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Jophiel was dead and Schpood didn’t care.

Crumpled on the floor was a letter from Lord Gabory—King Gabory, Schpood reminded himself—relaying the news. It had arrived too late, however. All of Yggdrasil knew about the successful assassination of not only Queen Jophiel, but multiple leaders throughout Pandora by the next day thanks to Sidefall News. The letter arrived by night, sealed hastily and containing the shaky handwriting of a terrified man thrust into power.

Westhelm would need to send support, Schpood thought idly. Or would they? Did that matter now?

Her letters sat on his desk, all opened and scattered. Not in a desperate attempt to seek the small pieces of her that he had. Of course not. He should burn them before they lingered on his mind too much. There was still much to do. The sun would set and rise on Westhelm, regardless of what or who was lost.

The sun rose the next day. Jophiel was still dead.

The mastermind responsible for the assassinations was on the run, Schpood heard during a round around Westhelm. His people gave no condolences, only a tense silence and a bow lower than usual, unlike Spyder whose first words that morning had been of consolation. But he waved away both the condolences and lack thereof.

The sun set on both islands. There was still much to do.

Saparata came to him. Schpood sent him away until, finally, he accepted him into Westhelm. He stood by the mediator and listened to his story. What started as a transactional relationship became something more. Schpood believed in him. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been excited at the prospect of delivering justice unto Infernus. And…Saparata had known Jophiel personally. The white haired masked man spoke often of her at the start, perhaps hoping it would appease the emperor. Though Schpood was annoyed at first, slowly, it won him over. He supported him when Saparata revealed the truth of who actually assassinated so many of Pandora’s leaders.

After Infernus was stormed and the blood of the mastermind behind the Conspiracy was spilled in the Colesseum, the Emperor was left alone to watch the sky begin anew.

It was a big risk on Saparata’s side. The mediator traveled to Pandora then back to Yggdrasil, to Westhelm. He gave the Emperor a small chest.

“King Gabory left her room as it was before she…” even then, Saparata couldn’t speak it. “He wanted to give this back to you but couldn’t figure out how. So, here I am.”

Schpood opened the chest. Inside were multiple envelopes, carefully bundled with thin twine tied around it and some dried flowers. He recognized it immediately.

“You didn’t have to return these. Better yet, these should have been buried with her,” he said, his voice neutral. But what right did he have in saying that? They never married. Could they even be counted as lovers?

“Well, they’re yours again,” Saparata said slowly. Carefully. Like he worried Schpood would go off on him in a rage. But Schpood didn’t—he wouldn’t, not after everything the two had been through. “For your peace of mind. They won’t fall into anyone else’s hands.”

Peace.

What was peace?

So much time and labor had been put into rebuilding what was lost. Days were spent merely burying the dead in a vast graveyard. Yet Schpood took solace in the fact that they’d been at peace. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the weight of their deaths on his shoulders. So many had died—under him, for him. For Westhelm, he tried to reason to himself, and buried any doubt.

Once all had settled, he stood by his bedroom window and watched the downpour outside. It rained all day, and the day prior too. People praised Ish for bringing it them, but Schpood doubted that the cunning god even had the power to do so. He could make things appear, him and his little helpers that floated around the islands, but making it rain? Impossible. His eyes lowered.

In the corner of the window was her face.

Blue eyes stared at him. The vision of her was blurred against the raindrops on the window. Schpood whirled around, expecting her to be standing there in his room behind him. He’d seen it in his dreams; her standing right outside his window, mouthing words he couldn’t hear. He’d never heard her voice before. Only read her letters over and over in the months since her death until the lines blurred and he memorized every sentence. When he looked around, his eyes laid on her portrait. He looked back at the window and realized it was reflecting on the glass.

“Ha!” A harsh laugh left him, almost an exhale from how hard it forced out from his chest. He rushed back to the window and forced it open, swinging the window panes so hard they clattered and cracked as they hit the wall.

Only the sound of the rain greeted him. He saw no queen, only looked out to Westhelm. Yet even then, he could have sworn he felt her. He could sense she was somewhere, somewhere far away where he couldn’t see. But where? The familiar sensation of fury filled him as he grabbed to the window sill and leaned forward.

“Do you haunt me to prove something?” he asked against the rain. His voice rose to a shout. “You prove nothing, Jophiel, only that you never should have meant a thing to me! Had I known you would leave me, I would have never written back!”

No matter where he looked, she was there. Some part of her would always be. In the trees, the wind, the rain and darkened skies; it felt like the very air itself was her presence. With a strangled noise, he shut the window, drenched from leaning out. Water dripped from him, leaving a trail as he stumbled further into his room. Even there, he found no comfort. The fire was lit and yet he was so unbearably cold.

Was she cold in her grave? Or had the maggots already consumed all of her?

His eyes went to her portrait again. Seeing that perfect smile, trapped in time, he walked towards it and grabbed the sword he’d thrown half-hazardly on the ground and never bothered to pick up.

“You left me,” he seethed quietly, his hand gripping the hilt. He pointed it at the small portrait of her at his desk. “You left me. Why make me feel anything for you when you would curse me with this?”

Her letters asking for their union spoke of peace between their islands. He scoffed at first, then came around to it the more they spoke. Tricolor was a good ally to Westhelm; her people defended them against the slander, she wrote to him in one letter. She dreamed so often of a day the two islands would overcome their fears and come together.

“When the border falls—whenever Ish becomes bored of how things are now—I hope your face will be the first I see. And peace will come at last. Wait for me. I promise, it will be worth it.”

“Peace? You longed for peace, and look what it brought you!” Wildly, he swung his sword. It hit a vase, then knocked down the chest containing both his letters and hers, which he’d crammed inside and shut away; they scattered onto the floor. “Do you wish to drive me mad?! Will this help your soul move on, watching me agonize over your death?!”

She wasn’t here. He wanted her to be, so desperately that he was willing to shout like a madman if it meant she’d draw near from the veil of death.

But no one came.

Sword still in hand, he began to grab the letters in a frenzy from the ground with his left hand. He threw them half-hazardly into the fireplace. Each letter that burned was one he’d recognized. Each letter was one he knew by heart. But not anymore. He didn’t stop until the letters had been cleared from the floor and had been shoved into the fireplace. At last, he stayed still and watched them burn. His eyes were fixed on one in particular, one he’d written to her. He watched the flames creep over the paper and swallow it up, leaving two words on the page—“I will”—before it turned to ash.

His sword clattered to the ground. No apologies spilled from his lips—even alone, he was too proud for that—but he sank to his knees and tangled his hands into his hair with a sigh.

They were not tragic lovers. They were strangers who came together for the greater good, whose only form of communication was now lying in ashes in his fireplace. If he thought of it as that, he could live with himself for it.

The days passed uneventfully. Then—

“Emperor Schpood. Sir Ezran has sent a letter containing insight on Infernus. He said he would answer your questions if you let him free.”

“What information does it hold, exactly?”

“What lies under the volcano.”

Schpood rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that the whole reason things went down? We know what they were hiding. Selfish till the end…”

“There’s more.”

It hadn’t exactly piqued his interest, but Schpood entertained it and took hold of the first document. His eyes quickly scanned over the words—Dante, the mining tunnels that lead further down—and snorted before tossing it aside. One of his advisors barely managed to grab it before it hit the floor.

“Were they so pretentious that they believed hell to be under their feet? Crazy bastards.”

He waved the documents and his advisor away.

And yet, it stuck to his mind.

The days continued. Sir Ezran sent another letter, then another. Though Schpood continued to scoff at it; he read every single one.

They called the volcano Dante. It was sacred to them. They were reluctant to let the Lingulini mafia mine, but had no choice but to let them. And in the end, it proved to be more valuable to Infernus and Queen Cynikka than any netherite would be.

The tunnels connected to ones that couldn’t possibly have been manmade. And they extended down, down below. Schpood recalled the miners from Westhelm who claimed they’d gotten lost multiple times, but it made sense considering so many were mining down there. Then again, weren’t there also reports that some got lost and never came back? He made sure people went in groups after that.

Then, what was down there?

Cynikka had been afraid of it.

Schpood rolled his eyes. “He’s bringing up the Infernus queen more and more in his letters,” he mumbled to himself. “What, does he mean to bring sympathy?” Even so, his eyes kept scanning the page. It didn’t come as a surprise that many of the more rash decisions Infernus made hadn’t come from the queen at all, but their king. Cynikka was the face of their kingdom. She was the one Schpood himself would coordinate with. It was no surprise, then, that everything about Infernus—its strengths and its downfall—were attributed to her.

What difference did it make of who truly made Infernus spiral into its end? Blood was shed regardless. Cynikka’s name would go down in history as a villain and nothing more. Jophiel’s name would go down in history as a martyr. Yet, Schpood pondered in the increasingly quiet days that passed, had both of them not sacrificed so much for their people?

Had Jophiel lived, had she and Schpood married, who was to say she would not have found his and his people’s more violent tendencies repulsive? Who was to say she would willingly stay by his side once she came to truly know him and every part of Westhelm? She yearned for peace, so much so she was martyred for it. He brought peace in her stead.

Had Jophiel lived, would Schpood have been the harbinger of death in Cynikka’s place? He’d been quite adamant on Operation Schpood and taking over both islands before her letters halted those plans. Had that place been predetermined, uncaring of who fell into the role so long as their name was tarnished and their blood was spilled in the end? Had Jophiel lived and been at his side, would he have doomed her?

He was sure of two things: Jophiel, no matter what, would have stood for fairness. She would have stood by Saparata. Schpood merely stayed alive long enough and grieved quietly enough to make that decision in her stead. Had she lived…

He brushed it away. These thoughts would never have come to his mind had it not been connected to Jophiel. He needed a drink.

Sir Ezran wrote back to Schpood almost immediately; he’d been kept in prison for long enough to grow desperate. He told him of how civilians of Infernus were forbidden from going into the mines. That whatever happened there was Dante’s retribution. Yet those who went against the Queen’s wishes and did go never came back the same. They spoke of whispers in the darkened tunnels; it was never pitch black, no matter how low they went. There was never light, but their eyes could always fix on a few feet ahead. Just enough to walk forward. Just enough to see a figure up ahead.

They spoke of ghosts and whispers. And then, Sir Ezran claimed that one of the civilians went into the mines and came back with someone else.

“I’ve never gone down myself and I don’t plan to,” the prince wrote. “But I saw it with my very eyes. They’d brought someone back from the dead.”

“Shit,” Schpood cursed out loud. He set the paper down and paced around his room.

Could it be true? Or was it merely the desperate ploy of a man who wanted freedom?

Schpood wrote back: “I suppose you’ll have your freedom once I look into it myself.”

Sir Ezran wrote only one sentence: “I hope you find who you’re looking for, Emperor.”

His new advisors, as expected, were against it. But he’d never really cared for the opinions of the new ones. So he packed his sword and rations and left Westhelm by morning.

Infernus was a struggle to get to, even now. There were still people around it, either dismantling whatever traps were still laid out or trying to salvage whatever they could find from the rubble. Barely anyone spared a glance to him, too caught up in what they were doing to notice that Westhelm’s emperor was among them. It took him nearly an entire day to traverse there and figure out which of the tunnels to go through. The sun was beginning to set.

“Going on a little vacation, huh Schpood?” came a familiar voice above him. Schpood turned and looked up to see Ish floating there, that same smile on his face. “While I agree it’s well deserved, I wouldn’t have thought this would, uh, be your first choice.”

“Ha. I guess you could call it something like that,” Schpood played along, resting a hand on his hip as he glanced back at the tunnels. It was still lit up with torches despite no longer being in use. “Perfect timing. I had something to ask about what lies below.”

“I don’t think there’s any netherite left inside. Plus, I didn’t think you were a miner.”

“That’s not it. I heard…” he waved a hand around. “…some things about Infernus. I’m just here to check it out.”

“…Ah.”

It was very uncharacteristic of Ish to go quiet. Schpood looked up to see that same smile on Ish’s face. With the setting sun behind him, Ish’s features were cast in shadow; there was no light in the god’s peering eyes. That easygoing smile had turned more unnerving.

“I didn’t think you would be the type to believe in rumors, emperor,” Ish smiled wider. Schpood felt himself tense.

“I do love a good tale or myth.”

“You’re treading into territory not many know of.”

Unable to keep up pretenses, Schpood burst out, “Someone came back from the dead. They were brought back from here.”

“And you believe it?”

“I know I have every reason not to.” But… his throat tightened. “Even so, I’ll see the truth for myself. Even if it means I’ll be running around the mines like a madman.”

For another tense moment, Ish said nothing. Then his smile grew. His lips parted—

“Hahahaha!”

Schpood flinched at the hysterical laughter. Ish settled down in mere moments, shaking his head.

“Oh, man—sorry. That’s just—I didn’t think you’d do it!” Ish said, wiping away an imaginary tear. “I wrote off this storyline for you because you barely ever showed a desperate enough reaction when someone died and… you’re hilarious. Why now?”

“Are you mocking me?” Schpood demanded. Ish shook his head.

“Alright. I’ll help you. Geez, give me a warning next time! Nothing would’ve happened!”

Schpood felt his chest squeeze. Was it irritation? Anxiety from how casually Ish was talking about toying with the world? Though Ish wasn’t the type of god that could make rain fall, he was the type of god who could set up events like a story and have the pieces fall into place. Ish straightened himself and dropped to the ground; his feet landed against the gravel with a quiet puff, scattering tiny rocks.

“Right then. Who exactly are you looking for?” Ish asked. “Spyder? Owo? No, it couldn’t be—that builder of yours? Knight Arcturus? You know he’s not dead yet, right?”

“No, no, and yes, I’m well aware,” Schpood snapped. His spies had yet to locate the man, despite everything. But that would wait until later.

“Then who?”

“Who else?”

“I really can’t think of anyone.”

“Ish.” Schpood spoke the god’s name with exasperation. Ish’s amused smile fell ever so slightly, then brightened again into that same uneasy one.

“Really?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just never took you for the romantic type, emperor.”

“It doesn’t matter what you think of me,” Schpood snapped.

“You didn’t even know her!”

“Yes, I did!”

“I mean, through letters, but seriously. She died how many months ago–“

“Do not,” his teeth grit together, “speak of her like that. Are you going to help me. Or not.”

“Yeesh, okay, okay.” Ish put his arms up in surrender. “I’ll help you.”

Schpood forced himself to relax. “Then what am I supposed to expect?”

Ish smirked. “Are you afraid of the dead, Schpood?”

“Of course not.”

“Of being alone?”

Schpood scoffed. “Be serious.”

“You’ll have to traverse the mineshafts left behind,” Ish said, gesturing to the opening. “There are torches now, but the further you go in, the more likely they’ll have been put out. And eventually, there’ll be none.” Schpood recalled Sir Ezran’s words. It lined up, at least. “You’ll still be able to see, though.”

“Okay,” Schpood exhaled, crossing his arms. “So I go down and then, what? I walk down until I find a cave of some kind? Or the lava?” Ish shook his head. “Then how am I meant to know when I’ve reached hell?”

“Well,” Ish said, “that’s the thing. It’s the tunnels themselves.”

Shit.

The thought of being alone for hours on end in the tunnels made him tense up.

“You’ll know when there aren’t any torches,” Ish continued.

“Then how am I supposed to find her if I’m going to search tunnel systems?” Schpood demanded.

“By find her…what exactly do you mean?”

“Bring her back, of course. Or—or if it’s really impossible, beg her to haunt me instead. I don’t know. I don’t care.”

“Well,” Ish sighed, “I suppose that’s the closest to sentimental I’ll see from you. All souls linger in a state of peace somewhere unless they wish to awaken. Only for moments at a time.”

Schpood’s heart leapt to his throat. “So I can bring her back.”

“It’s possible,” Ish said. “But I can’t guarantee that you’ll come across her for certain. And if you wish to give up on your quest and come back above, you will have to fight any apparitions that try to leave with you.”

“What, like ghosts?”

“Maybe. Are they souls of the dead? Memories that are desperate to cling to anyone alive? Tests to see how desperate you are?” Ish grinned. “What do you think, Emperor?”

The emperor rolled his eyes. “I’ll see it for myself. Thank you anyway.”

And so he began his search.

Just as Ish said, the further Schpood walked through the mineshafts, the less torches appeared. Eventually, he began to see that one in perhaps five torches had gone out. Then one in three. Then he came across no torches at all. Despite there not being a single light source, Schpood could still make out what was in front of him. Then came the crumbling of the walls; small stones that would be knocked to the floor.

Then came the whispers.

Schpood first heard them as he gave in and ate a portion of his rations. A hum from somewhere in front of him. He’d tensed before putting the food away and sneaking forward, yet no matter how far he walked, he couldn’t see a single person. It only unnerved him more. He started trekking down once more. Another whisper came, unintelligible. It echoed gently in the tunnels.

“Good day to you, but you’re most likely not who I’m looking for,” Schpood murmured in response, continuing on.

It felt like he’d descended for days on end without direction. His rations ran out; even so, he continued his descent. The voices grew more frequent. He heard whispers of those long gone. Some vaguely familiar, most not at all.

“You’re a long way from Westhelm,” came a whisper right beside his ear, from a man sent to the Commonwealth to die. Schpood held his ear and jerked back, but no one was behind him.

“Spyder?” Schpood managed to get out. The whispers continued but he couldn’t make them out. “Spyder, where are you?!”

His consul’s voice faded in and out. He tried to chase down the source, becoming more lost within the darkness. Then, the whispers stopped. Schpood let out a ragged breath, rubbing his face with his hand. If he stayed here any longer, he’d surely perish. He barely even knew where he was now. Shame burned in him at the prospect of giving up on his task, but he hadn’t seen a single figure, let alone Jophiel. He was exhausted, famished and dehydrated. He’d find his way back down here somehow.

So he turned around.

A hand grabbed at his ankle.

An undignified noise left him as he stumbled. Another grabbed his arm, pulling him backwards. The whispers had grown louder, grown into soft moans and sobs of “Emperor” and “take us with you”. His own people. Their voices hadn’t risen in volume; there were simply so many of them that they echoed harshly on the tunnel’s walls.

How it tore at his heart.

Something acidic rose to his throat as he grasped his sword and swung it at the phantom limbs. Another grabbed onto his leg, but he swung at that too. Then he ran up the pathway, heaving and choking on the thick air.

He couldn’t do this. He glanced behind him and watched the darkness swallow whomever had attempted to follow him. His sandaled foot stepped forward as he turned around, before he, once more, stopped in his tracks.

There, facing him, was the man behind the Conspiracy. Fluixon watched him with purple eyes that held nothing in them. Not a breath passed from his lips. Schpood wasn’t scared. No, he only held his sword tighter.

“Maybe. Are they souls of the dead? Memories that are desperate to cling to anyone alive? Tests to see how desperate you are? What do you think, Emperor?”

“It wouldn’t be so hard striking you down,” Schpood jeered at the man. “Was death by the hand of the only person that loved you not enough for you to rest in peace?”

Fluixon’s lips moved in a faint whisper. Schpood scoffed and raised his sword, but the black haired man raised a hand to stop him and whispered again.

“What?” Schpood demanded. Fluixon didn’t move nor grab him. Then again, this man had been the mastermind that led to the deaths of so many—including his beloved queen. Yet even in life, Schpood was sure he could have cut this young man’s throat before he could spout even a single lie. So Schpood inched forward and strained his ears.

Another whisper. Fluixon repeated it again and again until, finally, Schpood heard him: “Is there truly peace?”

Schpood jerked away until there was a decent amount of space in between them. Fluixon stopped whispering and only stared again, waiting for a response. Trying to act brave, Schpood scoffed.

“What, peace? Do you mean to tell me you did all of that for peace? Bastard. You don’t deserve an answer.”

He had Jophiel killed for peace? It was laughable. Every inch of Schpood wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands, but he knew it was for naught.

“Leave, before I strike you down.”

Fluixon stared. Then his lips moved again. This time he was uttering a single word. But Schpood wouldn’t hear him out anymore. He lifted his sword and ran at the apparition. Just before his sword swung down, he heard the whisper that fell from Fluixon’s lips—“Saps”—before the apparition disappeared. Only Schpood was left there, his feet frozen on the ground. Then he scoffed and sheathed his sword.

“You don’t deserve to speak his name after all you did.” He spat at the ground where Fluixon stood and trekked forward.

Who knew if these ghosts were even ghosts at all? Ish called them apparitions sent to test him. The ones of his people who’d starved or died for a good cause under his watch shook him to his core even now; he could understand those being fake. Prayed for it, really. He didn’t want to dwell on the suffering and could only hope those souls were at peace. Yet for the mastermind behind the Conspiracy to appear himself? For what reason? If it was meant to be a test to stop him, it was a feeble one. Unless, of course, his purpose was only to distract Schpood and keep him here in the tunnels of hell longer…

He grit his teeth and trekked faster. “I have to get out of here.”

It wounded him, hollowed him out even, that he would leave without any answers. When would be the next time he’d step foot in this darkened place? Would Jophiel ever forgive him, knowing he came here for her and was now willingly leaving without her? Not only did he feel like he was returning to the surface with his grief doubled, but he was returning as a failure. He’d failed his task. He was an emperor, and he couldn’t even do it. He couldn’t bring Jophiel back to the surface, to her people or his. To him. What was any of this for then? What did he suffer for?

Leave first, he thought bitterly, shutting his eyes and running a hand through his damp hair. Sweat still dripped down his forehead and temples. Mourn later.

Yet wasn’t that what he’d done the whole time? He was a fool. A failure. An emperor shouldn’t act like this. A truly great emperor wouldn’t have gone mad after losing a woman who hadn’t even been his.

And yet…

His eyes opened.

And there she was.

He didn’t register her at first. Her golden hair was loose down her back; in her portrait, it had been tied back. Yet the turquoise of her dress was the same. The pattern was the same. There was a crown atop her head, one he was certain held red, green, and blue gems at its three points. But he couldn’t see them, for her back was to him. She was turned away.

Unlike the other apparitions, this one didn’t say a word. Schpood’s sword clattered to the ground as he took unsteady steps backwards. Though he was still far from the light of day above, shadows were cast on her like the sun was right in front of her.

Even so—

“Jo…” his voice cracked in a way he'd only heard when he was nearly dying of starvation and dehydration. Even speaking her name aloud made his grief bloom fully in his chest. In that moment, he finally understood everything that Saparata spoke to him about grief—that he felt like it couldn’t fit in his chest, yet even so it remained and burned with a brightness that could have eaten him alive. Schpood felt it all. The tightness in the pit where his heart should have been. The loneliness in a bed he had never shared. The grief began to spill out from the sight of her.

Her.

Is it truly her, or is it an apparition?

Only Schpood’s gasp could be heard in the tunnel.

She didn’t move an inch. Didn’t even twitch.

Apparitions, Ish called them. Are they souls of the dead? Memories that are desperate to cling to anyone alive? Tests to see how desperate you are?

A test. To see if Schpood really was mad. To see if his resolve to come back with his love was true, or if he would let himself die trying. Yes, that was it. That was it. Though, he wasn’t ready to die. Not yet. If he couldn’t bring Jophiel to the surface to live again with him, that didn’t mean he wanted to die to be with her.

Though the apparition hadn’t moved, Schpood carefully bent down until he was nearly kneeling to pick up his sword. The blade scraped the stone floor as he held it up. The grief that choked him had transformed now into something he knew far too well. Rage.

“How dare you do this to me?” His voice was no longer trembling. The apparition didn’t even flinch, yet he marked it as having committed an unforgivable sin. How dare they take the image of his beloved to block his path? What more did he have to suffer through? Was it not enough? Did the gods enjoy watching him?

The apparition whispered.

He’d never heard her voice before. Her quiet tone was gentle and low, like a balm for a wound he let fester. Was this how it was then? Just another aspect of her to haunt him in his dreams? Another part of her he couldn’t have? Would he be blamed for wanting to put himself out of his misery?

He raised his sword, quivering in equal parts rage and sorrow, and stepped forward.

“There are many who say you’re mad, Emperor, for going through all this when you have already attained peace.” Ish’s voice cut through the silence. It echoed from in front of Jophiel. In the next moment, Schpood could barely make out a suited figure standing there.

“Quiet,” Schpood snapped, though he was glad to have a reason to stop his sword.

“Half of your people are convinced you do this out of guilt for a marriage that never was, but that doesn’t suit your character, does it?” Something in the walls crumbled in front of her and Ish, up where the sunlight was. The view of Jophiel’s back to him in the darkness instead of her smile to him in the sunlight made his stomach churn. This wasn’t where she belonged. “The other half are convinced you have returned to your madness for love. Yet that doesn’t suit you either.”

“What is the point of tormenting me?” Schpood demanded. “Send away this apparition and let me see her!”

“Answer me first, Emperor. Do you love her?”

“Why do you think I’m here, bastard?” Schpood demanded. “If not for love, then what?”

A huff of a laugh. “And do you think she loves you?”

…did she?

Schpood froze on the spot. They’d exchanged letters. He could read the affection dripping from each of the words written on the paper clearly. That was why he’d come all this way. It had been an arranged marriage, but in time they fell in love.

To doubt her love would truly drive him mad.

“Of course.”

“Then what are you doing?” Ish snorted, like it was all a game. Like Schpood wasn’t poised to strike down the image of the woman he suffered for. “You’re nearly halfway to the surface–“

“I’m well aware,” Schpood interrupted, even though he wasn’t.

“–and yet, somehow, you’ve found the chance to bring her with you. So why is your sword raised?”

Oh, by all the gods above.

Schpood threw his sword to the ground with a ragged exhale.

“No—no, that—that is an apparition,” he began to stammer despite his denial, heat rising in his body from the shock of what he’d nearly done. “Is it not a test? To mock me for losing resolve, to stop me and leave me to die here to be with her?”

“If it was, why hasn’t she grabbed you? You must be the luckiest man alive,” Ish said. How could he speak like that? Like he hadn’t purposefully gotten into Schpood’s head and made him doubt? “You found her on your way up and barely missed losing your only chance.”

The apparition—no, Jophiel, whispered again. Yet Schpood was so overcome with relief and joy that he couldn’t hear.

“Then I…I did it. I did it!” Oh, how sweet it felt. He wanted to rush to her and embrace her, yet he stopped in his tracks for fear of his hands going through her. He wouldn’t let their first meeting be ruined. If he didn’t think of the fact that she was dead, he could pretend she was anything but. She wasn’t see-through or anything of the like, but still. Jophiel whispered again, and he nodded, “Yes, I know. Come home with me. I can take you home, where you belong, at last.”

Yet as he took another step, Jophiel disappeared.

All of the air from his lungs rushed out. Schpood made a strangled noise and rushed forward towards Ish as if she’d somehow hid behind the god. Yet when he came face to face with him and found that it was only them, he grabbed fistfuls of Ish’s suit.

“Where is she?” Schpood demanded. “Where is she?!” Now, he truly sounded like a madman. “I was so close! So close! How could you—you lying piece—!”

Ish put his hands up. “Have you tried looking behind you?”

Another pause.

Schpood let go at once and whirled around. And there she was. She was facing him this time, looking even more beautiful than she’d been in her portraits. How he could have fallen to his knees at the sight of her. Her expression didn’t change nor betray any happiness; it remained still. Not calm per se, but blank. Her lips moved again as Schpood drew near and reached a hand out to ghost over her cheek, not making contact.

His heart was beating straight in his ears; he barely made out the words Ish said behind him, “You aren’t the only one who believes she deserves a second chance. So many have wept for her fate—those in the present, who knew her or of her, and those in the future, who will hear her legacy. It tugs even at my heartstrings.”

Schpood spoke without turning around, his eyes fixated on memorizing each part of Jophiel’s face. “Then let me take her home.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

The emperor clenched his hand into a fist and drew it away. He wouldn’t show Jophiel his frustration. So he turned around and glared at the god, whose amusement had faded into something serious.

“I have a condition,” Ish said.

“Then hurry and name it.”

“I can’t make it easy for you, you know. Just think of it as something to…balance your luck, shall we say. A test from a tale.”

“I have had enough of your tests,” Schpood spat. He’d spit at the floor if he could.

“First, answer my question again. Without hesitation.”

“What?”

“Does your queen love you?”

“Yes.” Schpood hadn’t thought to turn around to search her features for an answer. He answered confidently in her stead. Jophiel whispered something—words of agreement, he knew it instinctively.

“And you trust her.”

“She has given me no reason not to.”

Ish smiled.

The god vanished from sight, to Schpood’s relief. He turned around to meet Jophiel’s gaze, beaming at her. Then, Ish’s aggravating voice rang out all around him, as though coming from the walls of the tunnel itself:

“Turn around, Emperor.”

Another bead of sweat. Uncertainty filled him as he did as Ish instructed, turning away from Jophiel. He couldn’t even feel her gaze pierce into his back. How he wished he could.

“Make your way back up to the surface. If you trust your queen to follow you, she will. But if you turn around to look at her, she will return to death’s embrace and you will continue on without her.”

“What? That’s—that’s bullshit!

“It’s a small price to pay for stealing her away from death, don’t you think?”

Already, Schpood wanted to argue. What kind of shitty condition was that? But after everything, he was just so tired. He’d already given up on the idea of bringing her home when she appeared before him. He couldn’t bring himself to truly deny it. Just deal with it, and he’d take her home to Westhelm—by his side, where she belonged. She couldn’t be there now, yet, but she would be up above.

So Schpood spoke to her without turning around, “Let’s go.”

He took two steps forward before realizing he couldn’t hear any behind him.

“Jophiel?”

His chest tightened again. He’d felt anxiety before. Back when Westhelm was struggling or when he had survived multiple assassination attempts. This weakness he felt…he thought he would never have to feel it again. But only he was to blame for it. He had to trust her.

So Schpood began to walk forward.

At first, only his footsteps accompanied the silence. Then Jophiel began to whisper again in long sentences; her voice was softer now, not even against the walls. He had to really strain his ears to hear some words “feel”, “peace”, and “you”. He smiled.

“You have no idea how I feel,” he murmured, his eyes fixed ahead of them. He touched his scabbard and found it empty. Shit. It was left on the ground from before. Cursing under his breath, he stopped to go back.

At the last second, he stopped.

“I’m an idiot,” he groaned, forcing himself to keep walking. His hand dragged along his face. “Help me a bit, hm? We both know you’re the smarter of the two of us.” Jophiel began to speak again—faster this time, but he chuckled. “Berating me already?” Then she fell silent. He hoped she wasn’t offended; he’d often daydreamed about it. Despite her kindness and sweetness, Jophiel was a strict and intelligent leader. Surely she would have had no problem coming here and finding him in the tunnels. She would have succeeded Ish’s task easily, unlike him… His self-deprecation drifted away into the silence again. “At least I can hear you.” Or, he could catch the tones of her voice. “It’s my first time. You have a…well…ahem. Your voice is rather lovely. Well, you yourself are lovely.” He felt himself tense at the growing silence and rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn it all. At least you are already aware of how terrible I am at putting my thoughts into words. Remember how much I struggled in my early letters?”

The letters. His heart stopped as he remembered; his foot dragged before he picked up the pace.

“Ah…you won’t be pleased with me, learning this, but, well…” he laughed nervously. “Those may or may not exist anymore. Well. They do, possibly, exist somewhere…er, scattered in the wind, as a poet might say. Like, a very literal poet. Um. As in, they may have been burned and their ashes were scattered to the wind, kind of poet.”

He waited for some words of protest or, perhaps if she felt merciful, a laugh. But Jophiel still didn’t say a word.

He tried again, “Tricolor is recovering. Admittedly, it was never the same after your passing. But King Gabory has done all he could in your absence, and I believe his efforts paid off well. Your people still proved to be the most valuable allies Westhelm could hope for. I believe the king is already planning on passing the throne to another, though I cannot remember for the life of me who. You know how I am with…with meetings.” Did she? Did he ever mention that in any of his letters? He couldn’t remember at the moment. “I’m terrible with them. Honestly, I just gave him my pleasantries and boasted about Westhelm and let him talk about Tricolor while my mind wandered off. Yes, I’ll admit it’s not the best diplomatic behavior…” Not even a laugh. When he wrote all his letters, he imagined her smiling to herself or even sparing a laugh or two at his tirades or silly rambles. He would have thought she’d say something in regards to Tricolor. But she didn’t.

Why? Was she angry with him? That couldn’t be. He’d gone through so much to bring her back with him. They were more than halfway up to the surface now; he recalled vaguely turning three times when he first traveled downwards. Just a little more and he could bring her home.

He was so close. Yet in the silence, with only his own voice and footsteps echoing through the decrepit walls, his mind began to wander.

Where is she?

She must have been behind him. Was she a little further away? Maybe that was why he couldn’t hear her whispering. Yet he’d heard her fine a moment ago to catch those few words of how she felt at peace with him. It unnerved him, admittedly, only hearing her voice as proof she was even there before fading into the silence. Leaving only his footsteps.

Almost like…

He stopped in his tracks.

Almost like Spyder, whose whispers Schpood heard as he descended. Whose whispers spilled through cracks of the walls as Schpood stopped. He hadn’t seen Spyder at all. Was that really his consul’s voice then?

Then did that mean those hands that grabbed him and the voices that begged him–

Schpood hastily shook his head. He started up the path again. No, those must have been tests to stop him. He couldn’t accept the thought of their souls being in any pain. It had to have been mere illusions, just as Fluixon had been. For whatever godforsaken reason the man appeared before him. He’d think about it later.

But, he thought idly, what did that make Jophiel?

If all of those had been illusions…

Schpood shook his head harder and began to walk faster. Ish told Schpood himself that she was Jophiel. That Schpood had been a lucky man. Though Ish was a sly and cheeky god, he wouldn’t have lied about that.

…

Would he?

Another bead of sweat fell down Schpood’s temple, even though it was no longer blisteringly hot the closer they got to the surface. After all, Ish lived for entertainment. He lived for triumph and failure, for blessing and tragedy, for solemnity and mischief.

Who was to say the man wouldn’t lie to him merely to spin Schpood’s journey into yet another tragedy?

“Jophiel,” Schpood quickly spoke her name aloud with a desperation he knew didn’t suit him. “Are you there?”

The walls didn’t shake, nor did the floor. He heard not even a ghost of a footstep from her or the pierce of her eyes on his back. But then he heard another series of whispers and caught two words—“turn” and “go”.

Relief filled him, yet this one wasn’t as sweet and adrenaline racing as his previous one had been. Schpood nodded to himself and forced himself onward. If he didn’t trust her, then what? What had he done all of this for? He couldn’t lose her now.

“You already left me for death’s embrace once,” he murmured, sounding much less at ease now. “I won’t let you leave me again.”

It was love. It had to have been. Because if it wasn’t, then what did that mean? He wanted her—of course he wanted her, he’d literally gone through hell and back just to have her!

He laughed to himself. “Perhaps I really am mad, Jophiel. I thought my mind cleared when Saparata came to me.” He heard her whisper: Saparata? “He’s doing well. He comes to Westhelm even now but has settled down in Pandora where he originally hailed. You’ll get to see him soon.”

He’d be a liar if he said the sound of her whispering another man’s name before his own didn’t make his throat tighten and irritation spike in his blood.

“You were close before your assassination. I heard that from him,” Schpood continued. “At one point, I had thought you may have been siblings, but he denied it. I suppose it wouldn’t make much sense. He said your ancestors were close before and that must have been why your lives were so connected. I won’t lie and say I’m not envious.”

Silence. Another sigh left his lips.

“What am I doing… I don’t want to show you this side of me. Something so unsightly.” Yet, haven’t I been showing an unsightly side from the start? It made him groan, wanting to tear at his hair. “Forgive me, please. I promise you, you…you will never stray from my side once we make it above. We’ll never be apart again. Our wedding ceremony will be the most grandiose both islands have ever seen and…and we’ll be happy. You’ll be happy. I’ll make you the happiest you’ve ever been in your life. This I swear to you.” He laughed to fill the silence and was too exhausted to flinch at how terribly pathetic he sounded. “Not even death can take you from me anymore, Jophiel. So don’t look for peace anywhere else. Just stay by my side…”

His hand pressed to the wall. He took another step forward, then another. The sun was nowhere to be seen; it must have been around midnight now, with how dark it was outside the tunnels. He wanted to see her in the sunlight, but that could wait for another time. The gravel crunched two pairs of feet. God, even now, being in Infernus gave him the creeps. There must have been a million unrestful souls wandering the soil here. If ghosts really were here, shouldn’t they have been in the tunnels? Never mind it.

He blinked. He’d made his way towards the edges of the volcano, where they’d no doubt have to climb. But they were out. Even the breath of fresh air he breathed in wasn’t anything compared to the feeling of freedom he’d felt in his chest.

And right as he turned to her, his cracked lips pulled into an almost manic smile, he heard her voice clear as day: “How could you?”

“I—what?” His smile twitched. The sight of her now in the darkness of night and not the tunnels made his stomach churn. For a split moment, he’d feared he turned too soon. He heard of that tale—that tragedy, he realized much too late, of a man who loved a woman so much that he failed in his task of bringing her home. But Jophiel was staring back at him. Her face wasn’t blank anymore. Her blue eyes were wide and reddened; tears fell down her cheeks. Her eyebrows were pinched together. She stared at him like he was anything but the man who’d risked everything for her. Schpood’s stomach churned in his chest. “Why—why are you crying? What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” He reached for her but she only flinched away.

“You didn’t…! You…you…!”

“Jophiel, what’s wrong? Please don’t cry,” he pleaded, trying once more to hold her face. This time, she didn’t move away. She only cried harder; her wails filled the open air as he tried his best to reassure her, to calm her down. “It’s over now. Why aren’t you happy? I fulfilled Ish’s task! I–“

“You never–“ she choked out, her teeth grinding together. This wasn’t fitting of a queen, he thought in the back of his mind. He hadn’t exactly behaved as an emperor this entire time, he realized immediately after. They’d only been two people; he’d been desperate for her, and she… “I kept trying to tell you—you never even tried to–to listen—!”

“What? What did I not hear?”

“I told you!” her voice rose into a shout, making him flinch back. “That I was at peace! That I was content! I kept telling you to turn around and let me go, but you wouldn’t listen!”

That struck him more than any blade had cut into his skin. “But…but how could that be? Why would you want that?” Despite himself, his frustrations grew. His voice rose to a shout to match hers, “I came for you! You left me alone in this world after softening my heart and leaving it to wither without protection, and you expected me to let you go?! When I had the opportunity from the gods themselves?”

“You were fine!” she shouted back. “I saw you—you were doing well. Westhelm was doing well. I was finally at peace when everything was over–“

But he only barked out a laugh. “Fine? You truly believed that?” He stepped towards her and grasped onto her arms. Even as she tried to move away and push him off, he held onto her tightly. “You took my heart and soul with you when you died. Carved them right out of my chest and left me with a gaping hole. How could I not go after you? Don’t you understand?”

“That is obsession,” she seethed, “not dedication.”

“Love is what it is!”

“Love? Is that what you call it? You love me so much that you wouldn’t even turn to see if I was there?” Jophiel retorted.

“I…! Ish told me not to! It was the only condition–“

“How can you be so blind?!”

“Just stop!” Schpood all but screamed. His voice carried out into the distance. Only when it faded did he realize that Jophiel’s lips were pressed tightly together. Despite the tears that fell, there was an expression on her face completely opposite of the one on the portrait he’d treasured since the day it was delivered to him.

Resentment.

It struck him through the heart. And the moments that followed were met by nothing at all. It made him want to flinch as he remembered how he walked in silence the entire way up from the underworld. He let go of her arms—by the gods above, how could he hold her like that? How could he make her hate him? This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“Jophiel?”

Only silence met his trembling voice.

“I’m listening now, I promise,” he said. “Though we may be at odds, you’ll see in time that I made the right decision.”

But she didn’t say a word, only continued to stare like he’d killed her all over again. But he brought her back! She could live again, fulfill all of what she was unable to before she died! They could be together! He’d stolen her from death…

Hadn’t he succeeded?

Hadn’t he?

Even long after Westhelm fell, the legacy of its Emperor lived on. Bards wrote ballads of how he stood by Saparata and brought justice without mercy. His rather impulsive and eccentric character was a subject of many songs about him. However, as the decades went on, one tale was preserved even when no one remembered how the emperor was arrogant or hated meetings. The tale of how he was driven mad after losing the woman meant to be his empress. He delved into the tunnels of Dante, snatched her away from Death’s embrace despite her pleas for him to let her go, and forced her to stay with him in the land of the living.

At that moment, such a tale hadn’t yet come to be. As the queen continued to cry while he helplessly watched, Schpood could have sworn he heard Ish’s manic laughter in the distance, and a million voices that were wishing for his success fell silent.