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In life Pariah had often been drawn more to literature than the others of his home. Even when young, when children his age had concerned themselves only with games of war, Pariah had found value in knowledge.
It wasn’t much. In those days, long forgotten, it was uncommon for one to know how to read and rare for anyone of any status to come across a tome not primarily concerned with religion or ritual.
Still, Pariah read what he could and while he enjoyed games of war, more and more so as he grew older and his games grew increasingly dire, he held in his mind one fundamental truth—
Knowledge is power.
Missives on the battlefield could turn the tide of a campaign. Letters carrying state secrets could be bargained at war tables. Notes passed between royal maids and attendants could reveal information deadlier than any blade.
To know something was to know how to unravel it, to conquer it, to see it brought to heel.
To know a person was to command them, to trap them, and to hold them so tightly in the hand that they could never hope to escape.
Yes, the young and living Pariah used his ability to read, to study strategy, and horde secrets to his advantage, combining brute force with a decisiveness gained only through carefully cultivated intelligence.
This did not change upon his death.
As a ghost he sought to conquer the Infinite Realms and bring the Ghost Zone under a singular rule.
But the Ghost Zone, as fickle as she was, had known he was lacking something, someone.
Turning over in their large bed, Pariah nestled close to his bonded, pulling Draco to his chest. His form, impressive and imposing, seemed to engulf Draco. As he wrapped his arms around his mate, tucking his legs up to draw Draco to the center of him, Pariah pressed a kiss to his mate’s head.
His time locked away had taught him a lesson he had forgotten, but the Zone— she was far wiser than he would ever be and so she let him learn in the most productive way one can come to truly know things, through pain and patience.
Power without knowledge was destructive, imprecise.
Like a dulled blade, power without knowledge damaged more than it intended, hacked and sawed. It left messy wounds, ragged edges and terrible scars.
To work with a dulled blade was to risk injury unnecessarily. It invited mistakes.
Any good wood carver knew this well. Any good warrior had learned such lessons the hard way,
And he had let himself be dulled. Greif, anger, more fear than he would ever admit, and the call of the artifacts now worn by Phantom and Plasmius; all of it had dulled him.
He was the Ancient of Power, an impressive title, but power meant nothing if you didn’t know how to use it.
Pariah had spent too long as a blunt instrument, a raging, destructive thing.
But then Draconis was returned to him. After millennia of waiting, Pariah's mate had been in his arms once more and, like a knife pressed to a whetstone, he had felt himself sharpen and draw into focus.
Many ghosts, such as the Observants, did not understand what Pariah saw in Draco, after all the young prince was weak, often sickly, and part human. What would one of the Zone’s strongest entities want with someone like that?
But Pariah was not blinded by such paltry things as differences in physical strength, not when he knew the truth.
The Zone loved pairings, it had a great appreciation for not only couples, but the concept of balance, of complementary individuals.
Pariah should have seen it sooner.
There was a time when he had worried his little mate would die, his ghost moving on to whatever truly came next. But how could Draco have ever been anything other than an Ancient?
After all, Pariah was the Ancient of Power and knowledge was power. Their very existences predicted and created one another, even centuries apart in both life and death.
Draco, that tiny halfa in his arms, he was Pariah.
The Ancient of Knowledge whom Power himself curled about, whom Power himself bent to, worshiped, protected — he was Pariah, his very center, his very Heart.
And Pariah was no longer a dulled blade, no longer a blunt instrument. No, with Knowledge with him, Pariah could look forward to eternity assured of his abilities.
With Knowledge beside him Pariah knew his power was more than brutality, than blood and ectoplasm, but rather a source of both strength and inspiration that could be used for the betterment as others. He could help the Infinite Realms, just as he had originally planned to.
He was whole.
Power shifted a hand from Knowledge’s waist to brush a strand of his inky hair back, cupping his cheek gently. Did Draco know that he was the very marrow Pariah had carried in his bones while he was alive? Did he know he had been there all along even before they had met and even while they were apart? Draco had not needed to be born to mark Pariah, to claim him.
Soft lavender eyes opened, looking at him with the half focus of sleep, “Mm, what’s wrong, Dark?” Draco mumbled, leaning into his touch in a way that warmed Pariah’s core.
How was it that so many feared him but Draco could wake like this, pressed so close to him, face held by his large hand and dangerous claws and let his eyes flutter closed again?
Warmth ghosted over his palm as Draco pressed his lips to his hand, a barely there touch. Sleep would steal him away soon.
“Nothing, magpie,” Pariah reassured, “dinnae worry yourself.”
Draco smiled, “just looking at me?”
“Always, anwyl,” and Ancients wasn’t that the truth. Pariah would trade all the treasures of the Keep just to have a single night such as the one they shared now, a night where he could simply lay and watch Draco sleep. How many times had he pleaded with any god who might listen for a pleasure as simple as this?
Draco shifted closer to him, placed his hand over Pariah’s chest, just above his core, “Big softie.”
And there was no denying such a truthful statement. He placed a kiss to Draco’s forehead, saying nothing but confirming his bonded’s words all the same.
For a moment he listened to the thrumming of Draco’s core, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed softly, sinking back into near sleep. Then, from somewhere deep in his memories a song rose to the surface of his mind. It was something from his days among the living, a rare glimpse into a past his death and the march of time had stolen from him. Pariah could not recall if it was a lullaby or a battle hymn, a melody for children or for warriors, but he didn’t mind.
He let the song come, let himself hum it low and quiet. The sound rumbled out from low in his chest, almost a purr and far deeper than even his normally deep voice sounded.
And there, in the midst of song, Draco’s voice joined his and Pariah had thought his mate had slipped off to sleep, but there he was humming in time and he couldn’t have known the song, yet he matched it perfectly.
The melody was one that should have been long forgotten, nonexistent by the time Darconis was born, and yet Pariah knew even with his muddied memories that Draco hummed each note perfectly.
Knowledge had always been there, even in those days before death. Pariah wondered if he had ever felt Draco’s presence with and within him while he had been alive, felt that tug towards his destiny. Had he sung the song he hummed now back then and wondered why his voice sounded as if it needed a partner? Had he known then that he was meant to be a duet?
He couldn’t remember.
But it mattered not.