Chapter Text

i.

There was a story Ky would have liked to tell his mother. For lack of a letter, a journal would do, where his private thoughts lie alone in their company. A pen twirled in his right hand, scratching away carelessly at the paper. How many stories had he to tell at this point?

Ky considered this one: his old apartment in Paris overlooked the Arc de Triomphe—what remained of the original and what was later rebuilt following the Crusades. From the view of a cracked window, Ky had set up his office desk and sat down, staring longingly though not longing for anything in particular. This was the same apartment he lived in with Dizzy after her departure from the Jellyfish Pirates. The same apartment Sin was born in, the same apartment their family would know peace, for a time. And though it was more than likely abandoned again, a part of his soul remained inside it, clinging to the broken glass.

He had a few dozen stories to tell, more like it. There was the story of how he got the apartment in the first place, there was the story of how he finally left Paris for good. 

There was the story of how his mother died. Some odd twenty years later, Ky hardly remembered his mother. Even the impression of her features was a faint memory, even the impression of her last words, what she spoke to him before he fell asleep at night. But if she were alive now, he would've started by telling her about how the story—one of them—ended:

When the Crusades ended, Ky had just turned eighteen. This was easy to remember, as the Celebration of Victory was, most years, as close as he could get to a proper birthday. The festivities were not dedicated to him, but in some manner dedicated to the fact that Ky ended the Crusades alive. And so it was destined that the day of his birth became synonymous with a century of bloodshed.

Ky did little to celebrate the night Justice was sealed. The exhaustion alone would've been enough to overtake him, he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone his body upright. He cast his eyes to the stone cobble road underneath his feet, his boots coated in blood. Cheers of cavalry, foot soldiers and clinking glasses were common, and growing louder with each second. And behind him, Ky heard the whispers of the drunken, half-lucid knights. 

"Are you sure he's only eighteen?" One of them asked.

"I mean, apparently," the second voice replied. "But he looks older than that."

"Wait, are you serious? Commander Kiske is a teen?"

Ky gulped, sober but with a buzzing heat pulsing through his face. Why were they surprised? He was a child born into war, after all, a fact that meant he was no child at all: whether he was born with the Thunderseal in hand or not made little difference. He departed with his teen years formed from a bloodbath, and drowned in the scent of bile and viscera.

Later, a few of the men in the Holy Order had offered to buy him a celebratory drink, for a doubly joyous occasion, though Ky had refused, detesting the sting of alcohol.

One of those men was Second King Leo Whitefang, or Captain Whitefang at that point. He was memorable for being rugged, tall and he always smelled like pen ink. Among the knights, Leo was boisterous, brash, though extraordinarily intelligent. He didn't need to announce himself whenever he entered a room, for his mere presence was enough. A difficult man to forget.

Leo paced a few steps behind Ky, before he slung his arm around him. His face flushed pink with drunkenness and his breath reeked of beer. "Finally all grown up, Bambino? Damn near feels like this took forever to be over."

However downcast he was, Leo's words couldn't help but tease a smile out of Ky. A selection of fresh scars lined Leo’s face, one deep red gash on his cheek.

“Are you injured any?” Ky placed a hand over Leo's arm to keep him steady.

To that, Leo shook his head, hiccupping involuntarily. His whole body rumbled with each word. “I’m holding out better than some of the other men, that’s for sure," he said. "I could have been at Lady Death's doorstep but I backed away just in time."

The prideful hum of Leo's words were equally difficult to forget. The two of them continued walking, with Ky’s (far inferior) weight keeping Leo anchored and upright. Though he enjoyed the company, the first thing on Ky’s mind was sleep. Several times, Ky tried to wrestle himself out from under Leo.

“Oi, Bambino! Don't think about leaving just yet!”

Ky's heels stuck in the dirt. Another one of Leo’s knights came jogging from behind, handing Leo a box which he handed off to Ky. Nothing fanciful, of course, only plain blue wrapping paper and the name Ky Kiske written sloppily in marker. T'as écrit ça ou quoi, Leo?

Ky shook the box. "What's the occasion for this, Leo?"

"Occasion?" He tilted his head. Comparatively, yesterday's sober Leo was a far cry from this drunken Leo, and certainly not as clingy as the drunken Leo was. “It’s your birthday, that's the occasion. And, you know, the fact that we’re both alive. When you said to me that you don't drink, I had to scramble to think about what kids your age actually enjoy.”

His words caught Ky off guard. Even Ky himself was unsure what 'kids his age' were supposed to enjoy.  “Please, you mustn’t worry about things like this.”

Leo simply shook his head. Ky was left without a choice, as Leo’s eyes eagerly waited on him. He tore into the packaging and peered into the box, met with a polished black and white ball.

“What is this?” 

“A football.”

Ky withdrew the ball, steadying it between each palm. He rotated it a few times with an alien look on his face.

“Happy birthday, Bambino,” Leo said. “Good Lord, you’re eighteen and you don’t know what a football looks like.”

To which Leo removed his arm from Ky and slapped him on the back. The force was enough to make Ky stumble over. He watched from afar as Leo paraded drunkenly in the streets with the rest of his men. The cacophony of cheers echoed against the brick buildings, well into the sunrise. Another night, all that was left in the world was Ky and his wounds. 

If his mother were alive now, Ky would tell her how he met Leo Whitefang. He takes a moment to mark the top of his new page. 2172. As much of the year as he could recall, Ky poured onto paper.

The easiest nights to remember were the cold ones. He recalled winters so freely, and his birth month by the same misfortune. Nightfall cast the streets in gloom, snuffing out the scarlet embers of sunset. Ky's hands gripped the hilt of his sword. Blood dripped steadily from the tip, pooling underneath the corpse of a Gear. He tried, for a few minutes, to steady his breath again. Closed eyes, a long, drawn out inhale. His foot dragged in the mud and mixed together with the blood and severed organs, like black tar.

In the middle of the Parisian streets, a number of knights under Ky’s command had been dispatched to take care of an overwhelming Gear attack. Rubble littered the streets, collapsed out under 21st century buildings, one that would eventually be rebuilt into his budget apartment unit. A second unit of knights, one that Ky did not recognize, later arrived, though at that point most of the Gears were already taken care of.

And Ky was alone, his backside illuminated by a flickering street light and his steeled grip beginning to waver. The cold drip of sweat coated his brow and his hands. His focus sharpened once more to the sensation of a firm grasp around his shoulder. The tension shook him, followed by a sharp exhale.

He whipped around on the balls of his feet. There was no Gear trailing him, only a man. This man was another knight, no doubt, with an orange-accented uniform and tiny, metal pins on his lapels that resembled crosses. He stood nearly an entire foot taller than Ky, with darkened eyes, a sharp jaw and a narrow squint in his direction. And yet, those dark eyes seemed to lighten up once he realized who, or what, he was looking at. His eyes inspected the length of Ky’s body, fixated on the blue of his uniform. Then, he and the man stared, Ky’s gaze of deep, murky seawater.

“Goodness,” the man huffed. “I was beginning to think you were petrified on the spot.”

The man gave Ky a few more pats on the shoulder, to which he let out a pitiful sort-of shriek, and Ky’s face immediately grew red. The man furrowed his brow.

“Can you speak, or not?”

Ky nodded. He tried to say 'Yes, sir', but the words would not leave him.

"How old are you, kid?"

Kid? Was he so easy to see through? And yet, he was relieved, for once, at not being called Captain. Ky was still getting used to the formalities, the bowed heads, the glances of intimidation as he walked down the halls of the Holy Order. Or maybe, he wondered: il ne me reconnait pas? And if that were the case, Ky considered himself lucky.

"Fifteen."

As he spoke, Ky coughed, embarrassed at the sound of his own voice. English was standard among the Holy Order, and the man was fluent. He had traces of an accent that Ky couldn't place. Ky, on the other hand, had words molded into heavy tomes, though their contents would not reveal themselves. The syllables sank through his tongue before he could even speak them. 

"Captain Leo Whitefang," he said, holding out one hand. Ky noticed a cut through the fabric and dried blood on the palm, smeared alongside the dirt inside of his glove.

He took Leo's hand and tapped it to his forehead, closing his eyes. "Ky Kiske. A—"

An extended pause. 

“A nice meeting.”

That caused Leo to raise a brow. "K-Ky Kiske? That's you?"

His reputation followed him wherever he went. Ky had heard it all before. A prodigy swordsman, a genius mage, a violent, blood-fueled monster. Did Leo see violence in his eyes too? Or had they become drained of color, dull as a gloomy sky?

Leo coughed. "A pleasure to meet you as well," Leo's face shifted. Surely, he felt embarrassed then, knowing that he and Ky stood as equals. And yet just moments ago, Leo looked at him like he was truly still a child.

Ky tried his best to contain his nervousness. His face was clammy and hot. To his luck, Leo was too absorbed in the sound of his own voice: "I’ll admit, this was not the place I expected to be meeting Captain Kiske, though I’d heard you were dispatched around the area. I heard your sword arm is legendary, is that right? We'll see how 'legendary' it really is in due time."

Ky realized very quickly that Leo had a special talent: running his mouth. The words were hard to keep up with, even more so with how bombastic Leo could be. Every word was an event and every chuckle was an invitation. For every word that Ky missed, Leo was ready, with five or six more to fill the gap.

Whether ordained by God or not, Ky would continue running into Leo until their departure after 2175. During his time with the Holy Order, Leo traveled back and forth between France and Germany, greeting Ky with the same cocky smirk at every opportunity. He was a semi-permanent fixture, like the interior marble balustrades.

Several days after their first encounter, Leo had a proposition. There was a dingy bar one street over from the Holy Order’s headquarters. One of his mens’ favorite bars, Leo bragged with a callous smirk. Ky, however, objected, telling Leo he wasn’t old enough to go inside. Leo was undeterred, however, and met him halfway, dragging an extra stool to the outside patio for Ky to sit on.

Ky nearly fell over as he sat down, the chair ricketed back and forth. His legs were too short to reach the ground. The sunset glistened, reflected on whatever dark liquid Leo was drinking. He had a few men with him, each more talkative as the last, and a growing mountain of empty glasses. One by one, as the sky dimmed, the men filtered out. They offered playful waves and patronizing stares, they pat Ky on the back. He’s been killing Gears since he was 10. He’s a real man now. Get the boy a beer, he'll need it soon enough!

Just the two of them, Leo asked him all sorts of mundane questions. The further the conversation pushed, the longer Ky found himself sinking in puddles of silence, minutes passing painfully slow. But they were so simple, were they not? Leo didn't care for his politics, for his personal philosophies. And he certainly didn't care for bullshit.

"Do you play football?"

"N-No. I don't play sports."

"Hmm, a damn shame, then. Any other hobbies of yours? Things you did after school, stuff like that."

"I don't—I don't go to school."

“R-Really? You’re, hmm—how long have you been with the Holy Order anyways?”

“I-I…”

His voice trailed off, as his tongue sank under its own weight again. Leo tapped his chin a few times, before clapping his hands together. He rose from his seat, kicking back the small stool behind him.

"I see that this is pointless. Let's not waste anymore time talking," Leo said. "I want to duel."

"A dual?"

"A duel. A fight. It seems like our best solution, no? You have trouble with words but maybe your sword speaks louder."

Ky gulped, stumbling back a few paces, and the stool tipped over under him. Leo beckoned for Ky with two fingers. Ky hunched over, readying himself, steadying his breathing once more. Though at the time he would not admit it to himself, Ky was still sulking about his loss to Sol, the outcome of their first duel. He plastered on Sol's cocky, irritating smirk over top of Leo's. Leo was no Sol, but Ky had a second chance now. A personal redemption. Another opportunity to hone his skills.

He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and a current of electricity spread from the tip of his fingers, down from the pommel to the blade. He could see the blue sparks reflecting on the window of the bar. The patrons outside watched eagerly, a waitress tilted her head in surprise but none of them intervened. 

Leo dug his feet into the stone beneath them, his eyes sharpening. The lion was ready to hunt his prey. The rabbit stalked, lowered himself to the ground to leap. Then, one of the metal crosses jutted out, elongated into a sharp blade, barely catching the end of Ky’s hair.

Allons-y, Ky. Il l’a inviter. Ky withdrew his blade with a crackle of lightning. There was an opening in Leo’s offense, his stance left his torso wide open. Rather than strike with the blade, Ky drove the pommel into Leo’s stomach. Leo made a gasp for air, instinctually clutching at his sides. Seeing Leo knocked off balance, Ky lunged forward, forcing Leo to the ground under the combined weight of his sword and his body.

He couldn’t tell if Leo’s gasp for air was genuine or not. Ky was wary of those who simply humored him for his age. He lifted himself off of Leo, the shaky rise and fall of his chest.

Ky leaned down and reached out a hand to Leo. "Let's," Ky paused again. "Keep getting better. Together."

In return, he heard a scoff.

"Little bastard," Leo said, grabbing Ky by the wrist and pulling him to the ground. His cheek smashed against the pavement. 

Well, this was his own fault, Ky supposed. He made the mistake of thinking Leo was down before his last breath had left him.

As an exercise for himself, Ky made a list. The days of the Crusades passed slowly, time inching forever onwards to an shrouded future. But among those grueling days, there were always small moments of solace. Time would make him forget. But before he did, Ky wanted to see the past again, with his own eyes.

As an exercise for himself, Ky made a list. One day at a time. One moment. One memory. One lesson for the past self he could have killed a long time ago.

“Say, Bambino, good to see you again,” to which Ky did not understand why Leo insisted on calling him such a nickname. “I wanted to ask you about this one knight under your wing. Sol Badguy."

Upon the growing mountain of pages, Ky carved out a space where his first meeting with Sol Badguy rested frozen in time—one of the first passages he wrote, in fact. Moments flood his memory, slowly first then into an avalanche. The first duel. The Fireseal. At the foot of Justice’s ethereal grave. Ky laughed seeing Sol’s name written on the page. The same Sol Badguy he’d spoken to mere days ago, that he had offered an old bottle of whiskey, that he entrusted his son’s life.

The younger, clueless Ky raised a brow. “Sol? He is,” a cough interrupted his train of thought. “He is a handful.” His past self was right about that, at least. And he would continue to be correct. “Why do you ask?”

Leo crossed his arms. “Just wondering. That’s all,” he said, pursing his lips. 

The answer didn’t satisfy Ky. Leo caught on, glaring back at Ky’s stare with harsh eyes. He held a finger to his lips. "I'm going to find out more about this so-called 'God of War'," he hushed. "Call it personal curiosity."

His eyes narrowed. Leo stormed off soon after, though Ky was honest and told him he had no idea where Sol loitered. Why did so many men make mysteries of themselves? What did Sol have to hide?

Ky decided that the less details the better. After all, as with most things involving Sol, it was easier to remember than it was to forget.

Inevitably, as Ky pondered his thoughts over the coffee table, his mind and his pen wandered to the Battle of Rome. He considered 2173 as one of the longest years of his life. The months blended together into the mesh of infinity.

He didn't know where to begin. A writing slump, was it? He was drawing a blank. His pen dragged back and forth over the page, scribbling nonsense in a vain attempt to force it from his mind. No luck.

A voice cut through the silence. “Impressive,” Sin said. “You’re writing something other than paperwork today.”

Seemingly so absorbed in his own work, or his lack-there-of, Ky neglected to notice Sin stood behind him. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands clutched around the backrest of Ky’s chair.

Ky laughed. “A personal project, if you can believe it.”

Sin picked up the notebook, causing Ky to rise from his seat. Luckily, none of the ink smudged under Sin’s fingers, as he squinted and held the pages closer to his face.

Then, his gaze met Ky’s. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Barring the fact that Sin’s reading comprehension was already questionable, Ky figured it’d be a miracle if he recognized any of the words. He had, on a few occasions, murmured his mother tongue to Sin as a baby, a fictional lullaby stolen from his own youth. But Ky learned to write in French when he wanted to feel alone. He had the distinct advantage of a language that, in this household, belonged only to himself.

“I would, quite honestly, be amazed if you did understand any of it, Sin.”

“So, it’s okay if I watch a bit, then?”

"I can just tell you the story if you want," Ky smiled. “But I can’t guarantee it will interest you.”

There were, of course, pieces of the puzzle that Ky had already told Sin, though it wouldn't hurt to start again from the beginning. As different as they were, both of Sin's parents had something in common: a childhood void and a purpose ordained. That purpose was violence, whether the weapon be a sword or an eruption of fire and lighting. 

(Was Sin equally destined for such a life, Ky wondered. His hands shivered as he stared into his palm, tracing the callous Ky had left there over the years. The blood that Sin inherited, was it cursed? He wouldn’t accept that, heavenly orders or no.)

At any rate, Ky remembered Leo warning him, in a way that felt eerily prophetic. "If you're thinking of sending letters, you better do it while you have the chance," he said. Leo grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “Once we arrive in Rome, we don’t know how long we’ll have to stay there.”

The sound of Sin clapping his hands together echoed in the room. "Rome, huh," Sin pondered. "I wonder how far from here that is." 

Ky laughed. "Rome is just another name for Illyria, actually. And at that point in time, I was in Paris, which is quite nearby, all things considered."

"Paris," Sin's voice trailed off. He put a finger to his chin. “These are too many places for me to keep track of.”

Ky clicked his pen a few times. "You probably don't remember but that's where you were born, although we didn't get to stay there for very long after."

Though the Paris Sin was born into and the Paris the Holy Order congregated in were two different cities altogether. Ky solemnly stared out the window. He reminisced on the Holy Orders’ headquarters, lined with heroic busts and decorative marble monuments, age unknown but clearly weathered. There was a fountain outside in the front garden where Ky would sit, wading his fingers back and forth in the water and idly watching the ripples to pass time.

He had thought on Leo’s words for a minute, for two minutes. Ky had no one worth sending letters to, though he mused at the possibility of who would come to find them if he tossed them to the wind. A family’s sole survivor, ready to throw away his life and his name at fifteen.

He shook his head. Hardly anything worthwhile to tell, aside from the news that he was still alive. And even then, the news would spread fast enough without him.

(Hardly anything worthwhile—until the Order was finally dispatched in Rome. For the Ky that would not live, his only solace was left to crumpled paper.

Ce matin-là, il faisait encore froid. Les nuages sont gris et épais. Pas de neige, c'était hier pendant que j'essayais de dormir.

J'entendais les cloches d'église—c'était oú ces cloches? J'entendais tout autour de Rome. Notre dimanche de victoire? C'était un présage.

Cependant, l'Ordre fait batailler avec des Gears. J’irai bientôt. J’irai l’aider. Il y avait jusqu'à—au moins—une centaine de Gears. Ca c'était ici à Rome, mais il y en avait d'autres autour de Londres ou Paris. 

J'étais huit ou neuf la première fois que j'essayais de joindre l'Ordre. Kliff m'a arrêté. Il m'a dit, avec sa voix sévère: prouver à moi ta résolution. Même aujourd'hui, je n'ai pas oublié. Et s'il vous plaît, seulement une autre année. Seulement. Tu survivra, Ky. T'arrivera à Paris, vivant.

In this universe, however, Ky was alive but bitterly his fingers regretted what fleeting, erased memories they couldn't preserve.)

"I could, I suppose, but I don't have any," Ky paused, realizing he forgot the word. "I don't have any—what is it called again?"

Leo tilted his head. "Don't have 'any' what? Pen? Paper?"

"No, no, not those. They're the little sticky things that go on the outside," he made a small gesture with his two index fingers, though it didn't seem to help Leo understand. "Uh, étampe, whatever it's called in English."

"You mean a stamp?"

Yes, a stamp. And he wouldn't mind adorning the letters with wax seals too, had they the time. His penmanship was getting sloppier and sloppier the longer he kept a death grip on his sword hilt. Soon enough, his fingers would forget anything other than the dampness of blood.

Sin interjected again. "You didn't want to send a letter to your mom?"

"She'd passed away long before that point," he said, shaking his head. "My father passed away about a year or so before she did. And aside from them, I didn’t have anyone else."

Sin lowered his head and crossed his arms. Few times did he make that uncharacteristically solemn face, and Ky hated to see it every time. Had he the chance, he could have reassured himself of the future, that there would be someone out there who would read his letters. Had he lived another life, Ky imagined the sort of embarrassing, lovestruck letters he would have written Dizzy, on the brink of sleepless collapse, without a care in the world but the idea of her fingers intertwined with his.

Ky twisted in his seat, propping one arm up and the backrest and brushing some strands of hair from Sin’s face. “No need to make that face. I have you and Dizzy now, don’t I?”

Sin laughed, a little hollow. To Ky's surprise, Sin leaned down and wrapped his arms around him, awkwardly yet earnestly holding him close. Sin huffed, heaved, once or twice, and Ky winced to see his boy in such a state. He cradled Sin's head against his neck, running a hand through his hair as he tried to remember the words, the lullabies. Ky couldn't find them, no matter where he looked. 

"Fils, are you sure you don't want to go to bed yet?"

"Nah, I'm good. Don't—don't mind me. I'm just watching, that's all."

Sin yawned anyways.

Ky had written well into nightfall, accompanied by the lull of Sin snoring, who had fallen asleep after an hour or so of stories. He paused, his chair creaking underneath him and scraping against the floor. 

Heavy as he was, Ky hoisted Sin on his back, determined to lug him back to his bedroom with little disturbance or noise. Sin, who was now taller and heavier than Ky himself. Those far off days, where Ky would sit at his study, cradling Sin back and forth against his chest. But the more things changed, the more they stayed the same, and Sin's snoring was one of those things.

With Sin huddled to his back, Ky tried to recall more about the incident in Rome, but some part of his heart had strangely forgotten. What he did remember, Ky committed to paper:

'J’ai vu une femme. Ses cheveux courts et noir. Elle m'a sourit comme une sorcière.'

Skipping a few lines on the page, Ky resumed his writing, a few days in both the present and the past. The gap in his memory bothered him. He was tempted to press Leo on the subject, or even Sol if Ky could begrudge him. With his better judgment, he set the idea aside. Those kinds of memories belonged where they died, locked in a grave underneath Illyria Castle, a time capsule.

He had awoken to the iron sting of blood in his gums. A wet cloth over his face clouded his vision. Ky lifted it to see that he wasn’t in the streets of Rome anymore. Rather, it was a dimly lit room with a single lantern and a dark oak floor and walls. His uniform, soaked in blood, sat in a tub of cold water on the opposite side. Instead, he had on a simple button-up.

As he tried to sit up, Ky clutched his ribcage and a sting of pain flooded through him. It was then that his fingers traced the wet layer of bandages over his torso.

A second figure sat in the room, reading. He was also without his uniform though still wearing his signature, cross-shaped lapel pins. 

“Leo?!”

As their eyes met, Leo shut his book and cleared his throat. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. It’s about time you woke up.”

“H-How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours, give or take. If anyone else had found your body, they might’ve thought you were dead.”

Ky lowered his eyes to his lap. His fingers ached. Where did he collapse? His palms were bright red, and he flexed his fingers a few times to shake off some of the pain.

“You carried me back?” Ky gave a meek smile. “Thank you.”

Leo shook his head. “At this point, it’s the least I can do.”

Meanwhile, his old sword leaned against an unlit fireplace on the far wall of the room. His sword had eyes of its own. Its gaze burned the color of a gas-blue flame. It stared back at him with the voices of the dead. There was a Gear whose soul was trapped inside there. One, two, one hundred, two thousand. And when he held the hilt in his hand, their voices were muffled, silenced. 

Ky flopped down. He let his back sink into the bed and laced his fingers together over his stomach. He avoided looking at the sword, for fear of it staring back at him.

The incident with the Fireseal was on his mind again. He traced a few circles with his pen, flipped back to pages. 

It would take months for Ky to recover from his wounds. What remained on his torso was one part gash, another part deep purple bruise. He poked at the tender skin, flinching. His fingers too were hot and bloated, over-sensitive. Ky sighed looking back at his own stupidity, his fervent passion to challenge Sol once again, only to be met with an anticlimactic defeat. 

"Huh?! Since when was the old man part of the story?" Though Sin couldn’t read most of the words, his eyes focused on Sol’s name. He occupied the same spot, his fingers gripped around the backrest of Ky's chair.

Ky chuckled. "You'd be surprised. Sol and I have a talent for running into each other, don't we?"

A feeling in his gut told Ky that this would not be the last time he saw Sol. The less details the better, he reminded himself—in part to spare himself the secondhand embarrassment. In English, he wrote: Don't try that again.

2173 ended with an eruption of voices. The news of Ky’s promotion to Commander left the Holy Order in an uproar, for better or for worse, and when Ky walked the halls of the Holy Order, the whispers of the knights enveloped him.

The image of Kliff’s face as he handed Ky the Thunderseal burned into his memory. Keep your eyes to the ground, bow your head. But Ky was curious, and cracked one eye open, knelt before Kliff’s feet. The faintest glimpse of a smile caught his eye.

That same Thunderseal sat behind Ky's chair. It wasn't that long ago he commissioned a new holster to suit its shape. He stood up and grasped the hilt, flinching as a few sparks flew. It reacted with a gut of its own. On impulse, he shuddered, the energy rode through his body.

That same Thunderseal, Ky loved and loathed in equal measure. Just as November gave way to December, the Thunderseal shed its old skin. He found out on December 1st, a barefoot stroll through the Royal Court. In a panic, Dizzy was missing from their bedside, save for two, loose yellow ribbons that Ky found at his pillow. 

A sliver of light poured in through the castle’s stained glass windows, fractured with dots of red and blue. He tip-toed across the hall, as a dark feather brushed past his face. She was in a black nightgown, her hair draping over her shoulders like a waterfall.

Ky tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground.

“K-Ky?!” Dizzy whipped at the thud. She gathered her skirt at her knees and jogged over. “Are you alright?!”

Ky sighed with embarrassment. “I-I’m alright. Thank you, dear,” he placed a hand on Dizzy’s shoulder, offering her the ribbons with the other, and leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing up so early? Did you have something on your mind?”

“I’m sorry. I can't explain it well, I woke up because something felt off to me.” Her eyes lowered and her voice turned to a whisper. “It changed again.”

Ky tilted his head curiously. His eyes caught a blade on the table behind her. The Thunderseal, no doubt, but the outline of its form was odd. It was different. His fingers wrapped around the sleek hilt and Ky ran a finger along the blade. He gave the Thunderseal a twirl with his sword arm. A surge of lightning rode up his arm and into his chest, shaking him.

Dizzy frowned. “Somehow, you don’t seem satisfied.”

“I,” Ky paused. Another slow drag of his finger across the blade. “I can’t help but be reminded of the Baptisma 13 incident every time I look at it. Long ago, I would’ve said the Thunderseal was the symbol of my resolve. But now, it feels more like the symbol of my failure.”

“Was doing what was necessary to help me considered a ‘failure’?” Dizzy braided her hair idly. “I feel like there’s more to it than that. You want to blame yourself for things you didn’t have the power to change.” She was the kind of woman whose words were as cutting as they were kind. How is it that her heart handled such thorns? Ky’s only bled and bled.

“I think it’s more than that, more than just Baptisma 13. The power I gained was all from bloodshed, I earned what I had from those I cut down. That’s what earned me this sword in the first place. I,” Ky choked up. "I want to believe that I'm on the right path now. But it's still uncertain."

Dizzy approached, brushing Ky's back with a hand. “Having a strong heart isn’t something you need to do alone, dear," she continued. " I want you to take your own advice and believe in yourself and your own power. ”

She leaned in closer to him and cupped his hands with her own. Her fingers rubbed over his bruised knuckles. “We’re pretty similar, aren’t we? Cursed with power that we never wanted.”

His cheeks were wet. Dizzy lifted a finger to Ky’s cheek and wiped it. "Cursed indeed," he said. "But I don't want to be cursed forever."

In English, he wrote: Dizzy, I wish I had half of your heart. I would not deserve to take it from you, but I would keep it safe inside of my own. Or maybe, to satisfy my own selfishness, my heart would be safe inside of yours. 

Flustered, Ky slammed the journal shut. He did not write again, not until the sun set.

Despite his best efforts, Ky struggled to get other knights to take him seriously. Later, he would learn that it was not for a lack of respect, but an abundance of it. He clutched his sword close to his body.

Ky scanned the halls for Leo. His shoulders grew broader and his voice deeper over the years, but Ky still felt small next to the men that surrounded him. Now, so deeply aware of his own body, Ky shrunk into his uniform, choked by the collar. It happened that Ky was now sixteen, though he made a point to avoid mentioning his age or birthday around any of the other knights. The topic seemed to be a sore spot for his men and, before his departure, Sol’s incessant mockery was only exacerbated by any mention of Ky’s age. Ky, for his part, refused to be seen as lesser.

There was an old pâtisserie within walking distance to the Order's headquarters. The pâtisserie had a colorful, half-faded wooden sign that Ky came to recognize from miles away. He made an effort to jog by one afternoon, brushing his fingers over the door handle with little commitment.

He stared at the display case from outside, his eye catching the perfectly lined, perfectly organized éclairs, colorfully decorated macarons and a towering croquembouche in the center. Ky rummaged through one of his pockets, finding maybe 200W or so to spare. Well, he supposed it wouldn't hurt to treat himself to something. The promotion had left him with a mountain of pressures, and yet, it was still his birthday.

The ring of the doorbell alerted an old woman, who was working the till. Aside from her, Ky was the only one around. Sheepishly, he waved at her, but the woman did not respond in kind. He can't remember her words, not exactly, but she bowed her head at him, her eyes darting around. They seemed to follow him wherever he went, a nervousness so prominent that it reeked like perfume.

He tried his best to ignore her. The sweets were a good distraction. Truth be told, Ky had never eaten a macaron. 

Finally, Ky returned to the till with a small box of lemon-flavored langue de chat and pointed at the chocolate éclairs in the glass case. "J'aurai deux, s'il vous plaît."

(He figured he would share one with Leo, granted that he didn't interpret the gesture as some sort of insult. The macarons would have to wait until another day. What flavor of macarons would Dizzy like? He made a note to himself to ask the next morning.)

His eyes carefully followed the old woman, her posture stiffening and then relaxing soon after he opened his mouth. Even still, she ducked her head once more, accompanied by a formal address.

Ky's pen floated from the page. Had he re-written the story, had he the mind to take off his uniform that day, Ky wondered what she would have thought of him.

"Damn it, this is just a pity present from you, isn't it?"

Self-fulfilling prophecy. Ky offered Leo, again, the open box of langue de chat while he had one dangling from his mouth. The two sat at the edge of the fountain, despite the time of year. Ky waded his fingers in the water, reaching for the sunken coins underneath. His fingers shivered.

Ky sighed. “It’s not. All I was doing was trying to be courteous,” he retorted. “Besides, I can’t eat all of these myself.”

Leo tilted a brow, unconvinced. He gave a resigned sigh and took one of the cookies, finishing it in one bite. Ky chuckled, opening the smaller box of éclairs. He took a bite and a bit of whipped cream stuck to Ky’s nose and stained the front of his uniform.

“You know,” Leo said, muffled by his full mouth. He finished chewing and swallowing. “Your English has gotten a lot better.”

“Hmm?” Ky realized he hadn't finished the éclair and swiftly covered his mouth with his hand.

Leo laughed. "You’ve come a long way from that kid who could barely get a sentence out. Now you talk like a thesaurus."

“I’ve always been like that,” Ky quipped. “Just not in English.”

Some of the chocolate from the éclair had melted and stained the front of Leo's uniform. His eyes carefully examined the way Leo's face softened, his playful anger, and the way he rustled Ky's hair as a father might his son's. Ky nearly choked on the langue de chat, swatting the idea from his mind. Though it still wasn't as bad as the time he accidentally called Kliff "father".

Leo, confused, didn't ask and kept eating.

What good did stories do for dead souls? He had one last story to tell. For himself this time. In 2174, Ky almost died again. That year, his birthday had come and gone without even the smallest of pleasantries, he avoided the pâtisserie altogether. In 2174, Ky spent less time in Paris as the duties of Commander weighed on his chest. Knights begged at his ankles, and though most of the administrative duties were taken care of by older, more experienced knights, they still relied on Ky's charisma to carry out their commands.

At first, he went alone. He would scout ahead and the knights would come to heel. There was a small, deserted village north of Versailles, to call it a ghost town was already being generous. Only one building was entirely intact, some sort of farm house with a crooked sign and a missing doorknob. The rest were hardly standing, chopped in half, wood rotten down and bug-bitten swarms of dead bird and road kill.

A deep hiss rumbled through the trees. Ky could not see where it came from, but the oppressive mist stalked him. A Medium class Gear, its body blending into the shadows and writhing through the dirt. Ky stumbled back a few paces into a rotten plank of wood, catching the first sight of the Gear’s entire body. It was two feet taller than Ky, a nightmare from a picture book, molting feathers and a sweeping stinger like a scorpion. It let out a pained hiss, slamming its tail into the ground. The effort shook Ky from his feet. He called a circle of lightning to surround himself like a ward. Fumbling back onto one knee, he hurried for his blade.

The Gear pounced on his neck and knocked the Thunderseal out of Ky’s hand. It sank two elongated claws on either shoulder and tore into Ky's skin with brute force. The chilled trickle of blood ran underneath his uniform, staining the undershirt. He tried to grab his shoulder on instinct, to feel for the flesh the Gear tore from him. Under its weight, he collapsed to the ground. Coughed, once, twice, with all the wind knocked out of him.

Strangely, Leo had asked him once if he had any stuffed animals as a child. He said no, truthfully, but he always loved how soft rabbits looked. Their fur reminded him of snow capped hills, the winter nights when Paris froze over and he drew faces in the frost with his bare hands. One of the biggest glass windows in the Order was his canvas in the wintertime, on mornings where no one else was around. Ky traced the image of a small rabbit with his index finger. His old friend, M. Lapin. But M. Lapin was lonely, wasn't he? So Ky added a carrot, a cabbage and a rolling hill.

Down the hall, he spotted Kliff out of the corner of his eye. Ky straightened his back and hurriedly wiped down the window with his sleeve. He ducked his head to Kliff, looking back at the smudge on the window. 

He was bleeding out on the ground. Big boys didn't need stuffed animals. He was already seventeen now. But he wanted one anyway. His old friend, M. Lapin, where did you go? Did Ky kill you too? His blood ran cold.

"Commander Kiske is so harsh, don't you think?" The knights would say. "Well, maybe harsh isn't the right word. But not very approachable, that's for sure." 

"He seems so intense all the time," the knights would say. "I wonder how he does it."

"Remorseless," the knights would say. "Inhuman."

He was bleeding out. He didn't say goodbye to Maman. Someone saved him. He couldn't remember. And in the end, Ky never did buy himself a stuffed rabbit. 

Flicking off his lamp, Ky closed the diary and set it on his nightstand. His hair draped over his eyes as he kissed Dizzy's warm cheek goodnight, her tail brushing the inside of his leg. Two of a kind, born into the world alone. Dizzy was born into the world alone and Ky with a stake driven through his heart. All that blood pouring out weighed his body down. It coagulated throughout the years but hadn't drained from his body just yet. But over time, as the river began to overflow, his heart would set itself free.