprovoked and did it all for no reason, because the complexity of the situation gave him vertigo. There was no peace in gliding gently a few inches from the dirt. Grounded or airborne. Good or bad. In the right, or the wrong. Anything in between hurts.
For now, though, the gauge next to his navigation displays was still sitting at a healthy 70%. He could get another hour out of it. He rotated his jet to the side, looking to his left and seeing the ground underneath him and getting that perfect tingling in his brain, his primitive brain overwhelmed by the sensation of travelling at a 90 degree angle. Up here, he thought as he circled back around out to sea, nothing else mattered but the feeling. His mistakes, his childish insults, his exhaustions, his flaws, all pushed far far back by the speed that was sticking him to his chair. Nothing could reach him up here, in his cobalt and indigo jet, painted with the ethereal wings of eldritch angels, christened “Elysium” in bright white letters, the sanctuary of the heavens. Nothing could reach him.
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“Is it ready for another flight?” the Blueblood asked, not bothering to look at the teal troll beside him as he made a beeline from his office straight to the runway.
“Yes, Grand Aeronaut, but-”
“I’m going back up.” He cut the other troll off, something befitting a highblood to a lower caste, to all who heard it. “My duties will resume when I touch down.”
“Sir you, y-you only just got down an hour ago.”
“Mmn.”
“Sir, the Fleet Officer needs your input for our budget overflow, the Palace isn’t going to be happy if the investments they’re making don’t go to use.” He pleaded, unbecoming his station. If his superior in rank and blood.
As the Blueblood tried to focus his mind and attention, he sighed and gave a quick answer off the top of his head. “Overflow should be routed towards crew and staff housing to replace their current crowded camps, and a hospital to effectively increase medicinal care.”
The teal troll looked around quizzically, an awkward silence falling over the conversation. The lowbloods toiling for the might of the fleet and the pleasure of the Empress were beneath contempt even to a midblood like himself. Furthermore, it had come entirely out of nowhere, considering... “Sir, I was referring to the investments into the in-atmosphere air fleets, the Admiral needs your input on whether it goes to fuel infrastructure or improved maintenance facilities.”
The Blueblood froze, looking around while tugging at the collar of his uniform. Thankfully, the deafening din of his jet engine made it impossible for any but those immediately next to him to hear the conversation, which was only his teal assistant and a rust aide. “A-ah, of course, I was just… Musing on the recent outbreak of The Rot a few cities over, and how we ought to put together a response to maintain productivity. Uhm.. more fuel means more sorties, which is vital for training and quick response to attacks, which takes precedence. The rebels have too much air power to risk ever being caught without birds in the air, being led by a Cavalreaper such as Nitram.”
“I see, very prudent sir. Enjoy your flight, I shall relay this to the Admiral.” The two locked eyes for a moment, with the Blueblood boring a hole into the tealblood’s soul with a mixture of authority and investigation. When the midblood blinked first and walked off, the Blueblood was still feeling a writhing mass of panic in his gut, but he was fairly confident his underling wouldn’t speak of his slip up.
“Mr. Jourve, your flight is ready, don’t wanna burn any more fuel waiting on it if you don’t mind me saying.” The rustblood speaking so candidly snapped him to attention, after being more or less frozen for about 15 seconds. He looked over at the aide, his scruffy uniform half-cleaned and unable to hide the visible bruises on his arms and neck. Not one was put there by Caelum Jourve, the only superior of the rustblood able to say as much, and they both knew it. Perhaps that’s why Caelum felt no anxiety at all when he responded.
“Thank you.... I will be seeing about those barracks for you all. To increase your productivity and reduce skilled worker turnover, of course.” He nodded at him, before climbing the ladder into his vehicle.
“Of course, Mr- Grand Aeronaut Jourve... Thank you.” He smiled, his short and frail body somehow snapping itself upright, hunched back disappearing and shaking limbs steadying only for a moment, to put up a picture perfect salute. Caelum saluted back, from his ladder, before diving into his cockpit and shutting it. He expertly, like routine, set all of his parameters and checked all of his diagnostics. Within 30 seconds of strapping himself in, he was lifting off. Off into the sky, off into the horizon, zooming past rookies in training and aces patrolling the perimeter. Lifting off over dismal camps where mechanics, assistants, laborers, and slaves all toiled to keep his grand aero-industrial complex afloat. All of their lives were in his hands. All of them couldn’t help but be mesmerized, from the most grizzled veteran to the smallest wriggler, by his expertly crafted and custom made jet, cobalt and indigo and overflowing with eldritch wings, emblazoned on one side in bright white letters with the proud title “Elysium.” The sanctuary of angels from the hell of the world.
Inside his metal home, thousands of meters in the air, he let the bureaucracy fade into the distance. He watched himself eclipse birds and skim the tops of megalithic trees. His mistakes, their faces fresh in his mind, faded away. The lives he lorded over, good and bad, were gone up here. He even switched his radio off, taking the risk that he’d miss something important, and knowing that it wouldn’t be seen as the suspicious act it probably was in some rulebook. It seemed like the only peace he felt was up in the sky, where nothing-
“Come in Indigo Leader, targets are visible, coordinates are…” The broadcast from his radio continued, just as Caelum began to lose himself in the sky. He checked the coordinates, referenced them with his in-flight map, and hooked his jet towards them, firing up weapons systems. As he arrived, he squinted down at the mess of bodies and structures below, the forest strangely absent. People running, barricading themselves inside of… No, dear god no, it wasn’t-
“All units, threats confirmed, command’s given us the green light. Weapons free.”
“Countermand that order! This is Indigo Leader, countermand that order! Those aren’t insurgents, that settlement, it’s just a lowblood ghetto, there are no threats in sight! Countermand that order! DO NOT FIRE!” He screamed, he pleaded, but no sounds came from the other end. He looked down at the settlement below him, little drips on a painting, little specks of dust on an incomprehensible planet, little kindling as projectiles flew in from out of view and split into ever more, smart missile systems delivering death in the form of liquid fire. Miles away, and yet the screaming pounded in Caelum’s head and he clutched at it, yelling so hard he couldn’t hear himself, squeezing his eyes closed.
In a moment, he blinked, and found himself wildly off course, a thousand meters above where he previously leveled out. He looked down to the land beneath, and saw nothing but wilderness, and looked around his viewport to see no pilot besides him for miles. And so, Caelum Jourve leveled out his altitude, put his jet into autopilot, and let the tears stream down his face, coughing out sputtered apologies to invisible figures. Figures only visible in his mind. Figures that he didn’t have the luxury of viewing from his perch on high. He felt the blood on his face, heard the pleas still, heard the laughter of all those around him. Those peaceful fools that didn’t realize they’d signed up to a rebellion of martyrs, whose homes they assaulted, whose dreams they shattered in an instant. It was the first time he felt alien to those around him, completely and totally alone.
The psychological evaluation afterwards concurred, finding Caelum Jourve mentally unfit for ground duties and transferred to a post in the often scoffed at aeronautics branch, caught between the navy and the ground forces and seen as nothing more than a battleground for influence between them, who thought in-atmosphere flight should be under their command. Yet, he rose. Into the sky, into the limelight, leading a revolution of flight, accruing ever more resources, lowblood labor and manpower, and eventually finding himself at the head of a renewed organization. An organization focused upon exploitation, upon fattening the fortunes of their benefactors, and accruing ever more scrutiny. Scrutiny upon the puzzling budget reports, the missing shipments and flights, the seemingly impossible standards of living for the average worker and those living in cities near bases, whose administration was left to the enigmatic pilot.
They would find out one day. Whether that day be just in time to bring it all crashing down, or far too late, Caelum didn’t know. What he did know is that every atrocity he was forced to sign off on, every sickening display by his fellow Royal Military branch heads that they forced upon him as though he was their friend, every burning memory of the things he’d done… He was a monster. A monster and a coward, hiding behind the innocent and the incompetent while he made his futile attempts to help those who deserved it. He didn’t have the bravery to join the rebels, he didn’t have the influence to bring most of his pilots into it with him, he was a sad and lonely coward whose only contribution to the good of the world was desperately caking it with dirt in the hopes it would be merely stepped over instead of pulled out and incinerated.
But… He struggled all the same. To increase the living standards. To divert resources and find economic prosperity hiding in destitution, to build a machine and fill it with spaces for everyone, to lift them up. To save as many as he could. If he was found out, it would all be for nothing. He appeased his bloodthirsty companions and superiors on the ground, and lost himself in the euphoria of the sky to wash himself of his sins. But they would never be washed off until his work was complete. If he could prepare all of those under him, to fight, to be free, to live and thrive after he flies off into the sunset one last time… maybe it would be enough to appease his guilt. Maybe he would have earned his rest then. Maybe one day he would suit up upon that runway one more time, look back at the freed throngs ready to take to the skies in defense of something good, and smile. Maybe one day he’ll be able to say that it was an honor, that he did all he could, and then took a bow, relinquishing the stage to people who deserved a spot in a better tomorrow.
All of that would come in time. The rebellion wasn’t ending any time soon, no matter what the propaganda said. He had time to prepare, time to cover his tracks. Most importantly, he had time to ride the wind and forget about everything for a time. Sniffling up the last of his pitiful tears, he wiped his face, and put his hands back onto the controls. Autopilot off. He spun himself into a helix, dipped down right at the edge of the water and skimmed it with his wings, pulled up, then pulled back down again to shoot himself under a whale-beast that had just sprung out of the water with flawless precision. One mistake and he was dead, one lapse in judgement and his mission was forever failed. With these stakes, he blotted out everything from his mind as his pilot and survival instincts took over, and he knew he’d live to land back on that strip. Nothing could touch him, when he was without guilt. Nothing could reach him, when he gave himself completely to the sky. Nothing.
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“:O hey, Mimira, i'd Like to Talk to you if thats okay.”
“:O i Know i Said awful things to you, i was just in the middle of Fixing my hot air balloon and it Exploded and”
“:O well, when you’re back, i want to Say sorry in person. do you Think i could Meet you for tea some time tomorrow?”
Reblis considered typing more, but he didn’t know what to say. He knew he was fucking it up, that this wasn’t good enough, but he just didn’t know what else to say. He groaned and put his phone down, his gaze passing over his living room in thought. The maps, gear, and souvenirs spread across his tables and adorned on his walls must look truly incomprehensible to anyone else. To him though, he knew every circled destination, every piece of equipment and backpack full of supplies was next to its corresponding route and the things he’d found in the wild in those areas. The jewels nestled in those mountains shone particularly bright, and were probably the only obvious thing of value an outside would recognize. But little pieces of history, tattered remnants of a flag or piece of clothing, metal shards of a vehicle long forgotten, they mattered to him.
Adorning one wall was a brilliant picture of his ancestor, the Aeronaut he was called, a shining beacon of exploration and innovation in the field. When the Empire bore down too hard on his pet branch of the armed forces, he rebelled in the name of its honor and advancement, like a consummate professional. Reblis wasn’t quite sure what became of it, and he never heard tell of them joining forces with the Summoner’s ill fated quest. What he does know is that he disappeared not long after it began, never to return.
He had a long way to go to live up to that image, to which he had pasted a little piece of paper with a crude drawing of himself in full decor and dress, smiling, standing beside his ancestor as an equal with the words “Future Reblis” scrawled on the top. He made that sweeps ago, and every day he strove to be closer to that ideal. He considered updating it or asking someone who knew how to draw better than a grub, but it was sentimental, and represented how far he’d come.
But Caelum never fought with his friends, or didn’t know what to say, or used flying just to get away from his problems. He was a beacon of excellence, except he really existed. Reblis would get there one day. Until then, he’d have to settle for being the second best Jourve to ever take to the skies.
A ring like a rocket streaking overhead sounded out from his table and he eagerly snatched up his phone, turning on the screen to see a message from Wexxit of all people, the little psionic devil in grey skin. “hey flyboy, mimis still pretty fucking pissed at What you said, but she Wants me to tell you that you can come over tomorrow for tea and talk it out. id yeet you into the sun, so you better not Waste it.”
Reblis breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. It was enough. He didn’t fuck it up. He’d talk to her, and explain everything, and probably hug her, maybe cry even though crying is so unbecoming a Jourve. Despite everything, he valued his friends, even if he didn’t always want to talk to them. Something deep within him knew that beyond everything, the people that mattered to him were all that would be left one day, when his respite could come from the air no longer. He discarded this strange, needlessly complex thought as soon as it cropped up, though.
He clapped his face a few times, trying to wash away the self pity. This was good news, he was gonna save their friendship. It called for a celebration. He looked over to his lusus, the vulture-crow creature perched and feeding in a compartment above him. He grinned, hopeful.
“Hey Vro, is it ready for another flight?”