Chapter Text
Find me someone to blame
Find me somewhere to aim
And I don't know no right or wrong
A melody without a song
“REVENANT” — The Warning
–
The Dovebrook District carries the sort of quiet that writhes. Planarcadia is restless, has always been, but on the streets of Dovebrook that overlook the river, the energy becomes kinetic. It zips under his skin, nipping at his Shadow, pulling him forward and back like the tides that reflect the sleeping moon.
The night is blue and starless. The clouds refract the city lights, glowing softly, gently, cradling the moon as it kisses the skyscrapers. It melts into ivory upon the waves of the river, broken up by idle waves. Smudges of orange reflect the street lanterns. Moths dance underneath them, hungry and dumb.
Ashveil’s wrist aches.
He has been relying on his Shadow too much. It gnaws at him with serrated teeth. It writhes like the quiet, desperate to break free. If he let it, it would eat the moon and then the planet and then the world.
He glances to the side, half-expecting Mr. N to be there, but he isn’t. Ashveil gave him the night off. There is no one in this corner tucked away behind the salons and karaoke lounge. It’s far enough away that he can’t hear the cracking voices of patrons yelling into microphones anymore. He chuckled at it on his way here, but now there is nothing to break that writhing quiet, not even Mr. N’s dramatic narrations.
With a sigh, Ashveil looks back up at the sky. Midnight blue and glowing. Phantasmoon full and asleep.
“No stars tonight, either,” he mumbles. As if it would be any different. As if there will come a night where the entire city would shut off all its lights just to let him see the stars.
Planarcadia is not kind enough for something like that.
Once upon a time, there had been stars all around him. They streaked across the sky in a dazzling array of colors, warm and bright. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose and the echo of a gunshot rung in his ears like the crack of thunder. There was no quiet then—only noise, laughter and cheers and voices all calling out to each other. There was no Phantasmoon, either, only the wide expanse of a black sky, his stars trailing across steady and beautiful.
Even with the clouds lit up and the moon full, this sky is so unbearably dark.
He feels his hundreds of years pressing on him most insistently on nights like these. All of his joints ache, his wrist most of all, and he has to lean on his cane more than he’d like to admit, and his right hand tingles as if recovering from numbness. It will never recover, of course, not when his Shadow curls around it so tightly. He doesn’t think he will ever recover, either, despite telling himself that this is retirement.
He smiles wryly to himself. Retirement. What a joke.
There is no retiring from justice, no pension or savings plan. The Divine Skybow will always aim somewhere, and Ashveil has always been the one to loose the arrow. As long as his enemies are out there, he must stay alive.
If he really wants to rest, then he needs to die. But if he were killed, then there would be a few straggling stars that would avenge him, and he can’t have that. Not anymore.
“Lately, word is the ‘One-Eyed Owl’ has picked up your scent. She tracked down the brothers you were providing for in Moria and took their eyes, hoping to see your location through them.”
He curls his hands around the head of his cane, the ridges of the sculpted wolf digging into his fingers, its silver fangs biting into the pad of his thumb.
He is a coward. He knows the only way to end this is to die, but he can’t even do it himself. He has to agree to a backhanded deal with the IPC and engage in an Aeonic game that will only harm more people. All for some selfish wish.
If only they believed La Mancha had died back then. These days, it only becomes more true.
“Ashen Detective Mr. Ashveil! I thought it was you!”
He startles, turning to see—
Stelle of the Astral Express. Alone for the first time since he’s met her. She doesn’t look alarmed to see him, only surprised, her eyebrows raised and her yellow eyes Stellaron-bright. She’s carrying something like paperwork in her arms.
“Good evening, young Nameless,” he replies with a small dip of his head. “Running an errand at this late hour?”
She laughs, a touch sheepish. “Miss Nihilux asked me to get a few files she left after today’s signing. I was already out and about anyway.”
“Goodness, you’re always doing something. Do you sleep? Even heroes need rest, you know.”
“You’re one to talk.” She purses her lips petulantly. “Do you always brood on the side of the river in the middle of the night?”
It’s so blunt that he laughs. “Not always. I have to play the part of the detective, don’t I?”
She squints at him. It would be funny if her gaze wasn’t so sharp. In the short time he’s known her, he’s realized she’s a far cry from the Baseball Raccoon portrayed in Fluffy Across the Blue. For all the jokes she cracks and all the courage she demonstrates, she is unnervingly astute. She is not as foolish as the comic makes her out to be.
He forgets that sometimes, but he remembers it now as her eyes pierce through him. Indeed, this is the Nameless that has defeated false gods and Lord Ravagers.
“You are a detective,” she says at last. Her expression softens with a smile. “You’re retired, right? So now you can focus on finding lost pets and exposing cheaters and whatever.”
He exhales half of a laugh. “I don’t take on infidelity cases anymore, but I do help out some of the kids around here by acting as their dad in student conferences.”
“Wow,” she says slowly. “Business must be even slower than I thought.”
“Hey—”
“Mr. Ashveil,” she interrupts, “we’re going to Seafeld City tomorrow for lunch. It’ll be me, March, Dan Heng, and Sunday. Since you’ve lived here for a while now, you know how to get around, right? Why don’t you be our guide?”
He stares at her. The Nameless have been in Planarcadia for several days already, and the IPC has been sucking up to them all the while. If they hadn’t already explored Seafeld City before the Fulwish battle, there surely would’ve been an official guide to show them around. And in any case, they’d already made plans to go. Why would they need him all of a sudden?
He can’t figure it out. Mr. N is the one in charge of deduction, not him.
“You want this old man to crash your lunch plans?” He laughs. “I’d be more like your chaperone.”
She shrugs. “If we count the years we were in Amphoreus, we’d probably be older than you.”
He blinks. “Is that so?”
“Yup. So are you in or not?”
He taps his fingers against the head of his cane. “I… guess. If you really want me there.”
“We do.” She nods decisively. “I’ll meet you at the station at twelve o’clock sharp. Don’t be late!”
He opens his mouth to respond, but she’s already turned around and headed down the street, gray hair fluttering behind her. Much like all the other Nameless he’s met, she comes and goes like a storm. Her certainty in self-made chaos is familiar.
He looks back up at the sky.
Tiernan, he thinks, your juniors are just like you. Always coming and going as they please.
He offers the sky a smile and bows his head. But of course, I’ll take care of them for you. Old Isee would’ve done the same.
☽☾
Ashveil doesn’t know any of the current Nameless particularly well, but he knows this: Stelle has a Stellaron inside her, Dan Heng is the former High Elder of the Vidyadhara, Sunday is the former Head of the Oak Family, and March 7th is a mysterious girl who carries the cool, smoky scent of the Remembrance. Altogether, they make quite the eclectic group of people. And considering their past achievements, they are quite the capable group of people as well.
But Ashveil has met plenty of big shots before—more than he can count—and at the end of the day, these are really just kids. No matter how many strong opponents they defeat, no matter how long they were in Amphoreus, no matter how Dan Heng and Sunday remain calm and composed at all times, they are still so young.
Stelle and March are the most talkative and expressive and therefore the most obviously immature, but Ashveil still notices how Sunday keeps getting distracted by the sky. He gazes up at it with barely concealed awe, his posture still perfect, his hands still perfectly clasped in his lap, but there is a near-imperceptible twitch of his wings as his eyes sweep across the sky. He carries a quiet sort of curiosity, almost child-like, only apparent if one looks close enough. He barely speaks at all, only observes and listens.
Dan Heng speaks a bit more, often to defend himself because Stelle and March target him in their banter the most. He joins their conversation with a fond sort of exasperation, looking all the part of an older brother getting dragged into something he deems too frivolous. But Ashveil still notices how gently he smiles at them, how amusement lights up his eyes like sea glass, how he laughs at even the dumbest of jokes and then acts like he didn’t.
The day is perfect: the sky is the brilliant color of forget-me-nots, the clouds are fluffy and white, and the warm air is tempered by the occasional breeze that carries the salt of the sea. The Phantasmoon isn’t visible from this side of the city, so there’s no big ball in the sky winking at them, thank goodness.
Apparently, it was March’s idea to get take-out so they could eat by the docks—she says it’s for the “vibes”—and while Stelle never asked Ashveil what he wanted, he ends up with his own box of fried fish and rice balls all the same. It’s the first full meal he’s had in weeks.
When he asks how much he owes them for the food, the crew looks at each other like he asked if he could slice the Astral Express in half.
“What?” Ashveil chuckles, half amused and half self-conscious. “You paid for it, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah.” March rubs the back of her head. “But you don’t owe us for it. Did you really think we were gonna ask you to pay?”
“Mr. Ashveil, you don’t need to give us anything,” Dan Heng says. “It’s just lunch. We’re honored that you could come.”
“Yeah!” March suddenly bursts out, eyes wide and sparkly. “I never thought I’d be eating lunch with the leader of—”
Stelle elbows her in the ribs, making her yelp, as Dan Heng glares daggers at her, all calm and kindness gone. Sunday looks between all of them nervously, hands still clasped, his wings twitching. He glances at Ashveil’s cane—not for the first time—before he looks back up to meet his eyes.
“Your presence is all that’s needed, Mr. Ashveil,” he says gently as March fusses at Stelle for having an unusually sharp elbow. “Thank you for coming.”
With the others preoccupied with another argument that Dan Heng tries to break up, Ashveil offers the cane to Sunday. “You wanna hold it?”
Sunday startles, wings fluffing up just a bit before relaxing again. He looks down at the cane then at Ashveil’s face then back and forth again. “I didn’t mean— I was… I was looking at the design. The craftsmanship is incredible.” His wings flutter about his face, unsure, as he glances back down at the cane, perfect posture broken as he leans towards it. Remembering himself, he straightens back up and meets Ashveil’s eyes again. “I apologize.”
Is this kid not allowed to show interest in things? What kind of people run the Family?
“What are you apologizing for?” Ashveil smiles at him and plops the cane in Sunday’s lap. “Here. You can take a closer look at it.”
“Um—” Sunday grabs the cane so it doesn’t fall, but he looks back at Ashveil as if to make sure it’s really okay to hold it.
“Go on. It won’t bite.”
Slowly, Sunday settles the cane more comfortably on his lap and turns it to take in all the details. He runs his finger over the silver, careful and deliberate as he follows the snaking lines of twin moons and ornate metalwork. When he finds scratches and dents, he pauses to study them.
“I’ve had that thing for a while,” Ashveil says, a little embarrassed. “I should probably get it touched up soon, but. Well. It still works, at least for now.”
He doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t have the money to smooth over all the marks or replace the chipped tooth. Eventually, he’ll need a replacement, but no one can match Yingxing’s work. At least his prosthetic is in better condition.
“It’s beautiful,” Sunday says. “This was made to aid you in your journey wherever you go, so of course it will end up changed.” He lifts it with gentle hands to give it back. “Thank you for sharing it with me, sir.”
Ashveil laughs, caught off-guard. “‘Sir’? We’ve already fought together once, kid, no need to be so formal.”
Stelle suddenly leans over Sunday’s shoulder. “Yeah, Sunny, you don’t need to be so formal. Why don’t you tell him what you said about the IPC last—”
Sunday’s wing whacks her in the face as he maintains his perfect posture and perfect smile. “I will not.”
“Oh, now I’m curious.” Ashveil grins at them. “I can’t imagine Sunday saying anything bad about anyone.”
“That’s because you don’t know Sunday,” March says over his other shoulder. “It took him forever to get comfortable enough with us, but if we really want to get his opinion on something, we have to do it when Himeko and Mr. Yang aren’t there.”
“He’s probably better at deduction than you, Mr. Detective,” Stelle says and ignores Dan Heng’s following admonishment. “But he won’t share what he deduces unless you ask him a few times. And when it comes to the IPC—”
“He has a lot to say,” March finishes.
Sunday closes his eyes and sighs, his arms crossed. “None of that is relevant. Why are you guys bringing it up?”
“To help you make friends with Mr. Ashveil!” Stelle says as she shakes his shoulder. She dodges his wing this time. “You need more friends, Sunny. It makes me sad.”
“Why must you always embarrass me whenever we meet with a dignitary of great renown?” Sunday mumbles. Two smaller head wings materialize behind his ears to hide his face as his original wings twitch fretfully.
Ashveil knows that behind every hero there is a real, breathing person underneath, someone who cries and laughs and yells like anyone else. He’d become disillusioned a long time ago—long before there were Galaxy Rangers. But he fought with these kids less than a week ago, had seen this little Halovian with tendrils of thorns wrapped around him shoot up into the air like a golden star and break the sky apart. He saw Stelle come back to life and pierce Fulwish’s heart with a lightstick. He saw Dan Heng disregard all past grievances with Yingxing in order to calm him, diving forward with the power of cloudhymn.
It’s still surreal to see them like this: Stelle poking Sunday’s wings as March tries to braid a piece of his hair as inconspicuously as possible, Dan Heng watching them with a strange combination of disapproval and adoration.
They remind Ashveil of his rowdy wolf cubs.
“I’ve always been a friend of the Nameless,” he says, gaze drifting to the sky. He doesn’t blame Sunday for getting distracted by it; it’s such a perfect blue that it’s almost hypnotizing. He snaps his gaze back to them. “So at the very least, you can add one to the tally, little Halovian. Though, ah, I suggest meeting someone your age. This old man isn’t much fun to be around.”
“I think you’re very fun to be around,” March pipes up. “Maybe you can teach him not to be so high-strung.”
Sunday peeks an eye over a wing to glare at her. “Miss March—”
“Mr. Ashveil is a valuable friend to all of us,” Dan Heng says, pragmatic as always. “March, leave Sunday alone. He won’t talk to us for the rest of the day if you keep this up.”
“Stelle started it.” March huffs.
As they dissolve into more bickering, Ashveil replays the words over and over: A valuable friend.
If he were a few hundred years younger, maybe. If he didn’t have giant nails stabbed through his wrist to keep his Shadow contained, if he hadn’t unleashed it all those Amber Eras ago, if he hadn’t killed the people he killed and hadn’t died that day in the wreckage of his homeland, the soul of La Mancha bleeding out into alleys as the overcast sky frowned down at him in pity, then yes, maybe he would be worth something.
But he is not that man anymore. He is Ashveil—a washed up detective with arthritis and an empty wallet. He’s not sure how much value that holds to the Nameless. He knows it’s not worth very much at all, but somehow, there are still a few wolf cubs that come tumbling to his door no matter how many times he shoos them away.
When Sunday catches his eye and tilts his head, brow furrowing the slightest bit, frowning in concern, and when Dan Heng follows his gaze to check Ashveil over from head to toe as if looking for injury, and when Stelle and March share a glance before offering Ashveil the rest of the butter pastry they’d been eating, they all look very much like those wolf cubs staring up at him at his door.
Actually, back then when he had revealed his true identity to save them from certain death, Stelle had asked him about Boothill and Rappa. He had feigned ignorance then if only to further separate himself from a life that is no longer his, but he sees the resemblance now—all shiny eyes, concerned frowns, compassion written across their faces plain as day.
Of course they know each other. Of course they’re friends.
Ashveil smiles and accepts a small piece of the pastry. He refuses to take any more despite March’s insistence. “Young heroes need to eat well,” he says. “Can’t be wasting all your food on some old geezer.”
March puffs out her cheeks. “I’m not wasting it if I’m sharing it!”
“Then don’t share all your food with some old geezer.”
Suddenly, quicker than lightning, Stelle shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth. He sputters and covers his mouth, figuring he should hold onto whatever dignity he has left even as he struggles not to choke.
“Stelle!” Dan Heng scolds. “Are you out of your mind? He’s our guest!”
“I’d rather we waste it than kill him with it!” March says, casting Stelle a glare.
“Are you all right, Mr. Ashveil?” Sunday asks gently, leaning towards him with a hand outstretched.
The pastry isn’t so much dry as it is flaky, so it takes him a moment to swallow it all down. He coughs through a few particularly difficult gulps before he smiles at all of them in reassurance. “I’m not going out yet! Whew, that was more difficult than the fight with Fulwish.”
All four of them slump in relief. March nudges Stelle with her shoulder, imploring her with her eyes, as Dan Heng and Sunday both mumble apologies on her behalf.
Before Ashveil can wave them off, Stelle mutters, “Sorry, Mr. Ashveil. I won’t shove any more pastries in your mouth.”
March nudges her again.
“Or any fish.”
A harder nudge.
Stelle sighs. “Or any other food.”
“Don’t shove anything in anyone’s mouths, Stelle,” Dan Heng says, rubbing his temple with closed eyes.
“She is very…” Sunday falters, wings furling and unfurling. “Very enthusiastic about making friends is all, Mr. Ashveil.”
Ashveil breaks, then, properly taking in all their expressions, smiling wide enough that his cheeks ache, laughing hard enough that his ribs strain, the sound pulled right from the center of his chest. He doubles over his cane, gripping the head with both hands so he doesn’t fall to the ground.
There’s stunned silence for a few seconds before an entirely undignified snort shatters it—he suspects it was Dan Heng—and then all the others fall into laughter, too, Stelle giggling sheepishly as March tries to stifle her own by whining about how she was so scared they’d offended him. Sunday’s laughter is soft, brief, a few huffs of breath, but when Ashveil regains his composure and sits upright, he sees the relaxed flutter of Sunday’s wings, the gentle curve of his smile that reaches his eyes.
Dan Heng hides both his laughter and his smile behind a hand, but it can’t hide how eyes curl. He drops it to flick the back of Stelle’s head from where she’d fallen onto him in her fit of giggles, and then there’s a flash of a dimple before his expression smooths out once more.
The bench is hardly enough to fit all five of them, but for the past hour that they’ve been eating, the Nameless have been drifting closer together. Stelle and March, especially, are practically wrapped together from where they hover behind Sunday, and Dan Heng is right beside them, squished into them with Stelle’s leg thrown over his thigh. Sunday’s wings flutter through her and March’s hair every few seconds, the tips of his feathers brushing the tops of their heads. This must be a common occurrence, though, because neither of them seem to mind.
Yes, the Nameless really are just a clumsy pack of cubs.