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Connections are, sometimes, more than a bond of the present, but a trail from the past.
One would have simply thought that they were an unbalanced pair: the god and the sinner whom he forgives, the provider and the taker whom he endures. It was true, to some point. Seliph never seemed to waver when Ares threatened to end his life with the hilt of his claws. Their relationship had started like that, a blade pointed at the boy's neck, a hand reached out to the man's fury.
Someone so high up in the skies, someone so deeply buried below the rubbles of the sea. That was what they were.
It was like a chemical reaction. A boy who lived on the unwanted kindness he had received, had met the man who lived on the fury he had held on to, straight opposites colliding on the battlefield. Swords clashed, conversations were held, and contradicting stories of the past were shared. In the end they had come to a complicated agreement, though hatred and anger still pulsed through the man's veins.
For long, their usual occasions would always start with a blade on the neck to a disappointed huff from the blonde. Nothing else, just heavy and empty interaction between two shadows of two fathers.
The air was thin between the two, the tension about to break with the slightest of movements. Words shared were short, actions were violently calm. There was no resistance to the one-sided vengeful hate, only acceptance and silence, companied with a casual stare and nod.
And yet in that silence, none seemed to yield. Ares would not yield his vengeance, and Seliph would not yield his warmth.
So be it, they had concluded. The one to break first would put an eventual stop to this pain of a relationship.
-
"Are you not going to resist?"
"...If this is your answer, then yes."
Mystletainn cut through his skin, just on the verge of breaking it and bleeding. Seliph knew, crushed between the wall and Ares looming over him, that it would be quite easy for the blonde to murder him on the spot. There were a myriad of ways to death. There were so many risks he was taking. Ares was stronger than him, both at sword and physical activity. He was at least half a foot taller, shoulders wider and more muscle built into the body of a mercenary. He himself was far from fragile, but it would take more to resist than Ares had to take to kill.
It would take almost no effort for the knight to choke him with his hands, blocking the supply of air from reaching his lungs. Ares could cut through his gut and leave him be until he bled to death, unable to call for help, leaning on the wall until he drew his last breath. The man could pierce his neck, or perhaps snap it in half. He could break his spine, take his life like it was nothing.
But Seliph had faith, stupid and careless faith, in Ares. He only took a shaking breath as he put one hand on his own sword.
"You sure seem calm for someone who knows that they could easily die."
"I believe in you, that's all."
"...You truly are too naive."
The dark blade dug deeper into his pale skin, and Seliph could feel the heat pooling out of the wound, flowing against his collarbone and towards his chest. It was a thin line, too thin to even be considered an injury, but the crimson seemed to seep out of it nevertheless. Seliph shivered, but did not falter.
Ares had thought that Seliph was fragile, at least at first glance. Pale skin and blue eyes that knew nothing of darkness reminded him of the sole fact that the boy was indeed his reason of living, his target of revenge. He had assumed from the very start that the leader of the liberation army must have been raised in some fancy house or sorts, never even having a chance to see death or pain of the people, especially people like Ares. His frame was too small and fragile for one who was leading an army, arms too lean to carry more than a sword, he could never imagine an axe in those hands. The boy smiled and Ares had thought it was stupid. Idiotic. What kind of person, let alone a leader, would smile in the midst of war, standing on a pile of corpses?
Yet Seliph was none of what he had originally thought, kept for the fact that he truly was naive and disgustingly kind, even to the people willingly trying to murder him. He was nothing but strong, sword slashing with swift movements, lack of strength somehow covered by his speed or skill, lean muscle being just the right way to dodge. He yearned for good but wished brutal ends to the ones he considered a danger to his people. And by his people, it meant any being who was willing to be at his side, no matter the heritage or combatual potential. Ares had realized, watching him from the corners and lurking around the shadows, that Seliph had built a tendency to accept. Accept sadness, grief, loss. Accept others and even the ones whom he barely knew, accept ones that he considered allies, accept every living being under his broken and burnt wings.
Acceptance and patience were Seliph's strengths, and Ares hated every point about it.
Seliph had never replied to his hatred with violence. He suffered in a way that failed to satisfy his anger. The blood boiling in his veins called for more and yes, Seliph gave more, but not enough. Never enough. Melancholy was the most he could figure in that face, but never did he see what he had imagined for decades of his life. It was hard to believe the blue haired, blue eyed boy was the enemy of his father, and that fact made his fury burn, enveloping him and driving him to the edge.
The azure hue of his ponytail swaying along the winds of a wasteland were like calm tides of the ocean, eyes that pierced through heart and discovered what the world had been suffering quietly from seemed to reflect the sky like glass beads. The purity of everything, from the white gloves without a stain to that hairband always neatly tied to cover his forehead, was agonizing to look at. An eyesore to put it at least. He had expected more than a boy who looked like a pile of snow, more than the steady flow of the river.
He had expected bloodshed. He had expected a brawl, ending up with bruises and cuts all over. He had expected none other than a match between the reflection of each's fathers. He had expected victory, a successful avenge. Though Seliph let him burn, let him growl and hunt, but he never let him win. He never fought back yet he would never let him win. Seliph only waited for the fire to calm down, as if he trusted the very man who was about to murder him. As if he knew it would pass and Ares would lose whatever drew him close to insanity soon enough.
"I don't like you"
"I know."
"I could kill you here."
"But you won't. You had plenty of chances to, yet you never did."
Ares' frown only deepened, brows furrowing in irritation. Seliph was good at words-Ares repeated to himself always, that it was yet another evidence that he had lived such a peaceful life to have learned all that fancy talk- and the black knight was not. After tens of attempts of murder had Ares realized how the boy worked. He would first let Ares point Mystletainn at him and would close his mouth shut as if not to disturb anything. When he thought it was almost over, he would convince Ares from chaos to calm, like a tamer controlling a feral lion.
It was sickening to think the Seliph thought him as a lion, some rabid beast more than a human. He despised how he seemed to loom upon all in the army, wandering the highest places yet acting to be noble and fair. A part of him knew all of that modesty was sincere but his madness and hatred refused to believe it.
Was he kind? No, Ares would never doubt his mother's saying, he was an enemy. Was he innocent? Ares could never afford to let doubt erase his reason of life. Was he sincere? But he would never— And yet, was he? No, he could never afford to— but was he? Was he an illusion? Had he been chasing an illusion made from war and misunderstandings for all of his waste of a life? No, never, it could never be, and yet, what if? Then what would he become of? What had he become of?
Answers were left in the past, too long ago to reach and shambled in the mix of dirt and ash and dust all over. There was no straight answer, no fact credible enough to stop him from spiraling down into wild vengeance.
Thinking was never his virtue. Action was.
There was much Ares wanted, usually. Yet in blind rage, he forgets all the time. Forgets what he truly wants, instincts screaming for something, something. But what? He doesn't know what. There is a why, but not a what, or a how. All he's ever known is the urge thrust his sword into the neck of that blue haired, chirpy, irritating boy. All he's ever known is violence. Hatred. Vengeance. Bitterness. That was all that made Ares.
Ares pulled away his sword violently, and the place his sword had once been was left with a nasty, red gash. Seliph calmly covered the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding as if this was nothing. As if Ares had not dumped his life's worth of wrath on to him. The blonde couldn't but frown, brows furrowing before he pushed Seliph towards the wall harshly, and walked away.
"Good night!"
He could hear Seliph from behind. Ares didn't bother to look back as he left the place, disgruntled.
-
The next morning Seliph appeared with a bandage around his neck.
Not one asked why. Seliph never told them why.
Ares growled at him in irritation and left before he could tell him good morning because no, he never had a good morning before and he will never have one until he gets what he wants out of Seliph.
-
There were times when Seliph preferred to be alone.
He was never one to like isolation, but there were times when the serene stillness brought him solace. As much as he craved the warmth of touch, he craved peace. He craved that freedom he felt at last when he was away. Away from the people, away from the burden, away from the constant waves of the sea trying to swallow him whole. When he runs away he finally feels free, feels alive and human and yet, it never lasts long.
Some days he wonders if being a savior means losing what makes him humane. Most days he falls asleep afraid, the fear of failure heavy on his shoulders. Everyday he rises from bed only to feel utterly empty. Vacant, as if he has become a void.
People look up to him as if they are looking up at a god. And those times are the times Seliph realizes that worship is only another way of violence and dehumanization, sugar-coated to look like admiration and beauty. Humans aren't meant to be gods. He knows that more than anyone else. He can feel himself cracking, his wings clipped to ensure he won't ever run away, trapped in a loophole without an end. He is not different from the others. He is inferior, but never is he superior. What pains him the most is when people bow at him, as if they are facing a holy being.
As much as it was horrifying, Seliph had come to accept the world and his fate as it is. His love will never be his. People who trust him will never be his. Faith and affection towards him is never towards the boy Seliph is, only towards what 'Seliph Blados Chalphy' is. The scion of light, savior of the people, leader of the liberation army. That is all that the people see. All that they need.
He looks down. A barrier of cloud and fog that cannot be passed seems to be always in between his people and himself. High above the sky he stays with a will not his, worshiped and praised for what he is not. The temptation to fall is enticing. The yearning of heart, the calling of voices in his head for someone to pull him down and ground him where the people are, those burning aches linger forever and ever.
Another night after night, it continues without cease. Bruises on his arms and scars from battle are barely painful, what troubles him most and holds him back from sleep are those thoughts of regret and anxiety. He wonders if he can run away from tomorrow if he doesn't sleep.
He grazes his fingertips over the broken skin of his neck, dried blood crusted on the edges. It has been some time since Ares had joined the army, and those fierce, angered eyes had never once seemed at ease. Seliph was getting used to having that dark, bloodied sword up against his neck.
These were one of those nights he craved solitude. He could still feel the sting of that rather deep cut, yet what made him nauseated the most must be the hatred in Ares' eyes.
Seliph had never asked to be savior. Yet he was born into the world and it seems as if the gods had already chosen his fate.
It is what it is, people have always said.
But Seliph never wished things to be this way.
As a child, he had always wondered why. Why he had to be the reflection of a father he couldn't even remember. He had wanted answers. Shanan would lure him to sleep and when he thought Seliph was asleep, he would whisper the name of the mother he forgot the warmth of so long ago. Oifey would tell him tales of the Holy Knight with great melancholy apparent on his face, and when he looked into Seliph's eyes, he was sure that Oifey wasn't looking at him, but something behind him. He had asked himself several times, and it took less than it should have for a young boy to realize that people will forever praise him, not because he was who he was, but because they saw an illusion overlapping him. An illusion of a hero, a mentor, a lord, whatever his father meant and whomever he was, that illusion would forever haunt him. And Seliph would never be able to do anything about it, and he would never think to do anything about it, all for the better good.
What he had longed for was simple, a family just like the others. A life as a common man, surrounded by people whom he could call parents and companions he could treat as friends. It must have been ironic for some people to watch him as he yearned for nothing more than to be equal when his blood said otherwise. The thought of being treated as just a mere child was perhaps, too much for someone who was expected to be the inheritor of a parentage he could barely recall.
These nights, alone and begging to be left alone, he would close his eyes shut and try to recall what those calloused hands of his father's felt like, only to draw a blank in his memory. He would stare into nothingness in realization that he will forever be an illusion of an already deceased hero whom everyone remembers except him.
His blue, long and silky hair. His deep blue eyes. His face. His swordsmanship. His personality, or what is barely left of it. All of those were from his heritage. Nothing he had was his own. It haunted him.
And Ares' eyes, full of rath, were sickening.
He had wished to be friends. He had wished for some kind of relationship that he can build without having the other call him a lord or a god. He had craved a friend, an equal being. He might have even wished for Ares to become one.
Yet everything in his life seems to be centered around his parents.
The blonde man despised him not for what he did but for what his father had apparently done. He, too, was never looking at Seliph as the human he was.
Seliph curled into himself, clawing at the dried blood on his skin, ignoring how it started bleeding again and stained his hair.
He wondered if there would ever be a day he would be something other than his father's son.
-
It felt as if his world was falling apart as Ares held that letter in his two tarnished hands.
All he's ever known of, all he's ever lived for was all for the wrong.
His mother's words ringing in his ears had haunted him for all his life. He had been wrong, falling to those bitter words. Hatred and wrath had blinded him. It always had. He had lived a life consisting of only violence, his coping method was revenge and only revenge. He lost sight of the world around him and lashed out at people who he shouldn't have, bitterness on his tongue and words like deadly venom spilling without a thought. He ran away from anything kind and good, like a rabid lion set loose.
The blood on his sword never felt so horrid.
Ares had seeked Seliph out the other day, a "I'm sorry" rolling on his tongue. He knew that an apology would do nothing to lift the guilt from his shoulders, yet it would keep him distracted from his mind's constant screams, scowling at him for being such an utter monstrosity. All those truths he had been ignoring and pushing away had to be met, and the crumbling walls of the room he locked himself in were weighing him down and crushing him to death.
It wasn't so long before he found Seliph, sitting near a river and staring into his reflection. He took a step closer but came to a halt as he watched Seliph take a grasp on some pebble and throw it at his reflection, face scrunched and annoyed.
Haphazardly thrown on bandages on his neck did a poor job of covering those scars Ares had made, not to mention what seemed like scratch marks of thin red and pink near it. He could see how his chest was heaving, rather rapidly falling down only to quickly rise with a messy intake of air, the rise and fall too much alike to the waves of a storm. No doubt a storm was let loose in that head.
Seliph started clawing at the rocks, breaking his gentle, lean hands and letting them bleed when he suddenly perked up and whipped his head towards Ares' direction, a hint of fear flashing before fading into that facade. He hastily covered his hands, clasping one on another and cradling them to his chest as he took a second to figure out what expression he should wear before finally putting on a nervous, tired smile.
"Seliph."
"Ares? Oh, um... What brings you here at such an ungodly hour? We have a battle up ahead, you should truly get some rest, and it is quite cold outside, it is not..."
Seliph was rambling. Ares' brows furrowed, barely listening to the context of the rambling but rather watching how Seliph held himself. He was not an observant person, not really, but he was enough to figure that Seliph must have been... afraid. Of what, he could not figure.
Seliph must have noticed the confusion on Ares' face. He stiffened and let out a soft oh, mouth agape slightly and startled at his own rambling. He was fiddling with his hands, still red and irritated.
Ares wondered if he had ever seen Seliph in terror. In fear. It wasn't long before he realized he had never truly tried to see inside what Seliph had. But he could see it now, just the posture and body movements reeking of fear and anxiety, eyes red rimmed and barely holding back tears, gazing right through Ares' soul. That pounding heart, thrumming in an uneven pace, knees threatening to give up.
And yet Seliph took a step closer, even when it was so obvious he wanted nothing but to run away and never be found alive, and held Ares's rough hands in his own, looking a tad bit surprised when Ares didn't bother to pull away just like he had done so many times before.
"Is something wrong? May I help you?"
Even in his darkest moments, Seliph was a saint. Ares could see the dim light in his eyes, and despite all, Seliph was willing to give.
Yet, Seliph too was human. Ares could see how Seliph yearned freedom, wanting to melt down into a puddle of nothingness with every twitching finger and every anxious inhale. He could see how the people had ravished the boy, how they cut into his skin to rob him of every organ and every ounce of his blood, tearing away his heart and placing it on a silver platter for all to feast on. He could see how the people took hold of those wings and snapped them until they could not be spread, clipped them until he couldn't even fly.
To where was truly Seliph, and from where was the vessel of a savior the people created, Ares could not tell.
"No, I was merely seeking you to apologize."
"Apologize?"
"I am truly sorry for my blinded hatred, I... My cousin, she handed me a letter from my father, claiming that my vengeance is in the wrong, and what I have thought was nothing but an illusion of that truth. I-"
Ares had meant to say more, he truly did, but Seliph took a step closer and pressed Ares' hands on his own chest, pulling him into an embrace. Despite being a few inches smaller, not to mention being leaner and having an overall smaller frame, it felt as if Ares was fully enveloped in that gentle blue.
It was warm and soft, calm like the quiet tides of night. He felt as if he was being lifted up from the deep sea and pushed by the tides to the shore. He couldn't help but melt into that touch, letting go of any thoughts that cursed him even in his sleep as he rose up, up towards the surface where he could finally, finally, breathe.
It was almost jarring how one could embody such serenity when having been in a mind's storm merely minutes ago. He could feel Seliph's arms around him, leading him into ataraxia, into tranquility. The placidity was welcoming, hushing his ghosts and pacifying his wrath towards himself. He could feel the forgiving comfort that Seliph offered.
"There is no need to apologize. This war has damaged so many people, has disrupted so much peace, has brought so much animosity to our world."
Ares let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. The tingling tenderness blooming in his chest, his hands hovered near Seliph’s back, hesitant and unsure whether he should hug back or not. The mellow hum was all it took for Ares to wrap his arms lightly over the other, letting the tides maneuver him to where he belongs.
"I have never once loathe you, I will never keep such a hurtful emotion such as hatred towards you. Sincerely, I wish to have amity with you."
He found himself reaching out for that heart on the silver platter as well. The temptation was natural, humans cannot resist their yearning for a conqueror, a bright light that can shine upon all. Even when Seliph's heart was already shredded to pieces, something about the way he held himself made Ares want to take, and without a thought he took.
By taking those broken pieces of the boy's own humanity, shards of what could have been a myriad of futures for him, remnants of what he once had been and never will be again, scraps and sticks and all of those fragments, people regained what was lost. Ares could feel that, too. The sensation of recollection, of healing and mending rejuvenating his ill soul.
And yet he couldn't help but wonder what would be left for Seliph after all this.
"In a world that has been far too tainted with corruption, I only wish for more beaut in people's hearts, is all."
And he couldn't help but wonder if that was what Seliph truly thought, or if that was merely another lesson engraved into his mind, making him think that cracking himself open and serving all he had for his people was something he had to do, something right.
When Seliph finally broke the embrace, stepping back into the dim moonlight, he had never felt so distant.
His own demons set aside, Ares took a step closer, closer to Seliph, closer to what had been Seliph. And yet the boy was far too isolated, thick walls in between the world and himself. A paradox it was, truly, how Seliph was just so close and yet so reserved, too remote to touch and connect.
Ares wondered if this was what felt like to love the star.
Seliph burned like a star, so bright and explosive, but far too distant from where the people were standing for them to see much more than the calm, for them to see the ash falling from the source of that vivid, blazing light. What they took for granted was what cost Seliph a lifetime worth, what they had thought was a given was in truth, a burning human sacrifice. Such ablaze, such radiance was lighting up the world in dazzling luminosity, and yet it impaired him from inside, eating him up until he was merely a shell of the star once brightly lit.
All Ares could touch as he reached out what crusted edges of what was once considered life.
"Seliph-"
"It is getting late. Shall we head to where the others are?"
As if his mouth was shut tight, Ares couldn't say any more.
He merely nodded, lips a thin line as he walked alongside Seliph, brushing against his arms with his own and yet never truly reaching that mind.
-
Get to know the people’s sorrow.
Your reality and theirs are still worlds apart.
If you can’t accomplish that, Seliph, then this whole war has been for nothing.
Those words kept ringing inside his head. Seliph wrapped his arms around himself, trying to calm the trembling down. His lips were red and bloody from biting down on them so much, an attempt to muffle his cries as he tried to lull himself to sleep. Yet, sleep did not come and he found himself clawing at his skin again, those voices haunting him.
All he's ever known of, all he's ever lived for was to avenge his parents and carry on their legacy.
All he's ever known of, all he's ever lived for was all for the wrong.
That was what he was told from a young age. He never learned how to live differently. What people thought as a rightful and fierce leader was just a marionette for fate to play with. He never knew what it is like to live for himself. Everything was for his parents, for his people, for his land. A heritage that he didn't even remember.
It was naive of him. He knew that. But he just yearned for one praise, one heartwarming, sincere praise from his parents when he saw their ghosts at the beach. That was all he needed, a simple 'well done, son', or even just an 'I love you'. That was all he needed to live. All he needed to want to live. And he would have been fine.
And yet what haunted him the most was his mother's face and his father's firm voice. Oh, how naive and childish he was to so cheerfully tell them that he had avenged his father's death. How idiotic and unacceptable he was to hope for them to smile for him. The pained, almost disgusted face of his mother as she asked where his half-siblings were, the firm voice of his father as he told him truth after truth as if what Seliph had done for them was all wrong... It all twisted into something horrible in his mind and he was unable to stop it.
Would he ever live up to his father's name? Would he ever be enough for them, for the world?
A corner in his mind was nagging him to find comfort, to find somewhere safe and secure where he can be protected. It was more instinct than a feeling, yet he forced himself to stay still, unmoving, not even daring to seek what little comfort he may find in his surroundings.
A god should never show its vulnerabilities. A savior should never falter. He does not deserve that comfort, for he is not meant to be human. He is what accepts, he is what gives. He does not reject, nor does he take. His words are not his own. He does not own a voice, nor does he own his soul. He is the vessel for people's sorrow, a giver to provide endless light.
Even if that light is nothing but a poor imitation of the gods.
He cried himself to sleep that night. The child in him dying and sobbing and just yearning for someone to love him as he is. What his father wanted of him was something he could never be. Something perfect, something so selfless. However, he had to try. He had to be that person no matter what because he has no choice over his life and that's just fine, truly, it is. His life was meant to be this way. If that is what the people want, that is what he should be.
That was the last time he had cried. No more tears were left. It was as if he was broken, but it was a sign that he was coming closer to what he should be. A savior never cries for himself. And he will be that savior if that is what he should do.
No one could ever tear him apart from the hollow. No one could ever pull him down to where the people belong, grounding him and becoming the anchor he needed. No one could ever be, and no one should ever be. He was meant to be this way.
He had no one to be his anchor, no one to pull him down and down until he can breathe.
He barely felt anything anymore. He gave himself to the void, and it swallowed him whole.
-
"Seliph. Just tell me what's wrong."
"You need not worry, Ares. I am fine."
His hands grasping Seliph’s arms, all Ares could see was those eyes much like a chasm. Seliph seemed to have long accepted the futility of his own humanity, and the sole fact was enough to torment him. His hands were not truly touching this figure in front of him. It was more of a vessel than it was human.
"Seliph. Please."
To the devastated and utterly dolorous plea, Seliph only replied with a smile. Ares couldn't read what was behind that expression.
"You need not worry."
Seliph had simply said before walking away, back to his people, back to where he wasn't what he truly is. It was as if a weight had come crushing down on him.
-
Light shone through the murky clouds, bestowing warmth upon the land of humans.
War had progressed. People had been slain, bloodshed had happened, and there was blood on their hands. There was always blood on their hands. Ares wouldn't be surprised to find his hands dyed to a vivid red someday from all those sins and crimes war brought with it. And yet, all had come to an end, and there seemed to be hope.
Ares had stood from a distance as Seliph gazed upon the body that once belonged to his own flesh and blood, his half-brother whom he never had the chance to get to know. Horror must have haunted the boy from what he had done and what he had become. Seliph had turned around from the body, face sorrow and so utterly blank. His people cheered for victory, yet Ares could see how Seliph lost himself to a void. He had realized why only after returning to Agustria after the so-called holy war had ended.
People in Agustria, people whom he didn't even recognize, had cheered for him, praised him, worshiped him, even. They saw his father's youth inside him, that blaze of courage and strength dwelling deep inside his tainted heart. In reality, Ares had thought he was none of what his people claimed, his hands were indeed tainted in the worst ways possible, having lived a life so far away from what is adequate for a leader, let alone king.
He didn't even know what kind of idiotic wealthy people courtesies he had to keep in mind while drinking wine in front of other people with their pointless, pathetic little houses and names. Alcohol is alcohol and if they were all going to be drunk, he didn't get the point of why he needed to make a good impression. Yet, he had too. He wasn't his own person anymore, he was much more. He was the face and front of his land itself, the reflection of his people. It was overwhelming at least, unbearable if honest. He could only imagine how painful it must be to have grown up being expected to be like this, shoved into a mold not quite yours.
It had dawned upon himself that he had lived his life in vain ever since reading that letter, words and sentences proving who was innocent and who was not. Maybe it was quite too late for him to bond with Seliph, too late for him to tell him that he understood what it felt.
Only now on the throne he realized what connection he could have made with Seliph if he had reached out as Ares, and not Eldigan's son. He had played ignorant on how vacant and hollow Seliph always looked, turning a blind eye on him. Resentment, it might be, bloomed in his chest whenever he thought about it. It would be nice to talk about this to someone who could relate with him.
Legacy is powerful. It pushes people away as much as it pulls people together. Like the tangled web it is, the ones trapped inside it may seem free, but will never be. Their decisions will be in vain, their fate will be chosen from birth. Every aspect of their life will be of someone else's, and they will never have something of their own. They did not choose to be born into war, a war induced by a generation above. Yet they are forced to comply and throw themselves into battle after battle, ignorant of the reason why. In such a meaningless war, sometimes foes are not foes of the present, but merely people seperated from one in the past.
It was cruel. Heritage and blood had chosen their paths. It tore people apart.
Ares had seen Seliph on several occasions after the war met its end, no longer as sons of Eldigan and Sigurd, but as kings of Agustria and Grannvale respectively. Seliph was no longer the person he knew. That person, or what was left of it when he first saw Seliph, was mostly erased and replaced with someone else. Something else.
And his people seemed delightful of it.
The world met peace. Ares also, met in terms with himself and his terrible anger management skills. No more thrusting his swords against someone's neck and threatening them for revenge. No more nights of nightmares, ghosts haunting him and calling him in pain.
No more darkness. And yet, he often found himself wondering as he watched Seliph wave to the common folk who worshiped him like a god, if there truly was no darkness left. That void inside Seliph's eyes spoke otherwise. Then again, what was one man's sorrow compared to a world's worth of grief?
Genealogy had chosen Seliph as a human sacrifice, forcing him to be what a human is not meant to be. Seliph knew, and Ares came to know too, that there is no choice than to accept it. Regret was meaningless. Ares had tried to reach out to Seliph several times ever since he untied that messy past of their families. And yet, it was truly too late for him to reach someone who had given himself into the vacancy. Seliph was too far away to touch.
Connections are, sometimes, more than a bond of the present, but a trail from the past. And that trail robbed people of their lives and humanity, without a way to run away. Dread bloomed inside Ares.
It is what it is. Ares knew that. There was nothing he could do.