Chapter Text
The walls have always been an oppressive force to its unwilling inhabitants.
Yet, now face to face with Apo… the traitor… part of the worst species… his best friend. The walls have never seemed more secondary. They fade into the background of Owen’s consciousness as he stares at his best frie- at the enemy- at Apo….
( There is fire all around him… he shoots a demon from afar… he calls to his men, his army full of boys, and watches as they charge forward. )
…He looks skinnier. There are bags under his shaking eyes. And despite everything in Owen’s mind telling him to attack- he can’t bring himself to. He takes a step, stumbling forward, until he falls to the ground at Apo’s feet…
( His father’s words dig into his head, “How dare you even ponder the idea of being anything but a soldier. Don’t you know how hard I’ve worked for this? How much I’ve sacrificed for you?” )
…Owen attempts to look up at them, but the sudden influx of memories brings about a nausea that impacts all of his movement. His eyes droop, he thinks Apo leans down to help him, maybe to comfort? To make sure he’s okay?
Why? Why is he helping me? Why would a selfish, gruesome, terrible beast like them help a human, a general nonetheless? Is it a trick? Some ploy to re-earn the trust of the other clearing members? These thoughts rush through Owen’s head. The speed of which surges panic and another wave of nausea through him.
But he won’t give up so easily, after all, Owen is a warrior. A protector.
I can’t let them trick the others. I can’t let them use me, to bring about harm. He thinks about Magic, and her trusting naivety. Of Graecie’s unwavering unconditional forgiveness. Of Oeca’s childlike mischievousness that shouldn’t end so soon. Of Bekyamon and her attempts at redemption. Of Soup’s instinct to help and heal others. I refuse to let a demon into the clearing and take advantage of their innocence, of their kindness. I won’t let their journeys end so soon.
So, despite the pain in his head, and the nausea pooling it’s way to the forefront of his vision, he stands.
( …. His leg has been hurt, stabbed through with a pike, and a burly voice stands above him, “Get up boy. How do you expect to fight if you can’t even handle this?” )
Apo, who must’ve been knelt down next to him, stands along with him, stabilizes him as he rises on shaky limbs. “---==--==? --===-----====?” Apo says something, but Owen can’t hear him. Doesn’t matter anyway, Owen doesn’t want to hear what he has to say.
( He scans the battlefield. Watches as demons, both big and small, adult and child, are brutally murdered. He sees their blood stain the fields, their homes, yet he doesn’t hear a thing. No screams seem to reach him, for he’s already heard them all. )
His trusty pike had never left his hand, even with the tumble he took he instinctively held on. It’s almost funny how used to hate the idea of being a soldier so much, and now, he rarely finds himself without a weapon.
“--wen? are–===-alr==-? =it down=--.” Apo keeps trying to talk to Owen, no matter how annoying he finds it, at least he’s getting his senses back.
Owen looks Apo in the ideas, sees all of the worry, fear, and something else that hides within them. A surge of determination fuels him letting him lift his pike threateningly. He watches as Apo’s eyes widen further, then narrow in… disbelief? Like he couldn’t imagine what Owen is threatening to do? …Or that Owen is the one to do it?
( The princess takes the stage. She walks into the light, prepared to lead demon-kind to a bright future, prepared to leave Owen in the dust. Forgotten. )
Apo takes a step back, never taking his disbelieving gaze off of Owen and his sharp weapon. He looks about ready to run.
But Owen raises his weapon higher, positions one foot slightly behind the other, ready to throw… and then suddenly feels himself falling backwards…
( Will anybody remember him? Remember what he fought for all of his life? Will his village feel avenged? …Will his father be proud? )
…And the world fades to black.