Work Text:
…Cale didn't understand. He sniffles.
His mother always comforted him when he was sad. But, he's been sad since yesterday. Since yesterday, when he was told that his mother won't be coming back. Cale didn't believe it. How can he believe in such a foolish lie? His mother may have been susceptible to injury and sickness, but she is the strongest person Cale knows. Cale isn't strong without her. He needs her.
His wails grow louder as he clutches his night wear. He misses his mother. They say she's dead, but Cale can't accept that. Can't believe that. Why would she be dead?! She's strong. So strong. Stronger than even his father and the knights in the whole continent! She shouldn't have died! She shouldn't have been taken from him!
He moves his fist to hit against the too soft and cushy pillow.
It's not fair. It's not fair. it's not fair, it's not fair at all. It's NOT FAIR!
Death. Yes, Death itself. It must pay. Just as the man in charge of the carriage must pay. Just as everyone that had helped his mother onto that carriage and make that way to that cursed village in the Dark Forest. Harris Village.
As the hot streak of tears continue to fall, Cale vehemently swears to himself that those involved will get what they deserve, with Death itself being the first to beg. So that it will understand what it felt to Cale when his mother died.
***
It's been a quiet few weeks. Cale hasn't come out of his personal quarters since the funeral, only being seen by Ron every meal time. Cale scarcely ate much at all, leaving the rest to rot in the corner somewhere. To let it die. Yes, die.
He wonders, if anyone will mourn the waste of food as much as he had his mother. Everything living is worth more than Cale initially thought, not that he even gave such things a single thought till recently, anyways. If living things are valuable, then the things keeping those very beings living, is worth just as much, no?
He wonders, if some poor someone in the slums, would be angry at him for wasting something that is probably worth more than their daily income. If they're even fortunate enough for that in the first place. If they'll be angry just as he was when his mother was taken from him with no care. A precious life, taken and wasted because the God of Death saw it fit.
Cale wouldn't know for sure until he saw it with his own eyes.
***
It felt as if the gods gave them a miracle for the first time in a month! The Young Master, Cale, has finally come out of his room. Mm, not that anyone in the household blamed the poor boy for his lack of activity, the loss of a parent, especially one with such a close bond that Cale and late Countess Jour had, would incapacitate just about anyone.
Expecting the boy to be starving, Ron had informed Beacrox in advance to prepare a small, easy to digest meal, for the Young Master.
A simple two pieces of toast and tomato soup on the side should do.
When the food was given to the redhead, no visible reaction was made, with it only annoying and unnerving the chef for a moment. His father only kept that same, rehearsed smile. In fact, Beacrox felt a sense of eagerness from his father.
"Can I eat this when I get to the town?" A hoarse, quiet voice asked.
Ron's eyebrows only raised every so slightly. "Of course, Young Master. Let me get you an escort—"
"No need. I want to do this by myself."
Beacrox and Ron share a look. Bemused at the request from the boy. Ron didn't want to step on his employer's toes, but he's, unfortunately, confident that Lord Deruth wouldn't want to see Cale at the moment. The resemblance would be too much to bare for the still isolating man.
"Your wishes are our commands, Young Master."
With a nod from Cale at given express permission, he turns heel and goes immediately for the door, not bothering to change out of the clothing he has no doubt kept on since the month of isolation. Ron only sighs.
"I trust you can keep the household in order until the Young Master comes back."
"Of course, father." A reassuring nod from Beacrox.
Ron goes to tail the child.
***
Cale, with a tray of soup and toasts in hand, only huffs once he finally reaches town. No matter, this will make all the trouble worth it.
Walking to the slums wasn't nearly as troubling as Cale had expected. It was less trouble than actually getting out of the stuffy house! Those servants are too persistent, in Cale's opinion.
In less than a minute, he spotted what seemed to be the perfect candidate.
"Hey."
The poor man only glances up at the noble boy before making focusing his whole attention to the tray of food in the redhead's hands.
"What'd you want, boy? Ain't your daddy, Deruth, tell you that it ain't safe walking in these part, especially alone?"
"Well, he's isn't here now, right? Are you not focusing solely on this food alone?"
"Eh, just polite talk. Are you gonna give it to poor ol' me or what?"
Cale only stares. The man is uncouth. He doesn't know if he should use that word, though. If anything, he's the unacceptable one here. Trespassing on their ground, on a place they have to call home. Yes, these circumstances are perfect.
His stare lingers before grabbing the soup and allowing gravity to take the tray and two pieces of toast to fall on the ground. But, before the poor man could react at the ridiculous sight, Cale then pours the soup on top of the now soggy and soiled remains of the toasts. As if that wasn't enough, he stepped on it, ensuring the food is inedible by his own doing.
"What's wrong with you?! Huh?!" The man yells, incredulous at the situation he's found himself in
"I-it's terrible, right? Seeing something so precious, be wasted like nothing? Right, RIGHT?!" Cale agrees. Something is wrong with this situation, therefore the person at fault for it should be justly punished.
The poor man is speechless. His fists clench.
"I don't know what shit you're spouting, but you ought to be taught a lesson! You spoiled snobs deserve nothing!" He grabs the noble by his fancy collar.
Just as the poor man ran to his wits end was about to give Cale a beating he shouldn't ever forget, Ron, the very man Cale told he needed no escorts, was there to pull him back, making the stunned man release his grip and save Cale from the harm he was about to receive.
And within a blink of an eye, the poor man had ran off somewhere.
"…Why? Why would you do that?"
Ron holds none of the charisma he always held around the boy. "Do what, Young Master? Save you from being hit and potentially beaten from your impossibly rude act?"
"Yes. Why did you do that? I deserved it… I deserved all of it. I destroyed something immeasurably valuable to the poor man. So why?!" Cale's barely held composure finally broke. He kicked and cried as Ron continued to hold him. He doesn't care if he hurts the old man with his hitting and kicking.
Ron isn't understanding where all of this is coming from. Jour's death was traumatic, but to have it change this boy so drastically within a month's time? This is something Ron wasn't expecting.
"It wasn't supposed to go this way! I was supposed to get what I deserved! Why won't you let that happen!"
And similar things were said. By the time Ron made it home with the boy, ignoring the carriage altogether, Cale had long since quieted down. Hot tears and snot only getting on the butler's suit.
Finally looking up from the black suit, a waning sun graces his eyes. The coalesce warmth of colors all look painfully beautiful to Cale. Nothing should have the right to look like that, not even Nature herself. Not since his mother's death. So why does it?!
"I ha-te i-it. A-all of it. Mother i-is dea-d!" He continues to hiccup and stumble between words as his breathing quickens once more. His throat was closing and everything felt too warm. Too dizzying. He misses his mother.
Ron never gave a response, only letting the poor boy grieve more. Ron then put the boy to bed himself that night, not trusting that anyone wouldn't spread talk about the redhead's unusual behavior around the manor.
Cale barely left his room altogether after that.
And then Violan and Basen came into the picture.
***
What did that bullshit have to do with drinking alcohol? Cale grumbles, face flush from alcohol. He looks around his surroundings, the bar's empty. It's been empty for a long time now.
Cale hasn't been drunk since… well, since he first began drinking.
He hazily tries to recall why he even began remembering such a terrible and embarrassing thing anyways. He doesn't know how he remembers it. Maybe because that was the start of it all?
'Maybe,' Cale decides.
Now, why was he here in the bar in the first place? Now that's something worth trying to remember. Was it the memories surrounding the bar? The good alcohol? What worth is it trying to remember now? Isn't the point of getting blackout drunk is to forget everything else? Cale doesn't understand anything right now, maybe that's the point.
Taking in another look around him, the place is barely hanging on. Even the bartender is nowhere to be seen. That strikes Cale to be odd, even in this deeply inebriated state. Must not be as strong of alcohol as he originally thought.
He goes to take another swig. He pauses. There's something uncomfortably stuck to his hand. Releasing his grip on the bottle, he looks. He tries to make sense of the sight. Why? It's, it's red—
'Fuck.'
The sound of a bottle falls on the ground and breaks on impact. Yes, Cale remembers everything now. Why he's here, attempting to get blackout drunk, why no one else is here. Why this place looks mangled and poorly managed. Yes. Everyone has been long gone. Everyone has passed on. That shouldn't be, but it is.
His head pounds. He can't tell if it's from the copious amounts of alcohol consumed, or his brain trying to remember how and why they died. He doesn't want to see which one it is. It could very well be both. He feels horrible. He stands. He goes to the forgotten alcohol on the shelves.
He hasn't felt this way since, since his mother's passing. He thought everything would be fine if he went here. Everything should've been fine. He should've been with his mother, talking to her about something, anything, what any other child would talk to their mother about. He doesn't know what that something is, but he knows things shouldn't have ended up this way. Drinking. Having everyone look at him in disappointment. Well, he'd rather have that than everyone being gone as a whole.
He doesn't deserve this. He wasn't supposed to live this long. He started drinking to prevent that very thing. Yes, yes now he remembers. He remembers crying at the sight of red poppies and going to the, this, local bar. He remembers the drinking and the pain that came the next day. He remembers how if he started drinking, then surely he'd see his mother sooner, how he'd face the consequences of his actions sooner. But they never came. All everyone ever did was stare or save him from difficult situations. The drinking never stopped, but that blackout feeling did. His tolerance grew. It always grew everyday.
Why? Why was that? Why did his tolerance grow when his mother's didn't? Why did she still remain susceptible to illness despite how many times she fell sick? Why did she always remain frail? It wasn't logical. Yes, nothing in this damned world was. Not when those Gods existed. He grips a shelf. Arm sweeping everything in its vicinity. Things shatter. It broke. It has died.
Death, Death shouldn't have happened. Death shouldn't have been unfair, shouldn't have been so picky and choosy. It took his family when they did no wrong, it took everyone. It didn't take those responsible for it all, though. It never did. It never took Cale, despite him always hurting others, always disappointing his father. Why? Why was Death like this? Why must it be worshipped when it brings nothing but despair?
"Death is fair because it comes for everyone eventually!" They preached. They always preach how it's fair in the end. Cale knows they don't believe that bullshit. If they did, why run from it in the first place? To give them more time to accept it all even more? It's inevitable. That's what they all say, so what's the point in running? Cale never ran from it, he didn't even walk from it. He needed it. Yet, it never came.
That's how Cale knows Death was never fair. Those who deserved it, never is brought to the justice they deserved. Death doesn't care. It should care. Cale will see to it that it will come to care. He brings his leg up to hit the shelf. It shakes before bottles topple and fall.
These shards, they were made with care, even if that care was from the money it'd make. It was still cared for, selfishly. Deservedly. And now Cale is destroying them. Destroying them because he can. So where's the retribution these bottles deserve? The retribution that the person who made these deserves? Nowhere.
His hands bleed his own blood. He doesn't remember how or why. All he knows is that his rage is boiling and there's no one else here to face it, other than these bottles of however old liquor.
He will make Death break and cry, just as he made these bottles do. Just as he has.
***
There he is. That evil bastard who started this decades long war. Who saw it through to kill his family in the worst way possible. Who took what little Cale had left.
Cale was told that the White Star should appear in this battle, a way to show that this will be the final one. He needed to believe it to be true. Lest he would be just another long list of forgotten tragedies. The final fight where the White Star wins. Like hell Cale will let that bastard feel that gratification.
Hidden under and in all these piles of selfishly taken lives, Cale hides selfishly as well. He never planned to fight this battle, conserving his energy. He sent out what little troops there were left to a suicide mission. But, those deaths wouldn't all be for naught. His family will be avenged to the full extent this time. Those who've died here and before will get the justice they deserve. Cale will get the justice he deserves.
'There.'
The White Star's back is turned. A perfect position, but it'll be even more favorable to Cale once he stabs the bastard and makes him look at the person who brought him down. An average, snob noble who's nothing without his trashy reputation. Cale has dreamed of this moment for years.
Cale is there. Right behind the bastard. He doesn't remember pushing the bodies off and away from him as he made his way to his destination. Doesn't matter. Sword in hand, his aura singles in on one point. He pushes the weapon forward. Yes, yes!
"Aw, isn't this cute?" The White Star's obnoxiously smug voice echoes in Cale's ears. This, this isn't right.
Suddenly, the bastard was now facing him, sword only quivering, no matter how much strength Cale put into thrusting it forwards. His aura stays deathly still, unchanging in shape. This is bullshit!
"What the hell?!" Cale yells, perturbed at the White Star. He looks too fucking similar to Cale. Like a long lost twin. The same red hair as his mother. Those same brown eyes. What right does this bastard have to look like her?!
A chuckle. "Aha. Is there a reason why you look like me?"
"You’re the one who looks like me!"
"Indolent man, I'm older than you think. Death has no power over me!"
Of course. Of fucking course. Cale shouldn't be surprised. Death. Death is always at fault. It never takes those who deserve it. It never takes those whose job they do for it.
But Death has no power here. This is between him and the White Star. Cale is not Death. He will do what it refuses to do. If his sword and aura refuse to follow his will, so be it. This will be more cathartic anyways.
The White Star's eyes widen when the identical redhead drops his sword. In turn, his guard falls for a fraction. A fraction is all Cale needs.
His hands go to wrap around the throat. The feeling of the familiar human skin, of the soft, pliable human flesh, brings Cale joy. The bastard is still as vulnerable as any other person without their fancy powers and weapons. It's euphoric, seeing the White Star struggle to claw Cale's hands off from his throat. Seeing the man so powerless is beautiful. It's justice.
"L-look at you! You're no different from any other human. You are weak!" Cale smiles. This sickeningly, familiar looking man is different enough to where this brings Cale nothing but pure joy. His blemished hands are a nice contrast from the White Star's unscarred throat. He will make sure the bastard remembers every detail, down to every individual scar.
The White Star's eyes are wide and becoming bloodshot. Oxygen is leaving faster than he'd ever thought to be possible despite his many experiences in feeling death. Black dots appear in his vision. Yet still, he holds consciousness because of the man above him. He can feel an old rage, one he never thought he'd feel from another person, let alone one whose reputation was that of an alcoholic lout. That of a hedonist.
It felt like kinship. White Star understands. This man's rings of life show that of a tragedy. One Death has visited and haunted over since the first death. Yes. The White Star understands. Death, too, has taken from him unjustly. Has ruined him. Has cursed him. He wants revenge as well.
With great struggle, the White Star speaks. "Y-ou and I ar-e no dif-different!"
"Like hell we aren't different!" Cale's thumbs moves and presses against the White Star's throat as his hands squeeze tighter.
"You w-want reveng-e on De-ath. I, to-o, want th-that!"
In a moment of thought over vulnerability, the White Star moves his hand and presses his palm to the sad man's cheek.
"Worr-y not, I w-ill ta-take revenge f-for yo-u, too."
Almost instinctively, Cale knew this was the end for him.
No, no. No
No, no, no no nonononono NO!
THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!
Cale's face burns from the fire that originates from the White Star's palm. It was the same, suffocating warmth he felt that day as a child. That same warmth Cale felt from the sun. The same warmth he felt when he cried.
The White Star coughs, finally free from that suffocating grip. He looks on at the fire. "You, Cale Thames Henituse, will be remembered by me from this day forward." He walks to the now long dead man, petting the dead man's head. A sense of sadness flashed. He will mourn this man as kin.
That, is the last thing Cale remembers.