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Westhelm's Colosseum is meant to be a symbol of justice.
Amidst all of Emperor Schpood's truly… novel ideas, this stands out as the most eccentric. Most other nations have a typical judicial system: with a trial, a judge, and a jury. However, down here, under the beating sun shining over Yggdrasil and on the bloodstained cobblestone floor of the arena—Westhelm's criminals do not plead for pardon; they fight for it.
It is the rawest form of judgment there is: a trial by strength and a clash of ideals, where the verdict is written in sanguine and where blood washes away the sins of the triumphant. As for Saparata, well… he is a man wronged by the entire world, a man whose every ragged breath is an act of defiance against those who framed and condemned him—if there was anyone to relish in that very justice, it should be him.
After all, it is what he decided on when he stood atop that tower in the biting cold snow—that he would cut caskets into trees, that he would organize the grandest funerals and write the most heartfelt eulogies, that he would dig his grave and step in it so long as he could drag Fluixon down with him and set them both aflame like pyres at an altar.
… so why, then, does he falter? Why does he hesitate when he steps foot in the arena and finds his supposed sworn enemy walking along the seats in the cavea, examining his reflection in the glint of a golden apple as though nothing was amiss—as though the bridge between them hadn't burned and took both Yggdrasil and Pandora down with it?
Fluixon acts the part too; with his head held high, his shoulders squared, and his poise proper. Though disgraced, he carries himself with class befitting of his old position and his royal bloodline. He runs a hand through his hair, as though it would undo the tangles from days of being on the run; he smooths down the front of his coat, as though it wasn't singed from the fires of the volcano he dove into.
That's his Flux, alright—still so proud and still so headstrong, though perhaps to the point of being obstinate.
The Architect's intelligence is his own downfall; of course, his vast political experience is not to be dismissed, and one would think that the remnants of Aculon know the threat of war more intimately than most. Alas, there is but a fine line between genius and insanity—somewhere along the way, reasonable doubt gave way to frantic paranoia, then Fluixon knew no truths barring those constructed by his mind.
What was he thinking, when half of Pandora's leaders fell at his behest? Did he think of Theria and of years of friendship, when he signed off Jophiel's demise and coerced Saparata into the meeting like a lamb to the slaughter? Did he think of his father, when it was proven that he made the same mistake as him, that Yggdrasil came bearing peace and not arms? Did he think of the fall of Aculon, when he sought refuge in his sister's castle knowing full well the Iron Torch was never destined for victory?
Saparata doesn't know, and may very well never know. For it just dawned on him that the last time they properly spoke was before the assassinations, that there are years of sentiments and grievances unspoken, that he has so, so much to say.
But with a million thoughts running through his head… his words fail him, and all he can muster is the obvious. "Wow, you actually showed up."
The other man keeps his back turned as he replies, "can't say no to a friend, can I?"
Friend. Six letters, one syllable, easy to pronounce—rolls off the tongue with ease, like the careless little label it is. And yet, right now, it is just about the heaviest it has ever been, and the heaviest it will ever be. Truths that come bregrudgingly are just about the heftiest burdens to bear.
"Friend?" He scoffs, in disbelief that the other man would still consider them that, in disbelief that he doesn't hate it. "Flux, look at all this. All these people dying right now because of you."
"Believe what you want, Saps." The nickname makes his traitorous heart skip a beat, makes a lump form in his throat. "But none of this would've happened if you died like you were supposed to."
Saparata's voice wavers when he says, "no, this is your fault. Not mine. I—"
"Hey." The other man interrupts him before he can launch into a spiel, and the insults die on his tongue when he turns around and they face each other properly for the first time in so long. Punctuated by a bated breath, their gazes meet—and they linger.
There is an old adage that says the eyes are the window to the soul. And if pictures truly were worth a thousand words, then Saparata could read litanies cut into the amethysts of Fluixon's eyes.
For all intents and purposes, they speak of a deep sorrow, of a festering anguish that gnaws away at his conviction just enough to be barely noticeable. Yet not even Saparata is disillusioned enough to think that the man before him would feel guilt for what he thinks is right; the Architect does not go through with plans he isn't sure of. Perhaps it could still be regret, but if it was…
"I'm sorry that it had to be this way."
… then it was severely misplaced.
Fluixon was never apologetic for the things that mattered; not for the murders, not for conspiracy, not for the war. He is a man stubborn enough to cradle his ideals in balled up fists, to pull them closer to his chest even when they begin to burn his hands.
No, he was just sorry that he had to hurt Saparata along the way. The betrayal wasn't necessarily targeted, at least not due to malice—it was by pure virtue of the Mediator being an easy, unsuspecting target. He just… happened to be placed really well in the political atmosphere. And that is all it took for Fluixon to take a torch to the bridge between them, to the bridge spanning from Luminara, and to all the bridges that unified Pandora.
Saparata doesn't know if that makes it all better, or worse.
"I'm sorry for everything you've had to go through."
And it is too little, too late, from a man whose silver tongue absolved him of regicide once before. The growing crowd of spectators shouts, indignant—deeming Fluixon a liar, doubting the sincerity of his words. Saparata, however, does not question it.
There is nothing to question. Love is the prerequisite to betrayal. Bridges cannot burn without being built.
Then, Fluixon leaps down into the arena, finally meeting Saparata on even ground. The sand crunches under his worn heel as he rises to his full height, and his netherite armor glimmers when the afternoon sun hits it. Stray hairs frame the curve of his cheeks, and he longs to reach out and tuck them behind the other man's ear. Even now, in the prerequisite of a fight to the death, he is no less beautiful than he had been on the day they met.
For a moment, time stops. For a moment, an old memory flashes—one of old friends and bygone times, before Pandora and Theria and the bitter taste of politics on their tongues. For a moment, Saparata could pretend that this was just another day in their youth, another playful spar in the training grounds of fallen empires.
Then, Fluixon nocks an arrow and it's a reminder that everything is different. Both of them spring into action, trading blows to the rambunctious cheers of the crowd.
Sparks fly where swords meet, where diamond kisses diamond in a flurry of strikes. Shields splinter under sheer force, and arrows graze flushed cheeks like featherlight pecks. Blood is drawn on both sides, in little nicks and scrapes that are sure to scar—that Saparata hopes will scar. Emboldened by the prospect, he charges forward, no longer caring to protect himself.
What is there to protect, when half of his soul is before him, when he's the one making him bleed?
Struggling to hold his ground, Fluixon stumbles backwards. Not keen on relenting, Saparata presses his advantage, backing the other man into a corner; he knows full well of the Architect's penchant for slipping away, and he has no interest in letting it happen. He crowds him into the Colosseum walls until they are blade to blade, chest to chest, heaving breaths mingling with each other.
Ironically, though this is the closest they have been in the last few years, it feels like the furthest they will ever be. For the history books will mark this day down for generations to come. They will name heroes and villains, good and bad, right and wrong; they will shove Saparata and Fluixon in boxes that they do not fit in, all for the sake of a simplified narrative. For all those who died for a cause, only some of them will be named martyrs—the rest, condemmed and heralded as fools.
And the world will only know them for the betrayal, the framing, and the vengeance. And the world will never know them for the years spent together, for the gentle smiles under moonlight, for the lingering gazes and the fleeting touches. And the world will only know the bridge that burnt, and not the bridge that stood the test of time.
History is written by the winners, and Fluixon was never the better fighter.
With a final decisive strike, Saparata sinks his axe into Fluixon's shoulder with a sickening sound; one the history books will come to call the sound of victory. The Architect coughs and hacks before crumbling to the ground—a man so brilliant, so charming, so powerful reduced to a corpse on a timer. The spectators roar in celebration, standing from their seats with a deafening round of applause and cries of the victor's name.
In the midst of all the festivities, Saparata sheds a single tear. Despite himself, despite everything, he takes a step forward.
To forgive once is courtesy. To forgive twice is folly. To forgive thrice is affection.
But to forgive a fourth time, and a fifth, and a sixth, then over and over and over again… To forgive for as long as the sun rises past the peak of Yggdrasil's ruined volcano and sets in the thick woods of Pandora's swamps—that is Saparata to Fluixon.
Let's call it even now, my dearest.
He, too, falls to his knees. His weapons clatter to the ground beside him, for he drops them just so he can pull the other man into his arms. He meant it, when he said he'd organize the grandest funerals for them—that he would ensure not only their deaths, but also their honor.
Let it be written that the Mediator felled the Architect, in the name of vengeance and justice and victory. However, let it also be written that he mourned it for the rest of his life, in the name of old friendships and foolish affections and love.
The price of ruining my life has been paid by your own, in full.
Saparata scrambles for the hem of Fluixon's coat—not to stop the bleeding, no. He only wants to smooth it out, to use the dark fabric to cover the red seeping into the purple vest and the white dress shirt underneath. He knows a man like him would want to be dignified, even in death.
The blood on your hands dried when the flame of your soul went out.
He reaches out to wipe the blood trickling from the other man's mouth, to brush his hair away from his forehead and tuck it behind his ears, just like he wanted earlier. Whispered nothings slip off Saparata's tongue, in an attempt to ease the pain, to smooth out the furrows of the other man's brows.
… ah, but perhaps there is one last thing—one last crime you have yet to atone for.
He cups Fluixon's cheeks in his hands, gaze running along his features until he burns his visage into the back of his eyelids. This is the face that smiled at him so sweetly during the construction of the Acropolis, the face that looked upon him so impassively during his trial, the face that broke out into tears when he fell from the highest point of Theria, the face that twisted up in anger during the siege of Infernus—the face of his sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares, the face he loathes and loves at the same time.
I haven't quite forgiven you for stealing my heart. So, allow me to take something of yours in turn.
Saparata leans down and presses his lips to Fluixon's. A kiss—their first, and their last.