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The hoarseness from crying burned, didn’t seem like it would ever diminish. A constant reminder of the tears pooled on Lugonis’ face. Sunken cheeks, dead eyes. It was scarred into his memory; some kind of vivid, cruel nightmare he never wanted to be a part of. This was the way things were, though. An offer he didn’t want to refuse, the bargain controlling his life’s direction had backfired, and plunged him into a cage that had no key. Even in the exhaustion, Albafica’s body still shook with mourning. His fingers, covered in blood, but unsure of whose it was since there were claw marks along his forearms, shakily pulled back the red hair to match. The symbolism almost made him throw up.
Red, that spilled from their insides and his Master’s hair, like the sunset casting over its yellows and oranges, melting them into a wide range of reds that made the roses seem like a blur of colour. The roses, crunched and broken beneath his feet while the thorns dug into his legs, and he worried even in death, they were hurting Lugonis’ calves with each lurch as he rocked forward with the body in his arms.
There was a gossamer quality to his skin, a kind that made Albafica worry of exactly how long they had been laying out like this. In his heart, it felt like year, and at sixteen, he felt ancient. Already thin skin and brittle bones while his body killed him from the inside out. Maybe not directly, but he couldn’t shake the sting coming from underneath his skin. A wicked reminder of why he was holding Lugonis’ corpse to begin with. Corpse, dead, gone.
The sky had grown dark, but he knew it was futile to try to sleep when his heart had sunk so low, the desire for rest was shoved away in exchange for wallowing and burial rights.
A meagre relief came when he began to pull the much heavier body to their cabin— and it was theirs, would always be theirs. His lungs cried for a break, dry mouth and lips split and bleeding from dehydration, but he couldn’t stop moving. Not until it was done. The decomposition process would happen much slower, without disruptions from unclean insects or rodents with foul taste. The blood was still somewhat in Lugonis’ veins as well. It would help. He would be here a bit longer, sink into the ground slower. Albafica almosted managed a smile, but his lips were set in stone.
Digging through the roses was punishment. One he deserved, or thought he did in his manic state. Everything thought felt like being a thread away from breaking down again, fragile. His master hadn’t told him the consequences. Albafica was to kill his first human being. The only one he’d die for had died for him.
And so he dug with his bare hands. Blood crawled ups his arms, his fingernails were chipped, cracked, and bleeding. At some point, he ripped a layer or two of skin from his palms, but couldn’t make himself cry if he wanted, even though it stung profusely. The dirt was drying into his wounds when they wouldn’t close. What was the point of trying to do this any other way? His purgatory, his asphodel fields dyed in red to laugh at him while he watered them with what tears he could manage. The roses, he didn’t like them, but he could never hate them.
Never hate them because while he was finally able to lower Lugonis’ body into the trench he had dug, (which had gone a bit easier after he found a good stone to scoop out the clay chunks) he was reminded of why he was here, how he had achieved this. The answer was Lugonis.. Questions about his parents and family were always so meaningless, so he had never asked about them. Like the baby lying in the field of roses, Lugonis would join the cycle, taking Albafica’s place to replenish the soil and make the roses beautiful.
And with his master being the one giving them life, they would always be beautiful, always perfect and kind, would give Albafica the reason to not hate them. Lugonis was inside of he and them alike, and he couldn’t kill them with malicious intent. Because what blood belonged to one, now belonged to another, and Albafica didn’t have the heart to destroy the roses or kill himself; he couldn’t kill his master again. The life on his hands would only grow, but no life could possibly equal the blood currently spilled for his name. Also, his entire goal was to be a saint. In time, when he’d calm his heart, the dream would become a clear, definable achievement once more.
There was a bitterness surpassing what he felt, outside of his heart and down a dark corridor in his mind that he had always been afraid of, one that let his feet stomp on the roses, but not kill them, while he tried to lower the body into the poorly dug hole. Like a child had done it.
He didn’t stop his legs from caving and let himself fall into the dark with Lugonis. Wondered if he could gingerly rest his head on the chest which always welcomed him with a heartbeat and a soft, rich song. Thinking about it left another ache in his throat, coughing and sniffling, using his bloody, dirt crusted arms to wipe his cheeks as he started crying again. He regretted it when flecks got into his eyes and blood smeared across his face, like some sick halfling warrior painting markings before battle. Albafica could almost hear the war cries.
The weight of his body toppled him over, a hopefulness rising in his eyes when his ear fell against Lugonis’ torso and listened. If he was lucky, his mind would trick him.
It didn’t.
The crawl out awoke a few wet sobs, more smudging dirt, and deeper wounds as he pulled himself out with thorns, grimacing. The dozens of little cuts along his hands that partnered with training scars split them open, fingernails nearly ripped from the beds when he yanked himself upwards one last time to topple on top of the ruined petals and sodden dirt. Soaked with tears, with blood. Two redundant things he grew so tired of, but everything was so suffocating. Or maybe he really was out of breath. There was pain down to his bones; part of him wanted them to crack under his body. It took Albafica his forearms and his legs to pour the dirt over, stopping several times to let out whimpers at the pain in his hands, to look at his master’s face covered in dirt, and to weep for another five minutes.
By the time the sun had risen to kiss his sweaty, round cheeks, the skin on his arms was ripped open, and his training trousers were completely clotted with dirt and stuck with holes. Albafica suddenly couldn’t cry anymore, as his tears were completely dry in between hiccups.
It was done. His melancholy, loving, perfect, beautiful master, the only human he loved enough, was four or five feet buried beneath his feet, and it was disgusting.
Two days passed when he arrived in the Pope’s chambers to give a formal report. It was obvious what had happened, but if it was not written, history would cease to exist to drag on the memories to paper. Pope Sage stood, a slight hunch in his shoulders in reverence as Albafica strolled through the long hall, the air pockets between his footsteps the only form of silence, louder than anything Albafica had heard in the past few days. His hair was carefully brushed, hands wrapped and hiding the possible infections he had tried to scrub out, so he wore long sleeves and even longer pants. It ached to move them.
Above all, he walked with pride; the Pisces Cloth slung over his back, something precious he was certain he would never be able to part with. When Albafica stopped at the base of the marble steps, he bowed in a way that would ensure his hair would cover his face. It hid the wince from moving too sharply with battered skin.
“Albafica,” The Pope began, “It’s been some time.”
“My Master, Pisces Lugonis, is dead.”
A silence stretched over minutes, yet he could feel Sage’s poignancy. It was everywhere, inhaled into his lungs through his nose and mixing with his own. His eyes stung.
“I see. I am sorry for your loss. He was a loyal Saint and friend.”
Albafica remained quiet.
“In this case,” He stepped down to place his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You are now acknowledged as the new Pisces Saint. Don your armour and carry your Master’s legacy well, Pisces Albafica. The twelfth temple is yours and yours alone. It’s your responsibility. Guard and protect Athena with every ounce of your will.” Sage beckoned for Albafica to lift his chin, looking him in the eyes with such heaviness the floor seemed flimsy and unstable.
“Make him proud, Albafica.”
A sob ripped through his throat a moment later, but he still wore a smile like the sun. Immaculate.
Untouchable.