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He keeps Deirdre’s ashes in a little nondescript urn that lives on his mantle. It’s no pauper’s box, but it lacks any of the embellishments one might think an Empress deserves, with its polished white surface and simple, marbled detailing. It’s small enough that he can hold it, and there’s a little slot in his travel bag perfect for it whenever his son has enough of him and orders him to leave. Julius doesn’t know about the urn, but he doesn’t pay much attention to Arvis’s attempts to educate him on Velthomer’s traditions anymore anyways. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and the mage is sure that if Deirdre is truly watching over him in the afterlife, then she appreciates getting out of the house once in a while.
He takes her to Chalphy without considering the irony of it all.
The maids don’t seem to notice the little urn as they go on with their lives, dusting around where it sits on the table without bothering to question what it is. Arvis prefers it that way- he doesn’t like thinking about what had happened, though it’s been years. The events of Deirdre’s death had been a coverup of the most extreme sort; and the lies that had spread through the capital of her poor health and weak constitution still sicken him. No, he hadn’t watched her waste away. He’d stumbled across her corpse in the hall, split open like a beaten pig and left to stain the carpet.
He’s glad she looks so simple now. There is refinement in that blank white porcelain.
Arvis fixates on the little shape of the urn as he tumbles backwards, reeling from the strike of steel against his chest. Tyrfing scrapes the muscle from his ribs like a cleaver at the market, and though he is barely conscious, it doesn’t take a cleric’s mind to know that this is a battle he will not be walking away from alive. Valflame hadn’t done a damn thing against the boy, though, if Arvis were to be honest with himself, he hadn’t truly been trying. There was a reason he’d had Tyrfing delivered to the enemy, after all.
The sword burns him as it collides with his side a second time. He wonders if this is how it feels to be lit aflame, because the blade glows with holy, puncturing light in Seliph’s hands, and that light melts his skin like butter effortlessly. Seliph is crying, and Arvis feels as though he might join in, because finally, finally -
It’s all over in an instant. Tyrfing slides out of his stomach and into his neck as Valflame misfires for a final time, bouncing off the enchanted sword and into the air as sparks of golden ash. The feeling that follows is instant- one moment, his body screams in agony and fury, and then he’s greeted with cold, sharp nothingness, so sudden that it stings. He’s still in this little room, and Seliph is still sniffling above him, but the burning is gone, as is the weight on his shoulders that has kept him bent and burdened for so long.
Is he dead, or simply paralyzed?
He looks to his right, lips parting in a quiet gasp as he makes eye contact with his own severed head, laying innocently on the floor.
Dead, most certainly.
He raises a hand to his face, breathing out slowly as he observes the details of the ceiling through his palm. Dead, yet preserved as a specter. How unfortunate that it couldn’t just end .
Though, it’s not all bad, he thinks as he sits up, watching as Seliph does the opposite, falling to his knees and leaning heavily on his sword for support. He does have unfinished business, now that he thinks about it- in fact, one could even suggest that nearly every aspect of his life qualifies as such. His wayward son, his missing daughter, his crumbling empire…
His beloved wife, who he never got the chance to say goodbye to.
He gets to his feet with a grunt, not expecting so much resistance from his old bones now that they are as ethereal as the rest of him. The pain is gone, but he’s still bound to this form- this weak old man who wears his face. Again, his own decapitated head catches his eye, with its spilling red hair and bruised, baggy eyes, and he hisses under his breath, balling his hands into fists.
Pitiful- though he could not have wished for a more poetic end.
He has no interest in watching Seliph sob over his corpse, so instead, he turns to the urn on the table, running a hand over its surface. Perhaps she wanders the world as a spirit too- maybe he could find her. Maybe he could apologize.
He should probably seek out and apologize to a lot of people. If they’re also bound to matters of unfinished business , then he’s undoubtedly the source of their troubles.
He turns toward the door, only to pause, the determination in his heart faltering.
He has an audience.
A small audience, to be sure, but an audience nonetheless. The doorway is crowded, and for a moment, he thinks that Seliph’s guardians have finally caught up with their ward, but then he realizes that these people are firmly looking at him , not the boy. One of them, a woman in an out-of-fashion gown, crosses her arms, expression dark.
“A pity,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “He couldn’t have taken you elsewhere? It’s rude to die on someone else’s property.”
“Enough, Faris,” the man next to her mutters. “It’s over now. They’ll remove his body before long.”
“I hope.”
Arvis blinks at the two as they exit, looks of disgust coloring their faces. Spirits, much like him- had they watched his death? What else had they seen?
Of course, it makes sense that Chalphy would be haunted. It’s an old castle belonging to an old family- Velthomer probably possesses its own fair share of ghosts. He breaks out of his stupor the same moment that he breaks into a run.
“H-hey!”
The spirits are in the hall, meandering away from him when he bursts out of the room. They look upon him with dull, disinterested eyes that match in color and shape. Siblings, probably.
“I don’t want to give him the tour,” the woman, Faris, mutters.
The man speaks up in her stead. “Be gone, Emperor. Stand by your corpse and wait to be returned to your proper resting place. This is our home, not yours.”
“I don’t understand-”
“There is nothing to understand,” Faris responds, nose lifted in haughty derision. “You are dead. Go be an irritant somewhere else.”
“I have…” Arvis grips the front of his fur-lined cloak as if it would steady him, “-unfinished business, don’t I? Tell me- my wife-?”
The man shakes his head. “You assume too much of the universe. You’re a spirit because of your holy blood, not because of your sins. You’d be stuck here even if you lived like a saint.”
“Which you didn’t,” the woman sneers. The man nods in agreement.
Arvis’s heart leaps into his throat. “Then… how do I..?”
Again the man shakes his head. “Put thoughts of the afterlife out of your mind. It’s not a fate meant for you.”
“My wife,” Arvis sputters. “My wife has the blood of Naga- is she-?”
“Oh. Deirdre,” Faris responds. “Good luck.”
“Good luck?”
They turn away from him again, the man holding out an arm to guide the lady away from where Arvis stands, open mouthed and stunned. Deirdre- they’d known the name, which means that she’s probably here in this very palace. He’d brought her urn- her remains- to this place, which might have brought her soul along as well; his heart skips a beat at the thought.
Deirdre. Despite everything, he’s missed her.
He doesn’t follow the two retreating ghosts, instead turning around and heading down the hall in the opposite direction, away from the clamor of Seliph’s army. The front gates have long been breached, and his own men undoubtedly lay dead- he passes a few of them as he walks, his feet phasing through their corpses with ease. He makes eye contact with the solemn few unfortunate enough to share his fate- cousins and distant relatives with the same blood as he, but he wastes no time comforting them. He has a mission to complete; a woman to find.
He passes more of Seliph’s ancestors as he makes his way through the castle, and each one of them responds to his presence in much the same way- with curled lips and furrowed brows. He catches sight of Lord Byron himself as he makes his way around the corner- only to stumble backwards out of sight before the man can turn around. He doesn’t want to deal with the consequences of that just yet- he’d prefer to have his wife by his side before staring down any vengeful spirits-
He pauses as in the middle of a staircase, hand on the railing.
His wife.
Of course they’re mad at him. How could he have been so blind? They’d see this whole situation from Sigurd’s point of view- and to them, he’s a woman-stealing murderer.
He shuffles down another step, suddenly feeling very tired. They aren’t wrong, regardless of his pawn’s role in Manfroy’s plot.
As he continues walking, he ponders whether he should apologize to them too. Is it his fault for being so easily manipulated? For not knowing information that was so deliberately hidden from him?
Does it matter?
“Maybe to some.”
A voice draws him out of his thoughts- or had he spoken aloud? He raises his head to make eye contact with the man that had addressed him. He looks much the same as the rest of the ghosts that wander these halls- tall, blue, and uneased by his presence. He sits on the windowsill with folded arms, one shoulder squashed against the pane of glass in an effort to feign relaxation. Arvis nods his head in greeting, dropping his gaze. He doesn’t miss the way the man’s fingers grip his elbow with fervor- a nearly hidden sign of the specter's true feelings towards him. At least this one is more polite.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Arvis mumbles. “If I had known these halls were haunted, I wouldn’t have stepped foot on the premises.”
“I can’t fault you for that,” the ghost responds. “For what it’s worth, I offer my condolences.”
“The same to you, I suppose.”
That makes the man smile slightly as he sits up. “You seem to be in a rush.”
Arvis bites his lip. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Lady Deirdre.”
“You know her?”
The man shrugs. “You arrived with her a while ago. We’re all well acquainted by this point.”
“So she is here?”
“She’s with her husband.”
If Arvis had a heart, it would have stopped beating. “Her…”
The man smiles again, this time sadly. Pityingly. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think Sigurd holds it against you too harshly. He understands- though you’ll get the chance to ask him yourself. They’re at the beach right now, waiting for the fighting to stop.”
“They didn’t want to watch me get what I deserve?” Arvis asks, despair leaking from his every pore.
The man frowns. “Lady Deirdre couldn’t stand the idea of watching you die at the hands of her son- and she didn’t want to see her child commit such an act with her own two eyes. You know her well- she’s a gentle one.”
“She is…”
“It must not mean much, but if you want my opinion, I think you have a chance for forgiveness. It will be at least a day before they return your body to your home. You can make amends by then.”
“At least a day?”
The man’s eyebrows raise. “You didn’t think they would bury you in the catacombs here , did you?”
Of course not. He’s not of Chalphy’s bloodline. He’d be interred back at Velthomer next to his poor brother and his bastard of a father. He almost can’t wait to wring the man’s translucent neck.
The man looks upwards, as if seeing through the ceiling. “They’re moving your body now. Can you feel it?”
Is that what that sensation is? He’d describe it as hands along his back and arms, as if those handling his corpse upstairs were the ghosts instead of himself. He shivers slightly.
“Well,” he mumbles, allowing his eyes to make contact with the man’s once more. “Thank you for the reassurances. I can only hope that your words ring true.”
The man nods. “I see no reason to hold grudges after death. Spending an eternity angry seems like a tiresome waste.” He slides down from the windowsill, walking to where Arvis stands and patting him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. He’s taller than the former emperor- much taller. “When you return to Velthomer, give my regards to Lady Fjalar. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
Arvis nods as the man brushes past him. Lady Fjalar-? If he knows so personally, then this must be-
Baldr is gone before Arvis has the chance to comment, disappearing up the stairs like a cold breeze.
The rest of the castle passes by him in a whirl of light and color. The other ghosts, seemingly quelled by the good mercy of their patriarch, leave him be as he wanders his way towards the exit. Idly, he notes that Sigurd’s sister is not among the staring faces- based on the reports he’d gotten from the southern troops, she never would be. It's a frightening prospect, to have one’s remains be lost to nature, but maybe it’s a small mercy that Seliph hadn’t dragged him into the woods for the slaughter. Being tied down to the earth far away from familiar faces sounds like a torment he probably deserves more than she.
The double doors that lead to the outside world are clamoring with young warriors eagerly celebrating their conquest. He slips through them, taking small joy out of hearing them shiver with his passing, but it’s not enough to quell the nervousness inside of him. The beach… only a short walk away…
He passes Seliph again, the boy making his way back from that very spot, hands tightly clasping something to his chest. A memento, perhaps. Arvis strides onwards.
It’s not hard to make out the two figures sitting on the shoreline. Sigurd looks much the same as he had at Belhalla, though with a much more relaxed composure. He’s talking animatedly to the mass of lilac curls at his side, Deirdre leaning into his body like a lazy cat. Arvis hates to intrude, and he almost thinks of going back as his stomach bottoms out, but his footsteps on the sand give him away just as he considers running. Sigurd turns his head, and Deirdre soon follows his lead.
“Arvis,” she breathes, climbing off of her husband with wide eyes.
Sigurd responds in much the same way, scrambling to his feet and dusting himself off, despite the lack of sand that clings to his incorporeal clothing.
The three of them stand there for a moment, staring at each other. Arvis isn’t sure what to say.
Perhaps it would be good to start with an apology.
Two sets of arms wrap around him, not even giving him the chance.