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They should have known it wasn't going to be an easy day when the organ stopped belting out music. The Hamelyn Piper was a busy individual, everyone knew, if the last few decades proved anything at all, and it was more-or-less public knowledge that that he chose to spend time unwinding by playing the organ. But that was not as interesting as taking turns interpreting the tyrant's mood based on how he played his instrument on the basis.
Smooth, continuous rhythm gliding into a religious crescendo was frequently expected; an indicator of the king's focus, though not necessarily his mood, they discussed. Heavy, plunky jabs with long intervals building and then veering off track, followed by the urgent, discordant slamming of the keys, however, were far more telling. Of course, there were days of utter silence. Grace periods. Tuning surveillance.
"The music today was so off, wasn't it?" Barver remarked as he nibbled on a bit of bread handed to him by Wren. Around them, rolling green fields brushed their feet, puddles as blue as the skies and the sun a piercing white flare.
"I wouldn't know," Patch shrugged, patting a few stray grass off his clothes. "It sounds awful as the music these past few days, if you ask me. Maybe he'll make an announcement later declaring something new to ban."
"Hah!" The dracogriff snorted, then shook his head, "Actually, I hope not. He's got his hands all over so many important things already."
"It sounds like someone kept disturbing his playing or something. The start was fine, but he kept trying to restart the song after that," Wren dismissed, her hand inching into the shared food basket. A few more stolen bites wouldn't hurt.
Just in time for Patch to catch her.
"You had your fill already, Wren! And I saw you forking over your food to Barver."
"Sharing is caring! And, oh please, I need the energy to practice shapeshifting," she tried to tug the footlong sandwich towards her, but the boy did not relent, clamping his teeth.
"The tomatoes are slipping out from the side! You're going to make a mess!" Barver tutted. She squinted, letting go, only for a layer of sliced vegetables to slide into a soggy splat on the picnic cloth.
"Gross." Wren picked it up, shoving it into her mouth. She chewed nonchalantly as Patch struggled to rearrange the sandwich into its initial compact form. He glared at her.
"You should have asked Tobias to pack extras. I told you this specifically before we left."
"And I didn't because you packed extras yourself anyway. Am I right?" Wren asked, eyeing the open basket.
"Well-! I! I certainly did, but they were not all meant only for your consumption, Wren." Patch glanced at Barver.
"Why are you looking at me? I had two bites and suddenly I'm the reason we need extra lunches? Not the person in front of us who can conveniently turn into a rat?" the creature grumbled. Wren giggled into her hand.
"I...didn't mean it that way." With an awkward twitch, the boy averted his gaze, shooting Wren a look instead. He packed the sandwich back into the basket. They had been here for barely half a day and all that was left in the cargo were honey biscuits and dried berry clusters.
"It's good that you're saving the rest of the food. Crumbs will be attract animals for practice," Wren yawned, stretching her arms.
The afternoon sun was warmer than expected, and Patch couldn't blame her. A pleasant, drowsy feeling crept onto them, though napping after meals was a procedure he did not previously indulge in during his earlier Tiviscan days. He eased his back against Barver, who shielded them both from the sun's glare with a folded wing.
"No, it's fine, you don't have to keep it up," he told the dracogriff, "You'll get tired too."
"Heh. You forget that I have much more vitality than a human. Plus, if I do get tired, I can always drag you two off to the nearest shade," Barver rumbled, resting his head above his hands.
Patch hummed, trying to keep his eyes open. "I wanted to do something else. It would be a waste to sleep away good weather."
"There's always time."
I guess so, Patch said, or so he wanted to. He blinked once, twice, eyelids sinking repeatedly until he felt himself asleep.
The weather was colder when they awoke. Patch jolted, looking around.
Gone were the entrancing blue skies, now filtered by a looming sunset. Hallowed wind continued to rake through the field, combing up and along broken leaves. He cursed inwardly, a victim to the slippery slope of "just a quick nap" phenomenon yet again.
"So much for time later. I wanted to shut my eyes for a while. I didn't think I would really..." He trailed off when he noticed Barver was pacing in front of him.
"Patch," Wren grabbed his arm.
He looked at her, really looked at her after overcoming post-nap haze, startling. She was half-transformed, mismatched feathers of colour fluffing from her arms, and her rat's tail was curled near him. Her face was knitted tight with suspicion. He snapped up, and saw what Barver and her had been staring at.
A silhouette stood in the distance, unmoving. In the autumn backdrop, he thought at first it must be some scarecrow of unfortunate positioning, frightening more than the birds overhead, but this scarecrow had no arms sticking out by its axis, far too human shaped to be any gourd or manmade ward.
And then it started walking towards them.
"A ghost?" Patch wheezed, horror trickling into his voice - he thought he had his fair share of the supernatural for this lifetime already.
The silhouette slinked closer, and he wished right there and then that it had indeed been a phantom instead. He spared a fleeting second to wonder if the others felt their hearts drop too.
"Hello." The Hamelyn Piper greeted, his voice carried away by the winds, which seem to seethe against his disruptive form against the otherwise flat field. His hands were posed in front of him, holding each other as though he were a shady merchant approaching with intentions to sell them his latest placebo. Regardless of how uncharacteristically polite he appeared, they would not be entertaining any offers today, no, thank you!
He stopped a few feet away, his expression completely blank. His eyes darted around, an eerie look encased in the rigid, stoney face he wore. Like he forgot why he came out here in the first place, or that he ran out here against his own volition. Unseen force pushing. Stop. Pause. Stop. Go.
"Back off," Barver hissed, smoke and sparks fogging out of his jaw as warning. He did not respond, only staring and staring, seeing past them rather than at them. This was not their first time meeting since his ascension, but every encounter remained distressing and in Patch's humble opinion, dangerous.
"I was taking a stroll," he told them, "I was being followed."
The man glanced over his shoulder, out into the open grounds, then back at the hugging trio, "I believe he is no longer in pursuit, thankfully. It doesn't really matter."
"?" Wren gestured to Patch, who was equally confused.
"What are you even talking about? Followed by who? What do you want?" Patch swallowed the crushing pain at the back of his throat, wrenching himself to speak.
"My master," the Hamelyn Piper muttered, staring at his sabatons, "He's talking to me, even now. Ah, he always did have such quiet footsteps. I never bothered. You know, he taught me how to play so many different instruments." He spilled fondly to them. He paused, "My ears are ringing. I do not wish to speak on this any longer."
Patch couldn't tell if the man was embarrassed or something else. And he was quite certain the so-called master he was referring to was killed by the wicked Piper himself. He did not appear flustered nor particularly bothered, but he did very much give off the impression that he had been quietly distancing himself from something only he could perceive, yet made no further movements to do much else.
He simply stood there.
"Okay. He's freaking me out," Barver winced, looking at Patch, "Not sure if he's looking for a fight. Should we take to the skies while we still can?"
"I'm not against the idea," Wren said, "But there's three of us and one of him. I say we take him down while he's still alone. I'm surprised he doesn't have a single guard with him."
"Really? He doesn't seem...well," Patch struggled to find the right words, "I don't know if we should leave him here."
"What do you mean? Of course we can!" Wren gaped at him when he quickly shook his head, "Well, what do you expect us to do?"
Barver shared Wren's concerned look, waiting for his solution. This was supposed to be their chill, carefree day out to scrape happiness from the Eternal King's despair of a reign, not magically solve whatever issues the man clearly had that they could not even begin to grasp. Patch curled his lip.
Hesitantly, he strode towards the immortal tyrant. He considered tapping the man's hand lightly to get his attention, but decided against it.
"Hey. Do you know where you are?" he asked.
"I was playing the piano," the Hamelyn Piper responded in a cool tone, but he was clearly dazed. Patch could see he had his hands now tucked behind his back, as though he truly was just out for a late stroll.
"Yes, you were playing the organ, but that was...a while ago. Did you come out here alone?"
"Why wouldn't I be alone? That's none of your business."
"That's true," Patch tried, "But I think you should go back and take a rest."
"I want to go home," the man said abruptly, "Things should not be this difficult. It is exhausting with my master hounding me as it is."
"Your master isn't here. Do you know the way back?"
"I was playing the piano," he repeated, suddenly suspicious as he glared down at the boy, "It was laughing at me. How then could I be out here? I think you are lying to me. You will gain nothing from this." Besides him, Patch could see Wren giving him the rapid "get out" sign. His responses were derailing into a situation he couldn't make a positive whirl out of.
"We've done the best we could," Barver offered Patch.
"He's confused. He hasn't been able to answer me where he is. He thinks he should be at home playing the piano...something like that. What on earth is a 'piano'?" Patch frowned.
Then the Hamelyn Piper noticed Wren.
"Hello. You are his apprentice, aren't you? I remember you. Have you seen Ural Casimir lately?" The man turned conversational, a wistful smile on his face, "It is upsetting to think that I have not been granted the opportunity to interact with him in-person yet. He is certainly clever that way, alluding me."
"The reverent sorcerer Casimir was stationed elsewhere," sensing an opening, Wren cut in with a little cough, "I don't think you'll be seeing him anytime soon."
"You will put in a good word for me, yes?" He asked her.
"Uh, yeah?"
"How exciting. Tell him I await our meeting," he stopped, tilting his head, "Sometimes, I think he is the only one who could understand me."
"Why?" Patch chimed in, trying to get the man to walk as they spoke. His camp was not too far away - hopefully his own mercenaries would take him back and deal with this better than the three of them, which was not a lot of progress given the length of this conversation was held together by thoughts and prayers. He had no idea why the man even ran so far out from Tiviscan.
"I'll say that I admire his work," the Hamelyn Piper said, strolling along the boy, "Among other things."
"Guys, wait up!" Barver called out behind them, grabbing the basket. Wren waited for the dracogriff to catch up, cautiously following Patch.
"Is that so?" Patch frowned, catching himself at the reminder that the sorcerer had passed away, "Well, the Legendary Eight's feats are celebrated in general." He made a note to not mention the Virtus. He didn't know how the man would respond to the mention of that name.
"Are you talking about Casimir? He's my favourite," the dracogriff said, though Patch could see Barver was ready to smoke the man if he somehow summoned his old grudge against the fact that he ruined the obsidiac organ.
"He is an elusive but charismatic figure," the Hamelyn Piper recounted to him, reaching out a hand. The dracogriff immediately shrunk back, only for him to unexpectedly, lightly preen the loose feathers along Barver's body.
"What is he doing?" Wren made a face.
"I don't know! I don't want his dirty hands on me!" Barver tried not to flail his wings too much. The king hummed, and for a long moment he said nothing, only dragging his feet forward.
Clink.
Clink...Clink.
Patch wondered if the armour was too heavy for the man sometimes. He tried not to stare at the gem slot. Something told him that it fared poorly against whatever slow poison haunting the nefarious Piper.
"Are we going home?" the man asked, "I have wasted my time here, and alas it is straining to be outside."
"To your home, yes," Patch cleared his throat as a recent memory surfaced, of how consistently lengthy the Hamelyn Piper's public speeches are, but that he would scarcely interact with anyone in public, "Then you can resume your work."
And we'll go our separate ways and continue to plot against you, he wanted to add.
"My master is waiting for me at home," He informed, "I am used to seeing him the most, but it does not make it any less harrowing. He likes to walk behind me and asks me to come closer. However, there are times where he stands around and watches me work. Frustrating, isn't it? That said, I always suspected his life was long overdue to begin with. Make no mistake," he turned to Wren, "Being raised under a sorcerer does have its advantages, even if you may not understand them at the time. You learn to tolerate their eccentricities and question how different they are compared to Pipers. Things were very different back then, so it's natural for them to be a bit strange. My master was a liar, but he was also a competent teacher. I am thankful for that."
"Sure," Wren had little to say to his tangent.
"I had to run away," he hummed, "It was the only thing I had on my mind, however long ago it was I had been playing. The day has not passed, has it?"
"The day hasn't fully passed, no," Patch scratched the back of his head. This journey was agonisingly awkward, though the man seemed a bit calmer now. He still couldn't tell if he was back to his usual self yet though. He was typically more extreme than this.
"It's convenient to believe that the dead have a weak connection to Reality," he started, bizarre concentration taut between the muscles of his eyes, "And yet, there are plenty of those alive who seem to never stay tethered to Reality either, be it that they reject flimsy ideology or personal connections. The problem, if you choose to view it as such, is that they still require something to keep them firm on the ground. Those who are half-Living flock to impressive figures like moths to a flame. Permeable, exchangeable states of status." Patch watched the man ramble on and on. Was he talking about him?
Did he know what truly happened to Patch that somber day, or was he flipping through various channels to talk as he pleased?
"This road is fairly hard to traverse," the tyrant then commented out of the blue, "I trust myself to not fall for petty illusions and distortions."
"It's a flat path," Wren looked to the side.
"I think he's just tired," Barver said uneasily.
"Hang in there," Wren consoled him, "I don't know why we shouldn't have left him back there."
Patch snorted.
"Remember when you wouldn't leave that cat either?"
"I'm quite certain that cat doesn't have a history of mass-murdering innocents and establishing an oppressive rule over us, Patch."
"I know, but he wasn't trying to kill us just now, and every time we meet he's weirdly tolerant of us. I don't know what's gotten into him either. And he still terrifies me," he admitted, hanging his head, "I don't think we should let the others know we met him today."
"I can understand not telling the Virtus, but not even Alia? Or Tobias? What about Erner?" She glanced at him.
"What do you think they would do with such an information, Wren? Erner is literally apprentice of the Virtus," Patch paused, "I could trust him with this, but I would have to speak with Erner in private. It's going to reflect suspect on us if we go back now and do such a spontaneous thing, isn't it?"
"He's your best friend! The Virtus probably knows you talk to him about private matters all the time!"
"Erner would say he doesn't have any sense of emotional boundaries and he would be right! Then what? I can't change the Hamelyn Piper of all people on a whim," Patch was horrified.
"Fine. Alright, I get it. We won't tell anyone, but I wasn't suggesting that he's someone who could be changed."
"What Patch means to say is that he should still be reserved a modicum of dignity," Barver sighed.
"Yet, he went on and committed a litany of undignified acts," Wren gritted her teeth, "Surely there is a limit to the grace we can extend to him. I'm not going to start inventing excuses-"
"Now now, do not argue, children. Or else, bad men may steal you away from your homes," the Eternal King interrupted with a conciliatory laugh. He smiled thinly at the three, but they all saw how empty his eyes were.
The lights were on, he was home, but his person was inaccessible.
Patch shuddered, silently exchanging turns with Barver to hold the food basket. He didn't even feel hungry anymore, having napped away the time. Ants had likely burrowed into the biscuits at this point. He didn't check.
They ambled on in a tense, choppy rank, shadows elongated, needling from the sinking light.
"You think I'm dangerous." the Hamelyn Piper said after a while, "That I am some lunatic who runs around maiming the first person I set my sights on. I assure you, lad, that this is not the case."
Patch scrutinised his expression. It was impossible to determine if he had been lucid all along, or if he had just snapped out of his haze, or if he was still floating in-between mental fog unknown to anyone else. He tensed his shoulders. "We would be less inclined to believe so if you hadn't done atrocious things. And continue to do so! Are you nice to us in hopes of redeeming yourself? That's not how things work."
The man looked away. Not much of a scenery for him to pretend giving a glance-over.
"Respectability politics. I'm not concerned with such worthless ideals."
"You are not concerned with anything but yourself at all." Patch muttered, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. The king stared at him, but did not physically or verbally rebuke him.
"You'll understand when you're older."
Patch disagreed.
He was relieved when he saw that they had reached the base of Tiviscan at last, the sound of Piping ongoing seemed both comforting and nostalgic to him by now. A few Battle Pipers looked their way, pointing at the Hamelyn Piper who promenaded along the boy. Patch followed him several feet more, before coming to a halt.
"You wish to abandon me here?" the man asked him. He sounded betrayed.
Patch blinked, "We're not abandoning you. This is your home."
"Home? Is that what you think this place is?" He looked around the fortress aghast, distraught flashing across his face, "I swore my twin brother was sent rotting in these very walls." Neither of them knew why he was reacting this way. He knew that he was stationed here, had chose to do so when he drove the council out, and now he acted like he was brought and to-be-dumped in the middle of nowhere.
Patch had a sinking feeling that somewhere along the way they wrongly assumed what he really wanted.
"This is where you sleep and work," Barver chirped.
"Where you eat and drink," Wren hummed.
The Hamelyn Piper fell silent.
"What a miserable bastardisation, if that is all a home is," he said, "Surely there has to be more than this."
Patch dared to step closer, albeit keeping away from arm's reach, "Then what do you want?"
"I don't know." So he answered stiffly, too quickly.
The Hamelyn Piper turned to leave. The winds had long stilled, the torch fires bright enough to direct the paths in the darkness of late evening.
He suddenly stopped. And he waved at them.
A gesture similar yet unlike the way he usually would wave at others during his time outside. He was smiling, a relaxed expression so different from his pattern of sneering, the rictus of hatred he often directed externally.
Numbly, Patch waved back.
His hand went slack right after the man left, a handful of Battle Pipers flanked the king's entrance to the fortress, leaving the rest of their consortium stranded outside.
Patch slumped. He could not help the guilt pricking his gut, even though the man had given rise to suffering so strife in their world. Yet whatever he desired was, to Patch's knowledge, beyond what his powers could achieve. Maybe he was accustomed to assuming others trying to pitch what was good for him, or perhaps he was still deciding what his choices even amounted to for himself. Frankly unthinkable, but the man keeping to himself was expected.
No sorcerer or Piper in all of the lands could comprehend him if he did not state his wish, he thought, but deeper still he knew that understanding others was more than knowing the purity of their desires.
The Hamelyn Piper had been right, in a way. It was none of his business. Even if he wanted to care.
Just as he thought this, it began to rain, thunder striking against the night. What started as a drizzle quickly turned into a hellish, torrential downpour, leaving them floundering, utterly unprepared.
"The food!" Wren suddenly remembered, and Patch hurried with her to seek shelter with little success, "I hope it's still edible!"
In the storm they fluttered back and forth in futility, voices muted by the susurrous sea.
"Over here!" Barver shouted, and they ducked into a shoddy utility shack slanted near the base, catching their breaths. Patch pinched his shirt, fanning his face. Barver stayed close to them, though he could not enter the small enclosure, opting to settle outside.
"Don't worry, this doesn't bother me," he assured them.
"We can't fly now," Wren shook her head, sliding down against the damp wood, turning her palms, "And I'm not leaving the two of you here."
"You did say it's a pain to get water out from feathers too."
"I'm more worried about the lightning." She clapped, and a few seconds after a vibrant bolt flashed across the sky, swiftly accompanied by roaring thunder.
"Cool. So much for our day out huh," Patch fell back to the ground, legs folded to his chest.
"So much for shapeshifting practice," Wren groaned, the honey biscuits long crumbled in her grip.
"We are walking the other way the next time we see him!" Barver huffed. Patch couldn't find himself disagreeing, even as a part of him burned with curiosity and questions just as much as he loathed the immortal tyrant.
Best to keep them away.
"I just hope the others aren't looking for us right now." Wren tilted her head, "We're missing curfew - Tobias is going to freak."
"Not much we can do about this anyway!" The dracogriff swished a tail, referring to the turn of weather. Patch joined Wren in the corner, sighing deeply.
It seemed inevitable that they would have to explain themselves when they returned after all.