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Yudrain Aile didn’t know love.
“...nine, ten, eleven…”
It was the most basic, intrinsic form of human emotion, wasn’t it? Of course something so warm wouldn’t dare reside within the man.
“...thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven…”
A long-dead man named Yuder might’ve known love. Not killed when he became the Cavalry commander, not even killed when he became Count Yudrain Aile. That poor commoner Yuder survived until the moment Yudrain plunged a dagger into his Duke Pelleta’s hardly-beating heart.
Something important was severed that night. Yudrain couldn’t tell you what exactly it was, only that he secretly supposed tiny pieces of his own heart had too been crudely carved and torn away. Whether it was the vengeful work of the commoner or the duke, he didn’t know that either.
“...Ninety-eight… ninety-nine…”
Souls were something human too, weren’t they? What did it mean when one’s was as honeycombed as his?
It was nothing that couldn’t be filled by a bottle of quelochet.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A familiar leather finger tapped languidly outside the closed office window.
Click.
A gust of fresh air gushed into the stale office, gently tousling Yudrain’s overgrown bangs. His head remained bowed, staring listlessly into the lukewarm glass of liquor in his hand.
The window clicked shut, instantly muting the bustling cries of cicadas. The air turned stagnant once more, deathlike silence returned to the room. Soft, slow steps approached Yudrain’s desk from behind. Not like the clacks of a lady’s heel, nor the thud of a soldier’s boot, but rather the gentle pad of house slippers. The thick, acrid scent of metal followed soon after.
As Yudrain downed the remaining liquid in his glass, frigid, leathered fingers snaked up his neck, stopping to ghost over the jut on his throat. Farther, farther, skimming his narrow tendons, brushing past the corner of his parted lips, before enveloping his jaw and squeezing hard.
The gloved invader flitted away as Yudrain ripped his head aside and slammed his glass onto the desk, sending various important documents fluttering onto the floor.
The ghastly chill loitered long after the glove left his cheek, like phantom fingerprints had freeze-branded into his skin. Yudrain wasn’t sure if what trickled down his chin was blood or alcohol, but he didn’t have it in him to find out. He even closed his eyes, held his breath for a moment lest any hint was betrayed.
“Is it still amusing for you…” Yudrain slurred bitterly, “...to see me in this state?”
He finally dared to look up at the looming figure. A translucent haze of a blond in his bed robes, muddled by mist, seeming as if he’d dissipate at the slightest breath. The once golden strands of hair– casually swept over his forehead unlike their usual formal arrangement– had grown duller and paler with time, as did his skin. A sticky waterfall of blood, neither spreading nor drying, cascaded down from his chest. The only parts of the apparition that shone clearly through the fog were the loathed pair of alabaster gloves, their precious fibers partially stained the same color as the set of curved, royal ruby eyes staring down at him. In the ghastly haze of ‘Duke Pelleta’s’ face, Yudrain couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a sneer that graced his lips.
Then there was Yudrain. Violent lapdog of Emperor Katchian la Orr, defective demon of the Cavalry, lowly commoner standing as ornament in rooms full of nobles. He needed to maintain the face of cold-blooded Count Yudrain Aile through all of the humiliation, to preserve the power of the Cavalry, to protect the legacy of Kishiar La Orr...
It was only when the sun set and the office emptied that he’d allow himself the pitiful existence of drunkenly counting moments passing in a room lit by whatever moonlight could penetrate the curtains. Long ago, before the quelochet, he’d have a certain duke to keep him company in the quiet of the Cavalry office. Occasionally, at least, at the man’s whims. Now, it was at Yudrain’s.
He didn’t even have a way to discern whether this apparition of Duke Pelleta was a true ghost or if it was just a poison-induced figment of his imagination. He wasn’t sure which would be crueler. It’s not as if the ghost itself would’ve told him. It’s not that he was a specter of few words, but rather of limited elaboration. What were the chances that the only man more enigmatic than Kishiar la Orr was his own ghost?
Why do you glare at me so? Were you perhaps expecting someone different?
Hazy lips curled farther upwards.
That can’t be it. It’s you who always calls me.
“Don’t speak nonsense.” Yudrain spat blearily. “What calling…”
Yudrain whipped his head down, deciding he could no longer look into the pair of red pools piercing through the darkness.
The newly born Yudrain couldn’t have imagined that something as trivial as an upward flick of the eyes would be as grave a mistake as it turned out to be. He remembered being on his knees and looming over the freshly killed Duke Pelleta, hunched, breathless, staring at the growing stain in his chest. It wasn’t until the blood stopped spreading entirely that Yudrain realized just how long he’d been despondent. Before he could will himself to stand, he’d glanced upwards into the glazed eyes of Kishiar.
In the mental fog that grew with age, it was the dimming pair of rubies that wound up haunting him most vividly. Desolately, Yudrain thought that even a dead man’s eyes could be striking if they belonged to Kishiar la Orr. Only he could pull it off: the rich crimson bleeding through his ivory nightclothes truly brought life to them. The lifeless arc of his lips, drained of what little flush lingered prior, almost looked as if they’d come to life at any moment to correct him– crimson was too bright a color for the room drenched in the blue of midnight. Try rich mahogany, or wine red?
Blood and gore didn’t unsettle Yudrain. Not killing monsters, not even his own methods of punishing depraved subordinates fazed him. However, after that night... No one was left to notice if he avoided eyes, anyway.
He threw back another swig of quelochet straight from the bottle. He’d let a pointless memory fester for too long– the acrid liquid brought him back to his office.
Though he rejected them every time, ‘Kishiar’s’ words had some truth to them. Yudrain only occasionally thought of Kishiar when he drank, because whenever he thought of the Duke, the feeling of crushing sickness would return, forming a pit in his stomach, threatening to spill over and choke him. It was when that sensation reached its peak that the ghost would appear through the window, just as he did when he was alive. When he awoke in the morning, he’d only remember distant fragments, but never without feeling that same sickness.
Yudrain Aile didn’t know love. That burning pit in his stomach could only be diagnosed as loathing.
The death of Yudrain Aile, celebrated as it would be, was long overdue– perhaps it was only in death that this cruel specter might let him rest.
Their relationship was never so hostile while Kishiar lived. Bleak, yes, but in a way that inspired shame, not animosity. However, time only fed resentment, and Yudrain knew how to hold a grudge. Not only towards Kishiar and his cryptic, selfish ways, but more strongly, towards himself.
“In which way do you intend to mock me this time?” Yudrain mumbled, head hung low.
Is that what you think is happening?
Well, what else would be?
His bangs were swept aside, revealing dull black eyes glaring weakly at the floor. This time, Yudrain– in what felt like surrender– didn’t flinch away from the burning freeze of the glove. He couldn’t help but shudder, shocks sent down his spine.
For the untouchable Yudrain Aile, that leather glove was the closest thing to a human touch he’d get anymore.
The specter tucked a lock of hair behind Yudrain’s ear, revealing a long but medium-shallow cut along his temple.
This is new?
“Relatively.” Yudrain’s fingers found the bottle neck once more, but he didn’t have the intention to drink just yet, lest he dislodge the hand that had crept back up to his face. “You ask too many questions…”
You give too few answers.
A low chuckle sounded from above. Even his voice was hazy, almost murky with a faint echo. However, nothing could ever mask that man’s damn ever-present reservation. For what reason would a ghost wish to keep secrets?
“...”
Fierce, was it? The battle, I mean, if something was able to touch you.
“No… just a graze. Debris.” Yudrain lied.
As of late, the frequency and severity of cracks had been increasing at an alarming rate. The Cavalry was battered and overworked, morale was at an all-time low, and Yudrain was no exception. With how much he’d been deployed in recent months, the time and energy he had to spend alone in his office dwindled rapidly.
He was too proud to admit it, however. It was no better than admitting to ‘Kishiar’ that he’d made a mistake in choosing him. No matter how true, ‘Kishiar’ couldn’t know.
Hm. I see…
It was obvious that ‘Kishiar’ didn’t buy it. Yudrain decided to interpret the ambiguous drawl in his words as derision.
Irritably, he straightened, then slumped backwards in his seat. His temple stung numbly where the fingers had just rested. The bottle returned to his lips. As he tipped back the last of the liquor, fiery liquid burning trails down his throat, he didn’t notice the specter’s crimson eyes following him. He didn’t notice the way their brows furrowed at the sight, either.
The ghost settled down, leaning back and half-sitting on the edge of Yudrain’s desk. Yudrain kept him in his peripheral, but stared past him, setting his eyes on the far side of the room where the office doors stay shut. He could trust they’d stay that way. Even Ever knew to stay away at these times, lest she walk into another one of her Commander’s drunken episodes.
The air wasn’t any less oppressive than it always was, no less bleak. In the deafening silence, only one person’s breaths could be heard. It wasn’t until minutes later that ‘Kishiar’ –after inspecting the trees outside the window– broke it.
Spring has long since ended.
“...?” Yudrain glanced just slightly in his direction. He couldn’t guess what point ‘Kishiar’ would try to make.
So… You’re thirty-one now, yes?
The specter’s eyes curved gently.
It seems you’ve surpassed me.
“...”
The casual remark– a fact that Yudrain had fiercely ignored– made his blood run cold. It was true: Yudrain had killed Kishiar right before he was meant to turn thirty-one. The orders of Emperor Katchian waited for no one, not even for the birthday of poor old Kishiar la Orr.
Don’t let that go to waste. Everything you’ve endured, fought for– whether or not you think it’s futile, if you don’t defend it all, no one will. You know this. You know it’s important, too.
‘Kishiar’s’ expression had momentarily turned serious, then softened into… neutrality? Melancholy? Yudrain didn’t dare discern.
I can’t give you any more than I already have. You can call me here and hope for something more of me all you want, but I can’t. I don’t know you as well as I wish I did, Yudrain, and even if I did, I still couldn’t help you.
Yudrain’s brows began to furrow. He didn’t like the direction that ‘Kishiar’ was going in.
No matter how it may seem, you’re not alone–
“Can you name a single person who continues to stand beside me?” Yudrain shot back, straightening in his seat. ‘Kishiar’ continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted.
–because there are still people who believe in you and wish to support you. What matters is that you accept them–
“People? Not standing by the cavalry, not out of obligation, just me?” Yudrain sneered. “Be serious. As it stands, I need no one, and if I ever once did–”
I can’t be that for you anymore, Yudrain– I’m dead!
‘Kishiar’ finally snapped. Not angry, exasperated, but weary. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the silence that followed was oppressive. Not "you killed me", just... dead. Like it was inevitable. Yudrain slumped forward once more to bury his face in his hands. He felt a cold presence tentatively approach before stopping midway and retracting. A soft, echoed sigh could be heard. Weary, yes, but fond.
I trust you. You just need to want more for yourself. You’ve earned the right to be at least a little bit greedy, yes?
“...”
The scene they formed was like that of a makeshift confessional. His ghostly priest’s judging eyes out of sight while the sinner sunk deeper and deeper into his own hands. Kishiar was often said to have resembled the Sun God, even in the days he grew sickly. He was rather famous for it.
Yudrain let his torrent of thoughts thrash around in his mind for a while. He never thought someone like himself could feel so much, let alone even try to express it. As he felt the specter’s eyes burn holes further and further into the back of his neck, Yudrain felt his dam shatter.
Want more for myself…?
He never did inherit Duke Pelleta’s flowery tongue.
“I’ve never been one to… desire. Never wanted to… but… If there was one thing… it was…”
You?
…
“I always wished I was wrong about you.”
…
“I still hope that I am.”
…
“Maybe… if you’d felt the same desperation as me…”
…
“The same resentment as me…”
…
“The same greed…”
…
“If maybe, even just once, you were the one with the sinking dread in his stomach…”
…
“As you watched my retreating back…”
…
“In its silent…indifferent… escape…”
…
“Maybe then you’d have looked back,”
…
“And told me just what I was meant to do.”
…
“I’ve realized… you were my punishment. For, in my naivety, coveting far beyond what I deserved.”
…
“Commander,” He mewled, the title foreign on his tongue after a decade of unuse.
“I’m… tired…”
…
“What do I do?”
…
You never taught me how to deal with myself.
Yudrain choked.
I’m not sure you ever figured that out either.
…
…
…
And just like all those nights before, Duke Pelleta vanished without a word. Just like old times, Yudrain has laid vulnerable the most shameful, intimate parts of himself. He’s been left bare and alone, not so much as a single whisper of consolation left to fill the cold space on the other side of him. Just as always.
Unbeknownst to him, he wouldn’t be seeing Duke Pelleta anymore. No matter how many times he drank, no matter how sick he felt, no matter how high the moon rose, no matter how many times he called. This time, he chose not to respond.
***
Yudrain.
Yud-ra-in.
In gore script, “Yud” means beginning, “In” means end. “Ra” ties them together. Put simply…
Eternity
“You will need to get used to that name now, are you alright with that?…But it's a name chosen with good intention. Please cherish it.”
Kishiar la Orr never told Yudrain what the gifted name meant. He’d honestly put more thought into it than he had with Nathan’s, but it would be no less shameless than telling him outright “I wish for us to be together again, even if just in a momentary eternity.” He wasn’t sure how Yudrain would receive his burdensome affection anyway. With quiet shame, like when Kishiar lived? Or cold resentment, like all that came after?
It was enough to him that Yudrain lived on, unknowingly carrying his wish upon his shoulders, along with the uniform Kishiar designed for him. Kishiar more than trusted Yudrain with the Cavalry. But the name?
He could only hope that the name “Yudrain Aile” would be scorned far less than “Kishiar la Orr” ever was. Not just by others, but more crucially, himself.
***
"Listen, criminal Yudrain Aile."
An otherworldly voice echoed above his head.
"You are a criminal who forgot your duties and responsibilities as the commander of the cavalry, and dared to conspire with an absurd claim that you acted for the sake of the world. You trespassed into the forbidden sanctuary, attempting to steal the World Sphere. Do you acknowledge your involvement in the assassination of Duke of Peletta nine years ago, the destruction of the Pearl Tower seven years ago, the Red Field Rebellion five years ago, and countless other incidents that cannot be enumerated? When the truth was revealed, you shamelessly attempted to flee by joining forces with other countries."
Yudrain smirked bitterly to himself. The litany of accusations made him sound like a great criminal to be remembered in history.
Was there anyone present who truly wanted to know the truth, instead of just repeating predetermined answers?
What they wanted to believe was not the unsettling reality that the world might be on the brink of collapse, but rather that everything would be resolved if they killed the humble commoner-born, half-baked Omega who dared to conspire against them.
For years, Yudrain had wandered the world, trying to find someone who would truly listen and believe him. Many signs indicated that something bad was about to happen in this world.
Even Yudrain couldn't fathom the magnitude of what was slowly approaching, but no one would listen to him.
Yudrain, with his eccentric and sharp personality, had no family or connections and kept drifting from place to place. He was deemed mad and completely isolated.
Even now, he was alone.
In retrospect, he had lost too much under the pretense of serving the greater good. He thought he would have no regrets even when facing death, but standing before it, he felt otherwise. Many things swirled chaotically in his mind.
The stubbornness and pride that had sustained him.
The countless tasks he still had to do.
The unanswered questions.
Those who had departed before him.
The future after his disappearance.
And… the face of someone he had forcibly suppressed all this time.
"…"
“There had never been anyone as wicked as this criminal in history. Despite committing a heinous crime of attempting to use the emperor's trust and the entire empire for his benefit, the criminal showed no remorse. The emperor had fallen ill from the shock of elevating someone who knew neither honor nor responsibility to a position they did not deserve. Thus, a fitting punishment for the weight of his crimes was death, and today, at this very spot, he would be executed by beheading. Long live the emperor's eternal blessings! That is all!"
A cheer rang out as flower petals filled the air. Yudrain was dragged by the soldiers and raised onto the high altar.
Atop the altar, specially constructed for the execution of the high criminal, a massive guillotine with a gleaming blue blade was positioned so that everyone could witness the beheading.
Due to the prolonged torture, Yudrain's battered body slumped weakly beneath the blade. The unfamiliar pain, which he rarely felt while surrounded by the ever-obedient energy before the destruction of the mana hole, became unbearable to breathe. Yudrain gasped for air as his vision blurred.
Ordinarily, criminals sentenced to death were given an opportunity to leave last words, but of course, Yudrain was not granted such a chance. Yudrain looked up at the sky, which was so blue that it stung his eyes.
It was strange. He should have felt bitter enough to cry tears of blood, but he didn't feel all that bad. The thought of soon being liberated from all these tedious affairs was even somewhat refreshing.
Indeed, what could be more ridiculous than worrying about the future when one was about to die and vanish?
It was they, not Yudrain, who had ignored the bloodstained warning.
His pain-muddled gaze swept the crowd, searching but not searching. It was the way a child onstage would anxiously scan the auditorium to see if his mother had come to see the show.
Ha.
No one noticed the weary, imperceptible curl of his lips.
Past the storm of flower petals and cheer, in a far corner, deep within the shadow of a tree, stood the hazy mirage of a certain duke and his white leather gloves.
The only thing he found himself with the will to hope for was that Yudrain, in some way, could see him again. No, not Yudrain, but Yuder…
Ah, right. The truth was that he had been tired all along…
The moment he realized this, the blade fell from above.
Death was neither sweet nor painful.
It was only a little less lonely.