Work Text:
Fluixon despises Theria Tower.
At the top of Theria Tower, the air was always thick with a rancid stench of oil and oppressive heat. It came from the braziers kept burning to suppress the desert’s sand-laden winds and cold—and the viscous anxiety that sometimes trailed behind them. Fed with black oil throughout the year by the hand of the ruler, the flames had never gone out since the nation’s founding, illuminating Theria without pause. The people regarded the obelisk that worshiped the sun and the gods as if it were their very incarnation.
Fluixon found this deeply displeasing. He hated seeing Saparata’s slender knees pressed into the sand in reverence of the sun, hated how his gaze was always drawn toward the light of Theria Tower. He loathed the moment when the lemongrass-scented oil layered over skin stripped bare by sunlight was overwhelmed and erased by the braziers’ greasy stench, and how Saparata’s tunic grew thinner and thinner, unable to endure the heat. Theria—Theria Tower—was slowly, relentlessly devouring the image of Saparata as Fluixon remembered him.
When night fell deep, Fluixon would kneel before Saparata’s bed and bury his face in his knees. When his stiffened hair brushed against Saparata’s thighs, a low, quiet laugh would follow. As Saparata combed Fluixon’s hair with an oil-soaked brush, he spoke of Theria—the Theria he had faced all day long. Fluixon listened with his eyes lowered.
Saparata’s life was entirely Theria. As a friend, a subordinate, and at times someone who shared breath itself, Fluixon had remained at his side, yet he could not leave even a scratch on that solid life. But Fluixon’s life was entirely Saparata. A single word from him could reduce Fluixon to ruin. At times, Fluixon wished—just as Saparata had—to burrow into his heart and take root. He wanted even a single night where Saparata would clutch his tightening chest and weep in anguish because of him. He wanted him to fall ill with longing, unable to forget the hands that reached for him only in fragments, calling Fluixon’s name. Beneath Saparata’s relentless kisses, Fluixon thought—
Fluixon despised Theria, and Saparata’s hypocrisy.
*
“Flux.”
Jopiel, Theria’s Vice President, who had been searching endlessly for Fluixon, finally found her destination at Theria Tower. Wearing a golden laurel crown like Saparata once had, Fluixon stood motionless, forehead pressed against the stone pillar engraved with Saparata’s name. Letting out a deep sigh, Jopiel spoke in a near-whisper.
“Your Excellency. The ruler of the Sultanate—”
“I heard, Jopiel.”
Fluixon muttered in a low voice.
“The Sultan’s guard took revenge for his brother.”
“Yes.”
“Then… what am I supposed to do?”
Saparata had taken his own life.
The reason was absurdly simple: an assassination attempt on a foreign ruler had failed. To preserve Theria’s honor, and for the people who would be condemned because of him, it was a decision befitting a ‘leader.’
The ruler of the Sultanate survives the assassination attempt in Davarit!
The blaring news that echoed through Theria’s streets led Fluixon, frantic in search of Saparata, to a sight he would never forget.
A dull, crushing sound of something shattering, the murmurs of citizens thrown into chaos, and Jopiel’s scream—like a wail—when she spotted him.
“Saps is dead, Flux!”
Leaving behind Jopiel, sobbing in a maid’s arms, Fluixon shoved past the guards and approached—
—his sun lay asleep.
Fluixon rolled Saparata’s name over and over in his mouth before swallowing it back down. He had no idea where to begin, where to touch. Fluixon collapsed. On trembling knees he dragged himself forward and pulled Saparata’s body into his arms, feeling the cold stiffness layering through him. He cradled Saparata’s head. Cold, sticky blood dripped through the gaps between his fingers. With violently shaking hands, he brushed over the tunic. There was nothing. The sword at his waist, the gilded ornaments, the leather sandals, even the lemongrass oil—Saparata had left everything behind, departing with nothing that Fluixon’s hands touched.
“Storminghell is dead. The Sultanate, with no rightful successor, will fall. So… what should I do now?”
“……”
“Jopiel, please. Answer me. What should I do so I won’t be ashamed before Saparata?”
Fluixon staggered toward Jopiel. A suffocating stench of alcohol rushed out from him. He clutched her shoulders roughly, spewing disordered words for a long while, then suddenly stepped back, fumbling at his twisted expression.
“Why is this happening? The only thing that’s changed in my life is Saps—that idiot—dying. I’m the President of Theria now, so there’s nothing left for me to want. Jopiel, I—”
“Flux.”
“Damn it, answer my question!”
Fluixon screamed. Jopiel bit her lip and stared at him. Heat from the blazing braziers shimmered the air, warping Fluixon’s figure.
“Why! Why does my life turn this damn miserable just because that bastard is gone!”
“You know the answer better than anyone, Fluixon!”
Jopiel grabbed Fluixon by the collar with a rough hand. His reflection in her eyes shook uncontrollably.
“Do you want me to deny it? If I say Saparata—Saps—meant nothing in your life, will you feel better?”
“……”
“Flux. You just—”
“Stop.”
Fluixon pressed his fingers hard against his darkened eyes. Jopiel loosened her grip at once, and he stumbled back, collapsing against the stone pillar. He scrubbed his face with dry hands, curled in on himself, and gasped for breath at intervals. Only after a long while did he finally speak.
“…I guess that’s true.”
With trembling hands, Fluixon carefully removed the laurel crown from his head. He set down the golden epaulets fastened to his cloak, the sword at his waist, the gilded bracelets, the rings. Like in some distant past, Fluixon—now dyed entirely black and colorless—handed every trace of himself over to Jopiel.
The rancid stench of oil stings the nose. The fire of Theria Tower has never once gone out since the nation’s founding, and the people kneel toward the obelisk. Fluixon no longer has knees to lean on, nor a heart to burrow into. He lifts his gaze to the quiet night sky.
Fluixon loves the sun.
From beginning to end, his sun was one—and only one.