Chapter Text
“Dry your eyes of tears, and walk into my arms. I will take you into a safe haven, where you live with no harm.”
His eyes flutter open. Orange eyes staring into the ceiling above him. It was early in the morning. He wasn’t sure when, he only knows that the fact must be true, if that’s what his instincts say to him.
He hoisted himself up on his arms, surveying the room he lived in for all his life.
It wasn’t a big room. It was suitable enough for him. A room with four walls, a bed, and a dresser with an oil lamp on top of it. Nothing more, nothing less. He does not need more than these.
He sat on his bed, staring at his lap as he tried to recall the dream he had. His face pinched a little, trying to grasp onto whatever memories he has left in that realm of resting—
Yet, he recovers none. Except for the memory of the sweet, honey-laced voice whispering soft words to his ears, carefully wrapping around his mind. Uttering the words that brought him safety from wherever he came from. The words that give him a sense of purpose in the vessel he lived in.
He squinted his eyes. “That doesn’t seem quite right,” he silently doubted, brows furrowing deeper into his skull. He shook his head. “No, it is,” he argued with himself, “it has always been right.”
Yet, despite it, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of a gaping hole in his chest, outlining a shape that he can’t discern. Even if the words were right, he can’t help but feel something off. Something odd. Something different. Something—
“Missing,” he silently concluded. The silence dug its noise in his ears, beating nothing but stillness onto his senses. He frowned. “…But what could it be?” he asked himself.
He furrowed his brows before shaking his head. Dispelling any unnecessary thoughts that would boil in his mind. There was no time for such fallacies. He has no time to question the way of his life. He has much more important things to do—such as doing his duty as a knight.
He got out of his bed with a quiet groan. Setting one foot down before the other. He quietly walked towards his dresser, making sure to pick out the clothing he normally wore as a knight.
After getting dressed and putting on his armour, he let out a soft sigh. He took his sword, neatly sheathed into his scabbard and attached it to his belt.
He began walking towards the exit of his room—a short walk, only a few steps away from him. He held onto the door knob, about to turn it, but before he could he stopped himself.
He took a deep breath, slipping his eyes shut and underneath his breath, as gentle as picking up a vase made of glass, he muttered—
“May the Prototypes bless today and us, the Offsprings, with their glory.”
He stood in front of his door wordlessly, letting the words sink deep into every core of his body. The earth, the air, and his very own skin. He took another deep breath before turning the knob and exiting the room he lived in.
He walked silently through the castle’s halls. Passing by hallways lined with paintings and various statues. His eyes only set forward, his cape flowing behind him as he made his way to the Royal Garden.
He was tasked with protecting this area of the castle from harm—
(And making sure any intruders are to be disposed of.)
—and it has been a long time since then. At least, he assumed so. He wasn’t quite sure himself. Time wasn’t something he often thought about.
And soon, he reached the gate leading to the garden, guarded by two knights of lower standing than him. He entered through the opened iron bars with ease, not greeting the knights stationed to guard it.
As soon as he stepped out, the wind greeted him with its soft breeze. He doesn’t take time to stop and cherish it, but he does take note of the way it grazed past his ears as he walked on the stone pathway laid in front of him.
He kept walking. Not particularly paying attention to the scenery around him. He had already walked this path countless times, leaving him to know this place like the back of his own hand.
Though, he must admit, he can’t help but feel a bit of warmth at the way the flowers he passed by every now and then were well-maintained. It was clear that the gardeners always did their best to ensure the highest quality of blooms grew in The Prototype’s garden. It was only fitting for Her to have them.
He shook his thoughts away, not needing to dwell on them further. Eventually, his eyes caught a familiar area up ahead. He kept his steady pace, walking towards the direction of where he was stationed.
The place he was assigned to watch over was a statue of a woman. Arm outstretched to the sky with her other hand balling up a fistful of the hooded cloak over her slender frame, covering most of what she looked like underneath it. Vines crawled on some corners of the statue, and a few scratches could be seen once the light hit it correctly or once looked upon closer inspection.
His duty for the rest of his life was to make sure that this statue was kept safe and unharmed, to honour the person who had found all of them. His duty was to make sure that the memory of the founder of this kingdom—this castle, this place he lived in, and the place he was indebted to—was to be cherished. For now, and for the rest of eternity.
He took his spot a few feet in front of it. He unsheathed his sword and dug it onto the grass underneath him, letting out a soft crunch as it slid into place. He rested his hands against the grip of the sword, holding onto it and making sure that it could be pulled out within a moment’s notice.
Once that was done, he faced forwards, staring ahead of him and letting the world turn by around him. He would stay in this spot for the following hours until the moon rises, where someone else will take his spot and he would go to rest to repeat this cycle for the following days he would be alive.
This is his duty as a knight of The Prototype—and he will commit his duty to it, even at the cost of his own life.
The day, much like most days, passed by with a blur. The monotonous routine he had set himself up for was to thank for that. But now, It was late in the afternoon. Usually he would still be standing in front of the statue, but today was a special occasion.
“The Day of Recognition,” his mind silently supplied him as he stood in front of the door to The Prototype’s room, waiting for the signal to be allowed inside.
Today was the day where he would be recognised for his efforts in serving under The Prototype through Her presence. For all the hard work he had done ever since he was deemed fit to work under Her name, today, he would be graced with Her presence.
Meeting Her was a very rare occurrence—there was only one time he recalled meeting The Prototype, and it was when She saved him from his suffering a long time ago. He doesn’t remember his suffering, only that he was saved from it. Just as how things should be.
From what he observed, there were only two reasons why someone would be requested by The Prototype—it is either that their Day of Recognition has come, or that they had sinned and are to be corrected.
In this case, his reasoning was for the former. He has no plans or intentions for making it the other.
A hum surged through his body. Rattling his mind and pulsing in his chest like a quiet beat of a drum. “It’s time,” he silently announced. He held onto the door knob, hesitating a second, then another, before twisting it and pushing the door open.
The room was big with olive green walls that stretched high up into the ceiling—far more grand than the room he lived in. Very fitting for a Prototype’s personal chambers. It was decorated with various paintings of The Prototype’s favourite things, human or animal, living or dead, all of them painted along the walls with significant detail.
But aside from those observations, he made no move to stare longer. He immediately shut the door behind him and kneeled down, giving The Prototype a bow, not saying any words and letting himself stay still in his position, hoping his actions spoke more than his silence.
“Good afternoon,” The Prototype greeted, an echoey lilt in Her voice from what he could hear. “It has been a while,” She mused, Her voice ringing through his ears.
Silence soon followed after. Tsukasa did not attempt saying a single word—in the presence of Her, he had no right to. A beat passed. “You may now raise your head,” he heard The Prototype say.
For a moment, he hesitated. Wondering what he should do in this situation. While not listening to Her would be a sentence to death in and of itself, something never quite felt right in the way she said them. Yes, they were a command, however…
Silence trickled down his spine. No shuffling of his armour or the sound of his hair grazing past his earlobes, for he chose to not raise his head. “Good,” The Prototype praised after a moment, an amused lilt at the edge of Her tone.
Soon after, the clacking of heels reached his ears, inching closer and closer to his position. A few moments later, the sounds stopped. A hand rested against the bottom of his chin, and before he could react to it, the hand lifted his head upwards. And he almost widened his eyes, but caught it and willed itself to steel at the last second.
He wouldn’t dare admit it—not to Her majesty, not to anyone in the castle—but he found himself being surprised. Though he knew that this day would come, he had noticed the lack of presence of those he frequently passed by on his way to his station.
All those men he was used to seeing back then, never returned after meeting with The Prototype. He had considered himself to be next to those men, he had considered himself as someone who would join those who had breached the order they had sworn to upon following Her.
But, he was not. Instead he was here, kneeling in front of The Prototype with his body in-tact. His limbs were still connected by the joints and he doesn’t feel pain. By all means, it felt like a blessing to be alive within Her presence.
He tried to wrack his brain of what he remembers of The Prototype. All that he could recall was that Prototypes were gifts blessed by the gods. Graced with both looks and knowledge the moment they were born. However, his teachers had told him that those who stare into a Prototypes’ eyes would be breaching the privacy of the Gods—hence why The Prototypes’ faces were covered by a white silky veil with golden fringes at the bottom.
As he stared into the veiled face covering Her face, he felt a smile being directed towards him. “You’ve been doing well, haven’t you?” She quietly mused, the amused lilt in her voice never fading away.
The Prototype’s other hand rested on his head. Patting his blond hair and gently sifting through it. “This life…it must be so nice for you,” The Prototype whispered with a soft smile, “to be surrounded by those who are like you, and those who love you.”
The words left him at ease. Calming his nerves as a sense of gratefulness colour his lungs. “It’s because of You, Your Majesty, that I am here,” he doesn’t tell Her. She doesn’t need the words that both of them already knew.
The hand sifting through his hair stopped, resting at the nape of his neck as The Prototype let out a soft hum.
He wasn’t sure what happened—nor was he sure how—but a pressure drummed in the back of his head, starting from the area that The Prototype held onto, and slowly spreading away to his mind like a virus. Eating away at his mind.
Distantly, he wondered if something bad would happen. This feeling rarely came across his heart. It doesn’t come easily to him unlike the feelings of devotion and shame. It doesn’t soak into his mind in his everyday life unless he was in danger.
Internally, he hummed. “But those thoughts are for fools,” he silently reminded himself. “To doubt The Prototype is to doubt life itself—and to doubt life is to question your own purpose and existence.”
The Prototype muttered something under Her breath. The words—despite how close he was to Her—were distant and inaudible to his ears. He was near Her, yet at the same time he was trying to catch up to them, fingers grazing against what The Prototype could’ve said.
But he doesn’t have time to think about it before the world goes black.
The next time he awakened, he was not in a place he recognised. Not in his room, not in The Prototype’s room. He doubted this place was even inside the castle—all there was is an empty void of muted white. Stretching far into the abyss which never seemed to end.
He stood there wordlessly. He doesn’t move, only staring at what was in front of him—the vast expanse of emptiness—and all he does is stand there, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to tell him what to do, if possible.
He blinked before tilting his head downward, and his orange eyes met with itself, widening by an inch the same time he does, and blinking the same time as he. And whenever his eyes rest into a blank expression, the ones below him do so too.
It was himself, standing underneath him. He still wore the armour and clothing from before he passed out. However his sword is nowhere near to be found on his belt. He doesn’t worry about it, he can defend himself without one.
He stared at the person underneath him. “My reflection,” his mind supplied him. His eyes trained over every detail of himself. Burning his own image in his mind, wanting to hold onto it for however long it would take for him to die.
The last time he saw himself was many years ago. He doesn’t know how many days or months have passed, all that it was from a long time ago. He can’t remember when, he can’t remember why, but all he knew id that he saw himself once, and that image of him had blurred to a point he can’t recall himself anymore.
His eyes drew onto the blond hair framing his face, fading into a soft cherry red at the ends of it. There was no light in this void he found himself in, but he assumed that if it did, his hair might’ve shimmered like gold. Perhaps attracting a few crows at the shining colour of it.
His hand reached up to rub the ends of his hair. It was a bit of a surprise to see his hair to be in such pristine condition, with all the fighting he had done over the course of his life. But he supposed that it was only rightful for him to have a presentable appearance.
He raised his foot by a centimetre, watching as the reflection beneath him echoed his actions as the ground rippled at the small movement. “It’s like water…” he idly thought.
He gently set his foot down. Mildly mesmerised at the image below him—maybe such a word was too potent for what he felt, but he can’t help but stare at his own reflection in nothing but fascination and curiosity.
And so, for a while, silence hummed through his ears. He doesn’t know how long it stretched on, how long it went, but something eventually compelled him to raise his head upwards, and in doing so he finds—
There, a few feet away from him, stood a man with medium-length hair, tied into a small ponytail on the back. Coloured purple like the lavenders he would see across the Gardens. Oddly though, there were strands of blue—a bright blue that somehow matched well with the colourful background. It was like a Morning Glory, but far too brighter for the hue the flower had. It didn’t seem natural, perhaps his hair was dyed such a colour?
The oddest thing was the fact that the man had no face. Or, rather, he did. He had a nose, a mouth, and a pair of ears, but where the eyes would have been there were none. Perhaps he was a man with no eyes. He held all the features of a man, of a person, yet the windows to the soul—those eyes of his—were gone.
He stared at the man, mouth slightly agape as he wondered, “Who was he?” Yet the question was left unsaid. He does not open his mouth to ask, to wonder, to inquire. He only stared at him with his orange eyes, observing the man and every twitch of a finger he did.
Silence remained as long as he could let it be, and it still did even when the man opened his mouth to say something—because no words came out. Even if the man took in a sharp breath, even if the man’s mouth moved into what seemed to be a string of words, he could not hear a single thing of what the lilac-haired man said.
Yet, despite it, he could almost sense the words that he uttered. Feel it within the edges of his fingertips and clutch onto it with some coherence. Trace against the outlines of each letter that were in the sentence even if nothing was said; even if nothing was heard.
“…What?” murkily echoed through his mind. The thought made him frown. He doesn’t quite like the odd feeling of this—the feeling of his thoughts not being his own. Even if the words uttered were in his head, they were words he’d never utter. Not twice, not once, but never.
He opened his mouth by an inch. “Who are you?” he whispered back. Staring at the eyeless man in front of him, and watching as his brows rose up.
He expected many things—an answer was not one of them, and he was right. For as soon as the lilac-haired man opened his mouth, he was only granted a string of confusion that slowly lost its clarity, melting into the fuzziness that began to grow in his mind, making him clutch his head in stinging pain.
He scowled, the pain in his head pulsing like a heart. All that rang throughout his ears—and his mind—was static. Piercing his ears with no mercy. He squeezed his eyes shut. “What even is this?” he hissed to himself, unsure if he said those words aloud or to himself.
It didn’t matter, because as soon as those words left his mouth, the static in his ears began to die down. The words that the man in front of him uttered began regaining their comprehensibility. His mind was greeted with a flurry string of questions of “are you okay” and apologies.
He shook his head. Wishing that the thoughts disappeared from his mind. He doesn’t need someone else in his mind—he was content with his own. He scowled. “Who are you?” he hissed back, glaring at the man in front of him and watching as the other flinched back.
Silence rang throughout the void. Not that there was anything else to hear, in the first place. Or see, but with the addition of this man in front of him—such a statement proved to be false.
The man pursed his lips, and in a much quieter voice, inside his head, he muttered, “Do you not remember me?…”
He frowned, furrowing his brows as he slowly dropped his hand from his head. Silence drew on for a few moments. “I do not,” he eventually responded back. His lips drew into a straight line. “Am I supposed to?”
The lilac-haired man took a sharp breath, the sound inaudible in his head, thankfully. Yet he wonders why the man looked—
Pained? Why would someone look at him in such a way? He’s seen people bleed from wounds he had inflicted, but he hasn’t even touched the man, yet he already displayed such a face.
“That’s okay,” the man whispered to him, words touching his mind in a way it hadn’t been before sending a chill down his spine— “You don’t have to.”
And then his mind was silent again. Ringing with nothingness as the blond’s brows furrowed, staring at the man in front of him. “…Why,” he silently asked himself, “do I feel this way?
Seeing this man was odd on and of itself. He does not know him, he does not know where he is, and most of all, the lilac-haired man, based on his assumptions, happens to know him despite the fact he had never seen someone as eccentric as him in his lifetime.
Yet, despite these truths—there was something he couldn’t tear away from him.
Despite the fact that he had never met this man, he can’t help but relax even without his sword. He can’t help his nerves being at ease, even if this man could kill him right here and now. Even if this man could be dangerous in many ways—
He can’t find it in him to raise his fists and dispose of him. He can’t find it in himself to kill this man.
The two stayed silent for a while, basking in each other’s oddity. The man in front of him seemed to be observing him, if his silence and stillness meant anything. Though he wasn’t one to judge. He was doing the same thing.
The lilac-haired man shook his head, before giving him a small smile. “I don’t know what is happening,” the man told him, words echoing in his head. “However, I do have some guesses. But I believe our time together will come to a close. Perhaps the next time we meet, I shall try to give my theories to you,” the other explained.
He felt his eyes drooping a little. He blinked for a moment, struggling to fight off the drowsiness in his muscles. Why does he feel this way? That he has a need to hear every word this man says? That he has to grasp onto every sound like a lifeline otherwise he will drown?
His eyes slipped shut, and something akin to upset thrums in his chest. An unfamiliar feeling, something he only knows out of observance, or maybe it was memory? He couldn’t tell which it was, but his chest drummed it against his skull, his ribs, and his ears. Leaving patches of his soul stained with the rotting emotion eating him like acid burning away at metal.
“For now, I’ll let you be. I hope to see you again—”
His eyes fluttered open. Orange eyes meeting the poor unfurnished ceiling of his room. He has woken up to this scene plenty of times before. There is nothing different about it.
All that his room consisted of were four walls, a bed, and a dresser. Nothing more, nothing less. He had no need for anything more than these.
He slowly sat upwards. A dull ache drumming in his skull and distorting his sense of balance. He checked through all his memories, hoping to be given an answer as to what had happened.
“The Prototype was blessing me, before everything went to black…and then I was here,” he silently recalled.
He pursed his lips, feeling something hammering into the back of his mind. Something trying to crack its way through the order he had fixed for himself for his entire life.
He frowned.
“For now, I’ll let you be. I hope to see you again, Tsukasa-kun.”
The words echo in his ears, strumming a lyre and leaving his ears with a dull ache as the words taunt him. He had never owned such a name. Names were for those of higher standing—of those who had proven themselves worthy enough to be remembered by The Prototypes and the rest of the Offsprings.
So why is it that, when he tests the name on himself, something clicks in his heart? Why is it that the missingness he had felt before suddenly dulled?
He pursed his lips as fear settled in the bottom of his heart. “Why does calling myself ‘Tsukasa’…”
“…Sound so right?”