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I don’t—
I can’t—
Why…?
The mumbling had been persistent for the past few days – from the moment the boy had woken in the cell, leaving the already uncomfortable and tense atmosphere in the hold positively stifling. The whispers from the guards told little – snippets of a fight beyond this place, a crumpling of the status quo that meant little inside the mildew-soaked walls.
The consensus, however, was that something had occurred in Rosaria, and that the Phoenix had fallen.
The conclusion made sense, given the mumbling boy—the youth bore more than a passing resemblance to the elder Rosfield son, though his outward appearance was all he still held. None of the quiet yet steadfast persona remained as he was dragged through to his cell. Instead was a haunted gaze—haggard eyes and disheveled clothing, the dirt on his face betraying his despair in rivers of its absence.
His mumbling was perpetuated by the sound of intermittent pacing, that only truly stopped when he fell asleep—rest that was short and broken by guttural screams as he woke.
I don’t understand.
The tumult of his mind was too much, a bucking, balking beast that resisted every attempt at rational thought. The sensation of unreality and helplessness had been there since he had woken that night to find the keep aflame, and the clinging smell of smoke and ash made him feel sick the moment he let himself acknowledge it.
He’d had the same headaches before. A sharp, stabbing pain and grating sound that was gone as soon as it came, and therefore had never really needed deeper thought.
That was but one of a long list of regrets. If he had questioned it…
And where would that have led him, though? It still didn’t feel real. He still couldn’t put words to it, not that he dared to do so.
I can’t wrap my head around it.
It was too much all at once. His home, his father, his mentor, his brother…his purpose. All turned to ash. And it was…and it was…
By his own hand.
Every time the recollection struck him he’d find himself curling into a ball, grappling with his mind’s desire to push every part of it away, to deny the reality confronting him head on and pretend he didn’t know, didn’t understand. But the rational soldier shoved back with everything it had—to deny reality would be surrender. To deny what he had done would be a lie and a mockery.
Why…?
He had fought it with everything he had. Everything, every ounce of strength, clawing and pleading and sobbing and still had not been able to…
Was it making a point? Had it used that fleeting wish—to control Phoenix, to bring his brother back from the brink—and warped it into…into that?
…Or had it fed on something else?
A lingering poison that ate at his stomach sometimes, when he looked upon his mother’s eyes and the sneer dripping with disgust. When the quiet, pitying whispers followed him around the courtyard. When his father asked him to relax, as his mother wasn’t present, and when he watched her dote upon his brother.
It was his fault.
Clive had thought he had moved on from it. The nagging twang of jealousy, the feeling of inadequacy and desperation as he tried to be worth more, be better, be deserving. He could not fail or falter as his mere existence was already a failure. While for the most part the notion only brought about a feeling of self-loathing, its injustice had also planted an anger in him-- one he thought he had felled.
But its roots had run deep, and its timber had fueled the flame.
Joshua had paid the ultimate price for something that wasn’t even his fault. Joshua had not wished to inherit Phoenix, Joshua had not asked for his mother to dote on him and despise Clive. And it was Clive who had not been able to fully quash his own feelings. Despite how deep his love for Joshua was, despite how genuine his desire to protect him had been, it had not listened.
It had, instead, torn his little brother apart as he struggled fruitlessly to stop it.
There would never be forgiveness. None who could—none who would. He had thought, on and off since he had arrived, of putting out his own sputtering ember for good. It would not be remiss to do so—his crime was of the highest order.
But were he to do that, none would be left who remembered. The brave Shields slain in their beds. The betrayal of Sanbreque. Joshua’s valiance. His brother’s first and final flight.
Nothing that occurred at the gate should have. Those who orchestrated Rosaria’s downfall…and the Eikons themselves. Joshua had lost control, and then he’d never had any in the first place. How long had it resided in him?
How long had he been a Dominant without knowing? A veritable ticking clock, every tock inching closer to an inevitable swathe of flames and violence? A curse in every sense of the word.
No…death was not an option here. He wanted answers. He wanted justice.
And…a chance to repent.
Not redemption. Not forgiveness. But to put back more into the world than he had taken from it. And if he could help it…spare others from suffering his and his brother’s fates.