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Appearances can be deceiving. For example, on the outside, one may see a violent lion, while on the inside, there is simply a shaking kitten. On the outside, one may see a calm, collected, well-kept man who sips occasionally on the venue-provided wine; swirling it around his glass in boredom. On the inside, his mind is racing, his eyes scanning the crowd and glancing back down to the list of goods. His knee bouncing as each item is sold off in a painstakingly long manner. Couldn’t they just get to what was important? What everyone was truly here for? Of course they couldn’t, you have to save the best things for last.
Sylus watched as other guests whispered to one another, sharing rumors about the ancient writing that everyone was anticipating. They would lazily raise their paddles to pass the time, betting on a much less interesting artifact. A protocore here, a painting there, all while mumbling to their friends about the bits of this writing that had been released to the public. Hushed voices muttering about the beauty, the romance of the words. His beloved’s words. His. No one else’s. They didn’t deserve to read her literature, didn’t deserve to even attempt to translate their language. They didn’t watch from far away when she scribbled in a notebook. They didn’t know how her hands would smell of ink when she touched his face. They didn’t know anything and they never should.
Sylus’ grip on the list had tightened unconsciously to the point that his nails pierced through the paper. It had practically crumpled in on itself, his chest heaving as thoughts spun out of control. The masked twins beside him glanced at one another before leaning in slightly and whispering,
“Boss? Are you alright?”
Sylus snapped out of his haze, clearing his throat and taking another sip of wine. The twins righted themselves and nodded, knowing to leave well enough alone. They knew better than anyone in here that hell was about to break loose the minute the poem was brought out. There was a high probability that it would end in bloodshed, considering how important this was to their boss; then again, there was always a possibility things could end in bloodshed with Sylus.
After what felt like hours of waiting, the auctioneer finally grinned and leaned toward the microphone,
“Now, ladies and gentlemen is the product that I have a feeling the majority of you are here to see. The antique poem is thought to have been preserved all the way from Philos,” guests leaned forward, their interests piqued, “Very few of these pages have been found, and even fewer have been translated from their original language. However, from what we can tell, these poems seem to be the story of beauty, tragic romance, the tale literally as old as time.” The man chuckled to himself, resting his weight on his hands placed on the edges of the podium, “Your faces tell me that many of you are already interested. Since these are so rare, I expect that there will be quite the competition, though we must ask that you all maintain your composure. Now, let’s start the bidding at fifteen million.”
Paddles raised instantly, calling out higher numbers on top of each other. Sylus crossed his legs and let his head rest against the back of his booth, his fingers turning the paddle over in his hand. He’d let them have their fun, wait until the cost had gone up before chiming in.
“Fifty million from one forty-three, do I hear sixty? Sixty million anyone?”
Guests continue to holler out their bids, waving their paddles impatiently. The auctioneer spoke a million miles a minute, pointing to each guest as he acknowledged the prices. Sylus remained silent until the bids had risen into the hundred millions.
“One hundred and seventy million from Mr. Abrams, we are getting up there, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?”
Sylus raised his paddle, “Two hundred million.” His voice boomed above the others, a few turning to look at the unfamiliar vote.
“ Two hundred million! From Mr…” the auctioneer moved to spot him through the sea of heads, taking the microphone with him, “Mr. Sylus! Such an honor to have you here, sir! Two hundred million from Mr. Sylus, do I hear two hundred and ten? Two-ten, anyone?”
A paddle was raised. So, they wanted to keep fighting? Bold move. The bidding continued, raising to two hundred and thirty million before Sylus spoke once more.
“Three hundred million.”
The auctioneer practically laughed, “Three- three hundred million from Mr. Sylus! Another decent raise! Do I hear three-ten?”
Another paddle raised, “Three-fifty million,” the voice chimed out.
“Three hundred and fifty from this fine lady! Do I hear-”
The man didn’t get the chance to finish before Sylus cut in, “Four hundred million.” The woman who had placed the previous bet, turned from her seat to glare at Sylus, earning a smirk in response.
“Four hundred million! The heat is cranking up here! Do I hear four hundred and fifty million?” The man strolled to the edge of the auction block, grinning as he spoke.
A paddle raised.
“Four hundred and fifty million from Mr. Abrams! Do I hear five hundred?” At this rate, it would take an hour to get the poetry. All Sylus wanted was something to remember her by, anything from his past life to cling onto while he searched for his beloved. Something to keep him sane in the meantime. He’d indulged them for long enough and now his patience was wearing thin. Sylus raised his paddle once more.
“One billion.”
More guests turned their heads, whispering to themselves as to why the leader of Onychinus would want a piece of poetry so bad. The auctioneer clapped dramatically, trying to excite the room, even though he had asked for the opposite moments prior. “One billion! Now that is an offer of the century. It’s going to be hard to top that, folks.”
“One point two billion.” The man from earlier–Mr. Abrams–raised his paddle, eyeing Sylus as he did so.
Oh, so that’s how you want to play. Sylus held his paddle up before the auctioneer could even point to Abrams, “One point five.”
“One point seven.”
“Two billion.”
“Three.”
The auctioneer chuckled wearily to himself, “Gentlemen, please, wait a moment for me to-”
“Ten billion.” Sylus carefully put his gun on the table, pointing the barrel in Abrams as he crossed his arms. His right eye glowed with such intensity that it made Abrams shiver on the spot as if Sylus could kill him with a mere stare. He probably could. The twins unsheathed their weapons, a silent warning, and had the man closing his mouth before he could voice another offer. It was time to shut up. Mr. Abrams turned back to face the auctioneer, placing his paddle down with a hmph! His wife muttered something bitterly to him.
The auctioneer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in, “Ten billion from Mr. Sylus! Do I hear any higher offers? Anyone? Ten billion, going once, going twice? Sold to Mr. Sylus for ten billion! Congratulations, my good sir!”
He continued moving on with the next item, but Sylus couldn't care less; he had gotten what he came here for. He rose, taking the last swig of his wine and placing his gun back into its holster. With a flick of his hand, the twins stepped back, allowing Sylus to walk towards the backstage area. A few guests stood to block his path, turning to him with pleading gazes.
“Mr. Sylus, surely I can offer you a much better deal to take the poem off your hands. I could even pay you back the ten billion you lost!” A man stepped forward, his hands clamped together as he spoke.
A woman beside him scoffed, “ Please! You don’t even have half that amount,” she stepped towards Sylus, purposefully bumping her shoulder against the man’s before caressing the Onychinus leader’s arm, “I can give you money and a good time.”
Sylus grimaced in disgust, pulling his arm away as another guest behind him chimed in, “I’ll give you my first-born daughter! A-and any valuables you want!”
“I’ll give you my daughter and my wife!” a voice spoke from somewhere in the crowd, quickly followed by a slap and a woman yelling in a foreign language.
The first woman tugged at his sleeve again, “Mr. Sylus, please! Just reconsider and I’ll make it worth your time!”
Sylus pulled his arm away for a second time and glared at the crowd surrounding him, a red mist pushed through the mob, forcing them to make a path for him. “You’re all pathetic, you sit here and let people piss on you without even the courtesy of calling it rain,” he strode through the swarm of guests that were still whispering offers to him, the twins following close behind him. The auctioneer seemed to be frozen in awe, unsure of how to proceed with the event. When Sylus reached the curtain that separated the backstage from the rest of the room, he turned to his henchmen, “Make sure they don’t disturb us,” and with that, he disappeared behind the fabric.
The auctioneer let out a nervous chuckle, “Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats so we may continue with our schedule,” disappointed mumbles filling the silence as they complied.
Behind the curtain, Sylus had been led to a private sitting room, where he awaited for the staff member to bring him his winnings. The flickering glow from the chandelier cast warmth through the room, hugging him in a mellow embrace. He crossed his legs, tapping his foot impatiently against the carpet. He could be wrong, the poem may not be what he thought they were. It could all be just a coincidence, every ounce of his past life was truly lost to a wind he would never feel again. Sylus grit his teeth and glared down at the rug, thoughts racing.
A knock on the door interrupted his pondering, the woman that had escorted him stepped back into the room with a smile, “Your purchase, sir.” She handed him a leather binder with gloved hands and stepped back against the wall.
He waved a dismissive hand at her. She bowed, seemingly disappointed, “We thank you for your appearance,” and with that, he was left alone. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, opening the binder with a shaky hand. A yellowed and faintly crinkled paper sat in a sheet protector. With careful fingers, Sylus pulled the paper from its film, rubbing his thumb over the familiar texture. He had recognized the handwriting immediately–it had been ingrained in his memory for as long as he could remember–the poem was exactly what he had hoped it was: one written by his beloved. Biting his lower lip, he read her scrawls,
It’s been years, and yet I still couldn’t explain the ache, from what I was, my very essence. It was painful to contain it.
It hurts so damn much, going through days knowing what fools I am surrounded by. They don’t know anything yet, born with silver spoons in their mouths, not a gem in their eyes.
I wished to be like them. Ignorance is bliss to the things I’ve seen, letting them take more–all they think they need.
Yet his voice, a devil’s call, to grow back my claws, to be the one he fell in love with, to be the one I am, the one I unforgivably was.
I knew that call. I knew that need–the need that claws inside of mine–to let the world be filled with traitors’ screams.
Killing what was mine, forcing my hands into the fire of unbeknownst burning in his chest.
I hated him, loathed him for it, for he knew who I was–a beast, a creature within that wanted their blood, wanted to dance on their graves for all the wrongs they have done.
Something in my mind telling me he was, he is mine, and mine alone. He belongs. I belong to no one but us, and the spirits of our own, souls of the same kind.
They banished and looked away, laughed and smiled, celebrated the unbecoming of something that was mine and mine alone.
Soon enough they will know. They will find what they have done, through my everlasting boiling blood.
I cannot blame him for what he did, for it is as well the doing of mine.
Sylus stared at the paper, biting his lip harder, blinking rapidly to banish the tears threatening to spill. He took another breath, cleared his throat, and looked down at the initials that sat at the bottom of the page. Your initials. Because it was always you, and it will only ever be. The only one he would spend billions on to read a few lines of poetry.
Sylus gripped the paper tighter as if it would disintegrate in his very fingers, the same way he once had, lifetimes ago on another world. He gazed up into the flickering light of the chandelier; his mind had been made up the moment the fragments of his soul had blown through that breeze so long ago. He was going to find you, no matter how long it took. He would wait centuries, traverse hellscapes, die as many times as he needed to, to find his way back into the arms of his beloved.