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Sion grew up as the youngest child in a family of six, and none of his family ever paid the slightest bit of attention to him.
(It didn’t help that he was born looking nothing like either of his parents. That triggered more than one angry argument over cheating, and Sion learned early to tune it all out.)
Academics-wise, he did well enough, but was generally disliked by teachers and classmates alike. Too caustic, too mocking, too sneering.
You would have to be a saint, a masochist, or a moron to tolerate that. Maybe all three.
And perhaps, in the end, that’s why he was the one to be summoned to another world as a hero.
It happens on a day like any other, midway into his second year at university. A magic circle opens under him as he’s washing his dishes, and so he’s summoned to another world with a sponge in one hand and a pan in the other.
The scene. A grand hall, a King and Queen sitting on luxurious thrones in front of him, knights in shining armour lining the walls. People in robes surround him, slowly lowering their staves.
And there stands Sion in the midst of it all, holding a sponge. A sponge still dripping with water, and a frying pan covered with soap suds. His apron isn’t frilly at least, but it’s still blue and polka-dotted.
...The scene desperately needs someone to call out the ridiculousness of it all, but Sion knows he can’t be the one to do it.
(So instead he shoves down a feeling of emptiness like he has his whole life.)
What follows is a host of tropes so cliché, Sion suspects a web novel with this plot would have no less than twenty words in its title. The Demon Lord has revived, the demons are encroaching on human territory, they summoned a hero to defeat him. Yada yada yada.
If Sion wanted to, he could make the plot go cliché in a slightly different direction. He could demand to be sent back home, yell at the King and Queen for kidnapping a boy from another world for their own selfish needs. He could refuse them all and say he has no obligation to save a world with no connection to his own.
And he would be entirely in the right to do so.
In the end though, Sion doesn’t. There’s no one in his original world he misses, and no one who would miss him now that he’s gone. He’s been living life purely because that was what he was supposed to do, and this, at least, seems to shake up the formula a bit.
So it’s off he goes to defeat the Demon Lord, with a royally-appointed party in tow.
His party refuses to give him their names, only their classes. It’s not uncommon in old RPGs to have a party without names, but this isn’t a game- it’s reality.
(For some reason, despite the utterly fantastical situation, Sion has no issues with accepting his current life as reality.)
So- Sion feels a little uncomfortable with it. Not having their names.
He can’t seem to convince them otherwise though, so nameless it is. They’re a party of four - aside from Sion himself, there’s the Priest, who casts his healing magic rather stingily, the Mage, who throws around her fireballs like there’s no tomorrow, and the Archer, whose arrows fly with deadly accuracy.
They don’t seem to like him much, though they give him a vague respect.
(That’s fine though- it’s nothing Sion isn’t used to.)
Things go as Sion would expect at first. They make their way through towns towards the border to the Demonic Lands, defeating monsters as they go. Sion has never picked up a sword in his life, but somehow he can use one easily enough. And while he doesn’t have much mana, he has enough to use body enhancement spells that improve his swordcraft.
It’s all part of his blessing as a hero, his party informs him.
(Sion doesn’t buy it, but he has no other explanation as of now.)
In the end, it’s a conversation with an innkeep that first gives him an inkling that something isn’t quite right.
“Ah, so you’re that second hero then, eh?” the innkeep says cheerily. “Glad to have ya here.”
“Two rooms for two nights, please,” the Archer cuts in briskly before Sion can even open his mouth to speak. It’s obvious that she’s trying to pretend the innkeep said nothing of import.
It’s suspicious. Very suspicious.
Which is why Sion clamps his mouth shut and pretends as though he heard nothing, because he’s not so dumb as to show weakness in front of someone so terribly suspicious.
He sneaks out later that evening - using a bathroom break as an excuse - and makes a beeline to that same innkeep.
“Hey,” Sion says, smile bright, and slides a gold coin over the counter. “Can you answer a couple of questions for me?”
According to the innkeep’s story - which Sion has no reason to doubt - the Empire summoned a hero to defeat the Demon Lord five years ago now. He ventured to the Demon Lord’s castle, just like Sion is now- only to be ignominiously killed in battle.
They had tried to manage without a hero at first, because apparently the hero-summoning spell would take their best mages out of commission for years. But they eventually had no choice- the Demon Lord and his forces grew immensely stronger and smarter after the death of the first hero, and they needed a miracle.
So Sion was summoned.
“People stopped talking about the first hero after his death. Too depressing,” the innkeep says. “Plus, those royals didn’t like it too, everyone chatting ‘bout their failure, so we mostly kept their mouths shut, yeah?” He shrugs. “But that hero, he was a good boy. Saved my cousin’s village from monsters during his journey. Allen, I think his name was. Or Arby, maybe?”
For some reason, a name floats up in his mind.
“Alba?” Sion says, in a voice not his own.
“Right, right, that was it!” the innkeep exclaims. “They told you about him?”
“Something like that,” says Sion dully. “He’s… really dead?”
His heart feels like it’s going to rip itself out of his chest, and he doesn’t even know why.
“That’s what his party said, ‘cording to the newspapers,” the innkeep says, “That the Demon Lord killed ‘im. And there’s no reason for them to lie about it, eh?”
“Right,” Sion says blankly. “Thanks.”
Sion can’t act normally, even knowing that it’ll make his party members suspicious. He’s miserable. There’s a constant dull ache in his chest, and he’s almost tempted to cry at multiple occasions.
He doesn’t understand. He’s never even heard of Alba, let alone met him- there’s no reason why he would be so terribly affected by his death.
And yet, he is.
Before things can get too bad though, the Archer loses her patience with him.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she hisses, “But if you don’t snap out of it, we’ll have no chance of defeating the Demon Lord.”
And Sion snaps out of it, because suddenly, cold anger is overtaking his grief.
Right. How could he have forgotten? It was the Demon Lord who killed Alba.
Sion’s hand clenches around the hilt of his sword.
It was the Demon Lord who took Alba from him before they could even meet.
(Sion will kill him for that. Slowly and painfully.)
They finally reach the Demonic Lands some months after Sion was summoned, and the lands don’t look demonic in the slightest. They look rather like any other land, really.
It’s helpful for them, of course. They can forage off the land and hunt for game instead of stuffing weeks’ worth of food in their packs. But it does feel a little odd.
That feeling of oddness intensifies when they reach the first demonic village.
The architecture is rather different from the villages Sion has seen in the Empire, more stone and concrete than wood and brick. But it still looks like a normal enough village to him- a place where people would live, not evil monsters.
And it’s completely deserted.
Naturally, Sion is suspicious- but his party members, on their part, are overjoyed to see the empty village.
“I heard there’s been no demons at the battlefront for ages- just monsters,” the Mage says, cheery as can be. “They really are retreating.”
“Soon, we’ll take back all these lands,” the Archer says fervently, and the Priest nods in response.
Sion, however, is conflicted.
His eyes land on an abandoned doll in the middle of the street.
The Demon Lord will die for what he did to Alba. Sion doesn’t care what his motivations were- Sion is out for revenge, and revenge cares little for morals.
But the demons… if it does turn out that they aren’t the monsters the Empire paints them out to be, that they’re simply struggling to live and survive in a war they don't want any longer...
Sion won’t hesitate to turn his sword against the Empire to see through vengeance.
(They were the ones who sent Alba off to his death, after all.)
Despite the name, the Demonic Lands seem to be devoid of demons. There’s plenty of monsters and animals around, and some put up quite the fight- but every demonic settlement they reach is eerily empty.
They aren’t passing by every settlement marked on their map, of course. Sion’s party doesn’t mention where they got the map, but he would assume it was from Alba’s journey. And naturally, Alba wouldn’t have been able to go in a straight line to the capital without a map.
But they pass by enough settlements that it’s certainly strange. Even the Mage and the Priest get a little uneasy when they reach a supposedly massive town that’s still utterly deserted.
The Archer is as undaunted as ever though.
“They must’ve retreated all the way back to their capital,” she insists. “Victory is nigh.”
Sion, as always, is unconvinced.
And unsurprisingly, when they reach the capital, it seems to be as deserted as every other demonic settlement they’ve passed on the way.
Even the Archer has to admit something is up at this point.
“Keep your guards up,” she orders. “We’ll head to the castle just in case, but if the Demon Lord isn’t there, I’m not sure what...”
“Maybe they realized the capital was a target and retreated somewhere else instead?” the Mage suggests.
“Maybe,” the Archer says. She sounds doubtful.
Nothing is locked- it’s easy enough to make their way up the grand staircase and push metal doors open to enter the castle.
His party seems to know where they’re going, because they make a beeline towards a set of ornate doors, golden designs snaking through the brown wood. They don’t much look like they would lead to a Demon Lord’s lair, but-
“It’s the throne room,” the Priest says grimly.
Even knowing that there’s a very good chance that the room will be as deserted as every other, Sion feels a cool certainty settle itself down over his mind. His hand clenches around the hilt of his sword, knuckles turning white.
If the Demon Lord is in this room, he’ll take his revenge no matter what.
Sion reaches out to push open one of the doors- but he’s stopped by a light hand on his arm.
“There’s one thing you should know before you open it, Great Hero,” the Archer says. “The Demon Lord is a tricky sort. It might try to make itself look weak and vulnerable, or make you believe things that just aren’t true. You mustn’t lend an ear to its lies, or we’ll never win.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sion says neutrally, and moves to push the doors open.
“Wait, Great Hero, one moment.” the Mage is the one to cut in now, raising her stave. “I’ve developed a spell to allow us to see through illusions for this very purpose. Please, allow me-”
She waves her stave, a barrage of white sparks flying out its tip to shower them with light. Sion feels his eyes sting- grimacing, he rubs at them.
“Thanks,” Sion says, curt, then finally moves to open those ashy, ominous doors.
It’s hard to see at first.
The throne room is a laughably cliché example of a Demon Lord’s lair, all dim and dark. The only light comes from few torches flaming blue on the walls.
But his eyes adjust after a few moments, and then he sees it.
A hulking, humanoid monster is resting on a metal throne, horns twisting into the air, pupiless eyes glowing a bright red.
Somehow, he had expected someone he could rage at, someone who looked human. But the Demon Lord too seems to be a laughably cliché example of a monstrous Demon Lord.
Sion can’t bring himself to laugh though.
Fury wells up in him instead.
Alba had been killed by a nonsensical ball of clichés like this monster? Alba - he should’ve… he should’ve sputtered in offense at such a ridiculous scene, should’ve demanded the Demon Lord have at least some originality, and the world should’ve obeyed his demands.
Sion doesn’t know Alba, but somehow he can see how the confrontation with the Demon Lord would’ve gone down as clear as day.
“He shouldn’t have been killed by you,” Sion spits, not caring at this point what his party might think about the odd statement. “But I’ll take revenge anyway.”
And he runs towards the Demon Lord, his sword drawn and ready.
“We’ll support you!” yells the Archer.
Arrows whoosh past his ear towards the behemoth, now slowly standing up from the throne. They seem to pass through it like air though- Sion clicks his tongue.
Hoping cold steel will do better, he leaps up to swipe his sword at the Demon Lord’s head, but it easily dodges it with a duck of its head, more nimble than it looks.
The battle lumbers along slowly. Sion is unrelenting as he fights, sword flashing bright as it jabs its way towards the monster.
But the Demon Lord doesn’t reciprocate. It’s been minutes since the battle started, but-
It hasn’t fought back even once. All it does is silently sidestep Sion’s swipes, dodge the fireballs and arrows shooting from afar.
And then, suddenly, it stops.
Sion isn’t stupid. He knows it’s probably a trap. But trap or not, it’s an opportunity- and he plans to make the Demon Lord regret that it gave him one.
Steps swift, he races forward and buries his sword into its chest. Blood spurts out, splattering his face and armor with warm red- Sion gags.
“Is it dead?” the Priest gasps, and Sion wants to swear at him for jinxing it.
He has no opportunity to though, because the next thing he knows, the Demon Lord’s large hand is cupping his face.
(Or at least, it should be large- but it feels far smaller, far softer.)
And he hears something shatter in front of his eyes.
It’s hard to see at first.
The throne room is blindingly bright- the floor tiles an obnoxious gold, the walls filled with stained glass depicting scenes Sion doesn’t recognize. There’s a giant chandelier up high, lighting the room with yellow and blue balls of magelight.
It doesn’t look anything like how he thinks a Demon’s Lord throne room should look.
And standing in front of him, smile on his face and sword through his stomach, is a man with hair light brown.
Sion- knows this man.
This is Alba.
He doesn’t know how he knows, or why he knows, but he knows it. This is Alba. The previous hero, supposedly dead. Sion had grieved keenly over him, even without knowing why.
And it seems, Alba is alive.
(Or at least he was, until Sion stabbed a sword into his stomach.)
“No- this-” Panic rises in him as he takes in the scene, takes in the blood still dripping out of the wound.
The fatal wound.
He staggers back, his hands falling from his sword. It stays stuck in the man’s stomach, it stays-
“Ros,” the man - Alba says, eerily calm. “Can you pull out your sword?”
“That’s the only thing stemming the blood, moron!” snaps Sion.
“I guess I can just do it myself then,” Alba mumbles, and slides out the sword in a smooth move, face contorting with pain. The sword clatters to the ground, covered in blood. Red, human blood.
“You-” Sion starts, horror exploding and bile rising in his throat, but- the wound, it’s gone.
Alba’s orange shirt is covered in blood and torn almost in two, but the skin underneath is smooth and unblemished.
“You’re… fine?”
“I have my mana, of course I’m fine,” Alba says, grin bright.
And that grin- it’s familiar, so familiar, and somehow, despite the horror and panic still scarring his mind, he finds a mock gasp escaping his lips.
“My! I can’t believe you would destroy a mark of my love just like that!” Sion exclaims, with words he doesn’t recognize and a tone he doesn’t know.
“Your love was killing me!” sputters Alba.
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.” Sion’s voice is prim now, and he should really be more worried about the way his mouth appears to have gone on autopilot.
But as he stares at Alba’s still-smiling expression, he finds he can’t quite care. A smile is playing at Sion’s lips as well.
“Great Hero, what are you doing?” It’s the Archer’s voice, sharp and chiding.
“Get back here now!” the Priest now, panicked.
Sion doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want to.
“Great Hero!” the Archer snaps. Sion hears her click her tongue. “Dammit. Whoever you are, demon, don’t think we’ll give up so easily!”
Alba pokes his head around Sion, then- “Whoever I am? Really? You’re as much of a jerk as ever.”
“Do you know them?” asks Sion.
“You could say that.” Alba grimaces.
“Great Hero, don’t lend an ear to its words,” the Priest pleads. “It’s a demon. You must understand what that means. We warned you, did we not?”
Sion continues to ignore them.
“Even winning isn’t enough for you lot, huh?” Alba looks and sounds annoyed. “Everyone has evacuated. There’s no people left for the Empire to conquer.”
The Archer just snorts.
“Do you think we’ll buy your lies so easily?” she lets out a laugh, loud and mocking. “The demons must’ve fled somewhere. We’ll find out where.”
Alba groans. “Y’know, Rchi wanted me to leave with everyone else. I’m only here because I heard you summoned another poor guy over.” His eyes flick towards Sion, his expression softening. “I didn’t realize he was you, Ros.”
There it was again. Ros.
Ros isn’t his name. It’s not a name he’s ever even heard in his life. But still, it doesn’t feel wrong, being called that name by this man.
Alba straightens back up, gaze focused on Sion now, Sion and no one else. “They said you had black hair, but there’s no cameras in this world… I would’ve gone to you right away if I knew.”
“Yes, yes, we all know how idiotically devoted you are, A-” Sion opens his mouth to say Alba’s name… then slams it shut again, dismayed.
He’s certain that the man in front of him is Alba.
But he’s also certain that it isn’t right for him to call him Alba. It feels too strange. There’s another word, a better word, it’s on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite remember it.
So he gives up on calling out Alba’s name, and instead lets himself say what comes naturally to him.
“If I were in your place, I would’ve known at once. Your fashion sense truly leaves much to be desired, after all,” Sion says snidely, the insult wrapped in a polite veneer leaving his mouth all-too-easily. “It would’ve been obvious who you were.”
“Wha- I’m not that bad!” complains Alba. He twirls, his ratty black cape whipping around him. “The cape is cool, yeah?”
“It’s always been the furthest thing from cool possible,” Sion informs him.
“Ros!” Alba whines.
Sion finds an amused smile playing at his lips again, and it’s only natural for his hand to sneak up, to try to caress Alba’s cheek in a soft hold.
But the next thing he knows is pain.
His eyes flick down automatically, even as he feels himself collapsing. There’s an arrow through his chest, but he can’t even feel the blood dripping out of it.
He hears someone yelling.
Sion finds his vision going black, and his consciousness soon follows.
When he comes to, there’s someone caressing his hair.
It feels nice. He doesn’t really want to move.
“Ros? Are you okay?”
The voice is utterly distraught, and so it’s only with some reluctance that Sion opens his eyes.
He finds he’s not surprised to see Alba staring down at him with a heart-wrenching expression.
“I feel fine,” Sion says, because it’s true.
He’s promptly drawn into Alba’s arms.
“They tried to kill you,” Alba says, and Sion can hear the undercurrent of fury in his voice as clear as day.
“I was aware they didn’t like me,” Sion says dryly, “But I hadn’t expected that much.”
“They were planning to from the start,” Alba continues, and ah, he’s not even attempting to hide his rage anymore, is he? “Their legends say that only a summoned hero can kill a Demon Lord, so they dragged you here for that. But if you showed any hesitation, their orders were to threaten you into obeying and kill you afterwards.”
“Well, that’s not very nice of them,” Sion says, voice mild.
“When they saw that their illusion spells had failed, the Demon Lord wasn’t here, and that you were friendly with a ‘demon’... they decided to- cut their losses and…”
Alba’s hands clench onto Sion’s shirt.
“I get the picture.”
“If I hadn’t been here-” Alba says, helpless, “-if it had been Rchi, like with me...”
“You were though, so that’s a moot point,” says Sion. “Rchi?”
“She’s the Demon Lord again in this world,” explains Alba. “Still a kid. She doesn’t remember, not yet. Not enough mana.” Each word is spat out like a curse. “They wanted me to kill her.”
“Right,” Sion says, quiet. Alba wasn’t the Demon Lord then- he was the first summoned hero, and still is, it seems. That- makes sense.
“I said no, obviously,” Alba says, “I didn’t remember her back then, but there was no way I was killing a preteen!” Sion hears Alba swallow before he continues- “Then they tried to kill me for betraying them.”
And well, Sion has been pretty blasé about his party trying to kill him up until now. He never cared for them much, and he was always aware they never cared for him much in return. It didn’t really feel like much of a betrayal for his obviously suspicious party members to attack him.
But for them to attack Alba…
Cool fury wells into his stomach.
“They’re dead now, I hope,” Sion says, icy cold.
“What? No!” Alba says quickly. Too quickly. “They’re- they’re all alive now! I captured them.”
He loosens his grip around Sion, enough to let him turn around. The Priest, the Mage, and the Archer are all lying in the middle of the room, unconscious, bindings of light tying them tight together. There’s no sign of their weapons.
There’s also no signs of injury on any of them.
“They’re alive ‘now’, I see,” Sion says.
Alba coughs. “I- look, when I saw you dead, dying…”
The man is giving him puppy eyes. Sion really doesn’t think this is the correct occasion for puppy eyes, but he lets it go.
“Well, I suppose they’ll likely wish they were dead soon enough,” says Sion, rolling his eyes. “I imagine you’ll be handing them over to the demons?”
“Yeah,” Alba says. His hands squeeze around Sion’s stomach. “They’ll be sent to hard labour or executed, I’d bet.” His voice goes bitter. “I tried to stop them, all those years ago, but… I didn’t have a Mana Maker back then. They killed so many people while they were fleeing the country.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I still could’ve done more,” Alba says quietly. Sion feels him shake his head. “At least we’ve captured them now, I guess. Let’s head out to hand them over.”
“Before that,” says Sion. “Who are you, exactly?”
And he hears Alba choke.
They’re reincarnators apparently, according to what Alba says from a full two metres away.
(Alba had jumped back the moment he learned Sion didn’t remember anything. Sion isn’t very happy about that, but he also isn’t about to demand to be pressed into Alba’s chest again.)
According to Alba’s tale, they’ve found each other through countless worlds. Fantasy worlds with magic and swords, futuristic worlds with spaceships and laser beams, even ‘modern’ worlds like the one they had been summoned from.
Mana is the trigger to remembering, which is supposedly why Sion has a vague sense of familiarity towards Alba. But it apparently takes a significant amount of mana to remember all of their memories, and Alba only remembered himself after he had stuffed a Mana Maker into his stomach.
“It’s going to be at least a couple months until I can get you a Mana Maker,” Alba says with a sigh. “We’re still really busy with setting up the Demon World after the mass evacuation. I’d lend you mine, but well- it’s melded with me again.”
“I see,” Sion says, then, eyes narrowed- “You’re a thousand years too early to be hiding something from me.”
Alba yelps in panic. He really is quite terrible at subterfuge. “Hiding something?”
“You claim that mana is the trigger to remembering,” Sion says, smile dazzling. “But if that were the case, then how did we remember in worlds without magic?”
“Ah, um, erm…”
“Well?” Sion’s smile brightens.
“I’m not used to this, okay!” whines Alba. “You’re always the one to remember first!”
“How, precisely?” asks Sion.
Alba looks reluctant to continue, but a cool glare convinces him to keep talking.
“You’ve always been efficient with your mana, so you don’t need as much as me to remember.” Alba won’t meet his eyes. “And you figured out a way to um, make use of that.”
“As in?” Sion says, impatient.
Alba fidgets. “I have tons of mana, so even in worlds where mana hasn’t been discovered, it still leaks out into my body. And, um…” he flushes a little. “So many of your memories are tied up with me. In every one of our lives. And, so um, you figured out. That you could force your soul to release some of your memories if you… ingested my mana. Enough to know that you needed to make a Mana Maker for us both.”
“Very well.” Sion raises an eyebrow. “And how do I do that? Ingest your mana, that is.”
“You could um, drink my blood,” Alba says, “That’s what you did in one world. Where you were a vampire.”
“A vampire,” Sion echoes, disbelieving.
“Is it that unbelievable compared to everything else?” Alba complains, and well, Sion supposes he can’t argue with that.
“Fine, so I could-” Sion grimaces with disgust, “-drink your blood. But what else? How does it usually happen? I can’t imagine that I’m a- vampire that often.”
Alba mumbles something unintelligible.
“I can’t hear you,” Sion says in sheer exasperation.
“...after we kiss,” mutters Alba.
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean-” Alba says, blushing tomato red now. “We, um, we’re pretty much always uh, drawn to each other. So um, when we end up kissing for the first time - open-mouthed, I mean - it makes you remember. That’s what you said before.”
“My.” Sion shoots Alba a derisive look. “You pervert. Stay away from me.”
“Let me set the record straight! You were the one to think this whole thing up!” whines Alba. “I had nothing to do with it!”
“Whatever you say.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Alba complains.
“Whatever you say,” Sion says again, just as sardonic as the first.
Alba buries his face into his hands. “Urgh… this is why I didn’t wanna tell you…”
“Yes, yes, I suppose I understand now.” Sion taps a finger on his cheek, contemplative. “So, will you be kissing me then?”
Alba chokes. “Sorry, what?”
“I’d rather not wait months for my memories,” says Sion, “It seems to be the obvious solution.”
“I don’t wanna kiss you when you don’t want to,” Alba says firmly.
“Does it sound as though I’m unwilling?” Sion says, rolling his eyes.
“I mean- I don’t wanna kiss you when it’s like I’m- coercing you to,” Alba whines. Rather obnoxiously, really.
“I’ve gauged the risks myself, and I’ve decided my desire for my memories outweighs the chance that you’re lying to me,” Sion says bluntly. “I’d rather you not take that decision away from me.”
And besides, the moment Alba had mentioned kissing, Sion’s eyes fixed themselves onto Alba’s lips and refused to move.
(There may or may not be more than just his desire for his memories motivating his actions.)
“But…” Alba says, still looking rather conflicted.
And Sion doesn’t want to force the subject. That would make him seem desperate, desperate for Alba of all people. While he might not know why that thought disgusts him, he does know he has a sense of pride to maintain.
(Not to mention, it is true that there’s still an unconscious trio of would-be assassins sitting behind them.)
“Ah, alright.” Sion waves a hand dismissively. “If you don’t want to that badly, then I suppose it can’t be helped.” He raises an eyebrow. “You mentioned heading off?”
Alba has apparently created a whole other world for the demons to live in. This should really feel more impressive to Sion than it does, but he supposes it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, somewhere deep down.
“It hasn’t solved all the problems, obviously,” Alba says quietly. “Plenty of people want revenge against the Empire for what they’ve done in this meaningless war. And I can’t say they’re wrong for that. But a place where they’re absolutely safe… it helps, a lot.”
It’s late by the time they step through a gate to the Demon World, so they head straight to Alba’s home as soon as they drop off the prisoners. He has a small house in the capital, a cozy place made of stone and wood.
(Sion is mildly concerned that his presence would be problematic, but no one even questions them. He supposes being with the literal creator of a world will do that.)
He’s fed a rather delicious dinner, though the ingredients do look a little… odd. Fish with disturbingly long fangs, and vegetables shaded purple and blue. Still, it looks decent enough once prepared, and he has no complaints about the taste.
And Alba seems to be over the moon the entire time.
It… admittedly makes Sion preen a bit. He’s never had someone dote over him like this before, and while he’s well aware that his own personality defects may or may not be responsible, that doesn’t make Alba’s cheer any less enjoyable.
The highlight of the meal is, of course, dessert.
Alba gives him chocolate. Or well, a chocolate brownie with a generous scoop of ice cream on top, and Sion’s eyes may perhaps light up like a beacon. He hasn’t found any chocolate in this other world, and he’s been absolutely desperate for it.
Which is why he eats it slowly, savours the taste and doesn’t even care that it has an odd metallic tang.
That is, until he has to close his eyes after he finishes that last bite.
“Ros?” Alba says, quiet, after it’s been some minutes since Ros last spoke.
“Hero,” Ros says, eyes still closed shut. “You’re disgusting.”
“Huh? Wha- what is it now?”
“You know what you did,” says Ros, sour. Opening his eyes at last, he shoots a nasty glare at the man sitting across from him.
His hero, his many-times husband- and a complete and utter moron.
Ros gags a little. “Did you really have to taint a beautiful dessert with your blood?”
Alba brightens like the sun. “You remember!”
“No thanks to you,” Ros says flatly. “Would it have really been that hard to just take me to bed?”
“Take you to-” Alba looks scandalized. “Yes! Yes, it would’ve been!”
“I clearly remembered enough to know what I wanted,” grumbles Ros.
But well, he supposes it isn’t as though he doesn’t understand where Alba is coming from, so he leaves his ribbing to that.
(Even if he would’ve rather not have ingested Alba’s blood. Disgusting. Ros can’t help but gag again.)
For all Alba’s sputtering earlier about not kissing him and whatnot, it’s remarkably easy to convince him into letting Ros into his bed.
“It’s different now that you remember!” Alba whines when Ros points out the hypocrisy, but Ros ignores him.
Alba is asleep across from him now, mouth open and drooling away on the pillow. He seems to be sleeping well, and based on the lack of bags under his eyes, that doesn’t seem to be unusual.
Ros is glad, though he won’t ever say it out loud. There’s plenty of worlds where Alba is a veritable insomniac by the time Ros finds him.
(There’s plenty of worlds where Ros’ nights are equally sleepless, but Ros chooses to forget about that.)
This world, even with all its struggles, doesn’t seem to be forcing Alba to forgo sleep- and that makes it an excellent world in Ros’ book.
With a soft hum, Ros shifts down under the duvet, presses himself into Alba’s chest.
How many lives have they lived at this point? So many different worlds, so many different timelines. Ros lost track after the first few dozen. Maybe Alba remembers better than him- he always brings up dumb little things from previous lives when he retorts.
There’s plenty to do in this worldline now that he remembers. He needs to track down Crea, and it would probably be best to give the family he was born to some closure. It’s not their fault that the soul born as their son began influencing his body and his name the moment he left the womb.
Maybe one day, Ros will get bored of this all, even with Alba firmly at his side. The endless reincarnation, the endless rebirth- maybe one day, it’ll grate on him, and he’ll want it to stop.
And when that day comes, he’ll end everything himself, venture off into the great unknown hand-in-hand with Alba.
But until then-
Alba is warm and comfortable, no matter what the world.