Chapter Text
“I can’t wait for the meeting tomorrow to end.”
Saparata slumped down into his stairs at the entrance of his mansion, his knee to his chest. “God, I hate those long, excruciating meetings. I still don’t get why I have to be the mediator between the civilizations.”
Saparata looked up at the man beside him, gesturing him to sit down. Fluixon follows. His body was as stiff as ever—still graceful nonetheless—never letting his guard down. Together, they watch as the sun slowly hides on the horizon and the moon slowly takes over to watch over them.
“They needed someone to ensure the neutrality of every decision, and there you are.”
“What makes them think that a man with no connection to any of the nations can unite them? Why did you even suggest it to Jophiel?”
Fluixon merely shrugs. “On the brighter side, maybe it will be your last one.”
“I hope so,” he sighed, knowing this is far from that. There’s civil unrest on their island, especially after the assassination of Tricolor’s leader and the growing amount of propaganda against the other island. “Then, I can finally enjoy my vacation house; done with politics and away from all of this.”
“Away from me?”
“It’s not like you can’t go here. You can always come back here. You helped me to build this, after all.” He shifts his body to face his friend. The breeze caresses their hair, letting them dance freely. It hides some of their features, but Saparata can still look at Fluixon’s eyes, its gaze extending to the sinking sun, drowning in his own thoughts, his own body worn down. The warm colors of the dusk extend its warmth to Saparata’s body. Deep down, Saparata wishes things could stay like this.
“Maybe…” he spits out, despite it being unlikely; his eyes staring somewhere else, unable to look at the man beside him. “Once you’re done with all of your great plans for this island, whatever they are, you can settle down here. With me.”
Unknown to him, Fluixon’s eyes softened. “So you can annoy me for the rest of our lives?” Flux sneers. That plan doesn’t sound so bad for Saparata.
Fluixon fixes himself, stands up with his hand as support. He hums, maybe to the idea that the white haired proposed, Saparata will never know.
He looks down at the guy still sitting down before looking at the horizon once more.
“Maybe.” The sound almost came out as a whisper, but Saparata’s ears quickly picked it up.
He starts walking down, without announcing his departure, but Saparata knows he’s leaving without ever looking back.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks before the dark hair completely disappears from his sight.
Albeit he stops on his track, halfway down, Fluixon refuses to look back. “You know I can’t attend the meeting.”
“As if the meeting wouldn’t end.”
Saparata could see, from their distance, the hesitation of his dark hair, contemplating his answer. He always has to calculate whatever comes out of his mouth. He has seen this during the meetings they’ve attended together and how he communicates with other leaders, but sometimes he wonders, what else is there to think about when it’s just Saparata he’s talking to? There’s no puzzle piece to figure out; Saparata has never twisted his words intentionally to make it seem like a maze. If only Fluixon would allow himself to see things as it is.
Fluixon turned his back against the dusk, started to walk towards him. “Perhaps not tomorrow, but let’s meet again, soon.”
He removed his cravat slowly. Saparata doesn’t realize how much bigger it is than it seems as Flux carefully unthreads it. He doesn’t understand how his friend wears it every day, given that it takes so much effort to put it on his neck, but he guesses that’s just how Flux is.
“Here, have it.” He handed, or rather, tossed it to Saparata’s face.
“What for?”
“As an apology.”
“Eh, you know, having the title as mediator makes me look cool, cooler than you, Mr. Ex-Vice President, so it’s alright.” He looks at the fabric. What would I even do with this? “Don’t you need this for your… extravagant suit?”
Flux clicks his tongue. “Do I look mad? Of course, I have other cravats. Do you think I only own one and use it every day?”
“Maybe?”
“You’re insufferable.” He makes a disgusted face. “Besides, it suits you better, with your…” he scans Saparata’s dress. “All white thing.”
They both laugh at the statement. The mask on his friend’s face never falls. It’s always perfectly intact, with his perfectly crafted face, but despite that, Saparata knows he could trust the sincerity in his eyes. If he has to sacrifice his own life just to follow that remarkable shade of hyacinth, he would gladly do so. Hell might be the journey, but the reward to glance upon it is more luxurious than what heaven could ever offer.
˙𐃷˙
The dripstones fell too fast, too many deaths in an instant.
Saparata didn’t even have the time to comprehend what was happening. He stumbled upon his own chair, heart beating too fast, body shaking, wondering if one would fall too on his head.
There’s chaos in his house; the dead bodies of the nation’s leaders lie on his floor, blood dripping everywhere, staining the white pieces of paper scattered on the table. Surprisingly, it didn’t smear even an inch of Saparata’s white gown. The people who remained alive are either screaming or too stunned to even mutter a word.
“What the fuck just happened?” Whether it stayed in his head or he actually shouted it doesn’t even matter. Panic surges all throughout his veins. Breathing feels like betrayal to all who have died.
Where did it come from? How did it activate? Who else is in the house that he doesn’t know?
Then suddenly, he felt eyes around him. Too conscious of the actions of those who are still here, of those who survived. Realization struck him. It all happened in his house, and everyone is suspicious of him.
None of them moved, still in shock at what had just happened, and Saparata realized that it was up to him to make the first move. He picks himself up, unsure what to do, no idea where to go, but still his body starts moving, and he knows it’s the end of him if he ever stops, so he runs.
He keeps muttering—whether it is for himself or for those people who decided to follow him—it wasn’t me, a plea, with his voice shaking. Each word and each scream makes his head spiral. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to convince them or himself that he didn’t do it.
It was futile. He didn’t even have the time to think twice about his actions; his legs just started moving on their own, even if it meant he looked guilty for running away from a crime he didn’t even know would take place. Despite what the situation presents, it wasn’t him. He didn’t do any of that. His house wasn’t designed for this. Yet, here he is, being hunted down as the word spread faster than he could ever imagine.
His body brought him to the secluded area of the swamps, navigating it with precision. He had to check twice if someone was following him before his body finally collapsed, his knees hitting the sand; he had reached the beach. His stomach turns, throwing up the very meal he ate with the nation leaders before everything went horribly wrong. Every time he unclogs his mouth, tears fall along with it. Breathing heavily as he tries to gain control of his body, to at least calm himself down.
He needs to prove his innocence, but who will believe him? A name immediately crossed his mind. A name he’s memorized like his own, a name engraved on his soul. Fluixon. He knows Saparata didn’t put anything in his house; they built it together. With his wit and his mastery of his words, surely, he can get people to believe that Saparata’s innocent.
He stands up from his pathetic form, stabilizing his knees and pushing himself from the ground as a support. Luminara couldn’t be far from here, he just needs to find Flux—!
Oh.
Oh no.
He stopped in his tracks. A bucket of cold water was poured on him once his brain put the pieces together. His smile was washed away by the waves. Just as he’s gaining hope, his body slams back to the ground.
No, no, no. It can’t be real. He refuses to be real, but the coincidence is just too big to ignore. The way he left him there to notify the leaders about the meeting. Their group’s insistence that it has to be him to send the message. The perfectly built house once he came back. His apology yesterday.
His hand finds its way back to his mouth, preventing him from vomiting again.
There’s no reason why Fluixon would do that to him.
Was everything they shared worth nothing in the face of Fluixon’s ideals? Was he too drowned in his pride that he’s willing to sacrifice their good days just so he can prove himself right? All this time, was he just another pawn for him to play?
But those eyes… It’s impossible that it could’ve lied to him.
He bites his lips. No. There must be something he’s forgetting. As hard as it is for him, Saparata recalls the events earlier.
Aside from him, he remembers, one of the few who survived is the Luminara’s leader, the advocator of the bridge, 3Below. He didn’t notice anything strange about the guy, and he doesn’t even look like the type of person to have something like this up his sleeves.
Saparata doesn’t know if there’s an actual basis for this assumption, apart from 3Below being alive when almost all the leaders are assassinated. Maybe it’s his blind faith in his friend and his inability to comprehend that Fluixon is the person behind all this that he wants to blame someone else entirely.
After hopping from one place to another, he gathered enough information about the leaders’ decision with whispers from the townsfolk and a few reads at the announcement boards. Apparently, all of the leaders have agreed on the Commonwealth’s initiative of giving Saparata a trial—a fair platform to clear his name in front of everyone.
Even if he doesn’t want to deal with stuff like this, Saparata decides that he will try to get to the bottom of this. He will prove himself innocent. He has no other choice.
˙𐃷˙
He’d sent multiple letters to Fluixon, his fingertips stained with ink, begging to meet, even risking his own safety to send them, but Flux replied to none of them. Saparata tried to wait in the places he’d stated, even if there was a chance of someone catching up, just to see if his friend would show up.
Honestly, he doesn’t know the point of it. He convinces himself that it is for explanation; he wants Flux to explain everything, but when he imagines that Flux would admit to his crimes, he doesn’t know what he would do next. Perhaps, he just wants to see him one more time. A blind hope that they could still fix everything before they enter a point of no return.
Saparata knows that the moment he steps into the arenaceous boundaries of the Commonwealth, he’s leaving the past behind. He knows to himself that to prove himself innocent is to convict Fluixon and the whole Luminara.
There’s nothing he could do to change his friend’s mind at this point. The only thing he could do was attend the trial, so off into the sands he went.
At least, this time, his body had stopped visibly shaking, even if everyone was staring daggers at him. He knows that if they could, they would have killed Saparata already. He’d seen the vandals on his posters (since only a few of them didn’t have any). Their messages were all the same: death for the person who killed their leaders. And it’s not like their wishes to punish Saparata remained as whispers; he totally could hear all of them.
While Saparata understands they are grieving, to kill him wouldn’t give satisfaction to anyone because it wasn’t him—and that’s what he’s going to prove today.
But as if trying to spite him, Fluixon didn’t attend his trial, which he expected, but sent his right-hand man, Thomas, to act as the prosecutor of the case. Begrudgingly, he had to listen to all his bitter words of accusation, even daring to look at Saparata’s eyes while he was preaching with his words, as if they didn’t share days of peace at all. He’s not stupid; he knows that Thomas’ presence here means that they truly are planning to pin him down for their crimes.
“All I ever wanted for this island was peace and cooperation between the nations. The loss at the meeting was extremely devastating and came out of nowhere, but I can tell you right now: I’m innocent. It wasn’t me,” Saparata states with conviction, knowing this is his only chance, hoping that it would be enough to convince the jury.
“The leadership in Luminara helped me build the meeting area and were the only people who knew about the area before the leadership meeting. That includes the prosecutor himself, Thomas, Gotoga, Heavy Rotation, Snowbird, and their ring leader… Fluixon.” He wasn’t aware that it would hurt this much to actually admit that Fluixon was the one responsible for the assassination and for framing him. Every syllable of his name tastes bitter on his tongue. Just saying his name weighed heavily on his heart; the feeling is no different from being guilty.
“When I left to gather the leaders for the meeting, they must have snuck into the roof of the meeting room to make the trap. The people whom I thought I could trust the most used me for their malicious intent and killed the leaders and blamed it on me. I find it rather interesting that 3Below, the leader of Luminara, is one of the only people who survived the trap—”
Before he could finish, someone from the crowd interrupted him, fury was clear in their voice. “3Below is dead! How dare you speak of him like that?!”
What?
That statement alone was enough to send the courtroom into chaos. His grip on the podium tightened.
Are they trying to test him?
No place had he been brought the news of 3Below’s passing.
Saparata tried to look at the roars of the crowd, looking for an answer. Did it happen just recently? Fate is really testing his patience. He hadn’t set foot in Luminara the past few days, so there’s no way he could’ve known.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. All the curses he could possibly know had been said in his mind. He shouldn’t have let his mouth run around. He shouldn’t have brought 3Below’s name, but how could he not? What other reasons does Flux have to pull off his plans and to, ultimately, frame him? Saparata couldn’t accept the possibility that Fluixon really just sacrificed him.
The rowdiness of the court only came to a halt when the judge started to speak. “I’m ready to make my decision.”
He can only hope that the decision is in favor of him. He genuinely didn’t know about the death of Luminara’s president and his story about Fluixon’s group aiding him when building his house still stands. He knows that he made himself a fool for misjudging the advocate of the bridge, but there are still things they have to consider before making a decision.
“I, Judge Timebomb, find Saparata… guilty on all counts. He is to be taken to the top of the Gauntlet and executed, immediately.”
The cheers of those who thought they’d found justice erupted while Saparata’s hearing went blank as he could feel his knees softening; his only support was the podium in front of him.
He wanted to argue, to plead for another trial, but his voice betrayed him now when he needed it the most. Even if he did, the people and the Commonwealth wouldn’t give him a chance—none of them believes in his innocence (Jophiel’s dead while Fluixon betrayed him) and their government’s desperate to prove something, to relive the glory of their sinking castle in the sands.
The weight of his body was only brought back when the guards grabbed him by his arms.
With everything that he can and every strength he has left, Saparata still chooses to understand. Everyone here has their own reason, for their own greed or for the pride of their nation. They are only doing what they are ordered to do—to kill him on sight—and so he does the only thing he knows he could do—to run away as far as he could, because he, too, has his own reason to live. He cannot let this be the place of his death. He cannot let this end here. If Saparata cannot achieve the peace he so craves, he will refuse to give that to Flux either.
Despite the number of trained warriors on his tail, Saparata couldn’t help but laugh as he was getting away. He feels bad for them; he knows what his escape would do to their already sinking reputation. He also wishes to see the fury in Fluixon’s face once the news of this failure of a trial lands on Luminara. Still, being the fugitive that he currently is, he has no choice but to flee to the jungle once more. This time, however, he is already acquainted with its mossy lands and the loneliness that inhabits this area.
His sentence in the Commonwealth only solidifies his life as a fugitive, an escapee. They will try to hunt him down even more. He couldn’t think of a way to avoid all of them, all of the nations that will try to hunt him down, knowing that they all live in Pandora. It will only take them a few days or, at most, weeks, to reach and search the jungle.
He reassessed the items in his inventory, trashing the items that are no longer of importance, one of which is the cravat Fluixon gave. Planning to leave it to the waves of the ocean to transport it back to its original owner, among all his other items, but as the waves waver, so did he, coming to a halt when he saw his reflection in the waters.
He takes the fabric, letting its soft surface touch his face the way Fluixon did.
In spite of his wish to get rid of the things that remind him of the Luminaran, Saparata decides that it is best for him to hide his face, with a white cloth that once belonged to his friend…and the only one he will allow to remember what he used to look like. No one shall get a glimpse of the face of a criminal, and only those who know of his innocence shall remember such intimate details of his face. The rest of the world can remember him by the crime he did not commit.
Saparata now only lurks whenever no one is around. The one who used to be the mediator of the island turned into a mere shadow that haunts Pandora at night. His light has been dimmed. He rarely looks in his reflection and when he gets the chance, he doesn’t know who he’s looking at anymore. Bags in his eyes are too deep. The smile he used to wear every day can barely be traced on his mouth. The fabric he wears that doesn’t know dirt is now familiar with it, as it slowly loses his gold ornaments as he’s been selling and trading whatever’s left in his storage, believing that he doesn’t need most of them anymore.
He only trades materials to those who haven’t heard the news of the assassination of the leaders, those who didn’t care about who they’re dealing with, leaving before they could ask anything personal for the sake of casual conversation, tearing down posters of himself each time he sees one. Living mostly at night, where he could travel freely, as he knew he couldn’t linger in the same place for too long. And resting in places that he’s confident no one would dare to set foot in, not that he gets much rest anyway. He’s being woken up by the slightest of sounds; he can’t remember the last time he felt relaxed, his nerves are now always on edge, as if waiting for someone to finally strike him down.
This wouldn’t last for long, he convinces himself, clinging to his last hope. He’s waiting for the border to drop; soon it will, or so he hears. Once it does, he’ll find himself a new life in Yggdrasil. He will leave all the chaos in Pandora, which he should’ve done a long time ago; he’ll make sure he does it this time, for he has no connection to this place anyway. There’s no one he will abandon but a life that was forced upon him when he was framed.
He had to confirm multiple times if the borders had dropped. He’s been going back and forth to nations to see any commotion. He had seen unfamiliar faces when he was hiding under the shadows of the bright lights of Barbieland, when he was trying to fit in with the calm nature of the Cass Coalition, and when he was blending into the bustling streets of Tricolor. People with materials that cannot be seen in Pandora, clothing that did not fit any of the civilizations here, flags carried that are clearly from a foreign nation (for he had memorized every flag that exists in this island). He’d seen people who passed by him with such ease, clearly oblivious of who he is, as they are not from this land.
Well, there’s only one thing he had to do.
He makes his way to the place where he’s least expected.
Careful on his steps, making sure no one notices him, especially in places he wouldn’t be able to escape. Yggdrasil may be far, but to Saparata, it’s the closest place he can find his peace.
But even as he’s slowly getting away, the great Fluixon still refuses to see him, despite the constant failure of his subordinates in catching Saparata, completely ignoring his outright provocation of using his bridge to get away.
He didn’t show up at the trial. He didn’t show up on the bridge. Was it guilt that hindered him, or was Saparata not worthy to be graced by his eyes anymore? Either way, Fluixon’s silence is an answer in itself that Saparata has to accept begrudgingly.
His boat is halfway through Yggdrasil, and he can barely see Pandora’s proud mountain on the horizon. Saparata realizes he’s brought too many, even carrying the heartache that he should’ve left on the island, despite wanting to get away from it.
˙𐃷˙
“Too right under the nose with all that cloth, don’t you think?” The man up in the sands greets him.