Chapter Text
Saparata had been to the Colosseum once before, to witness the duel between Remy and Ritit. Schpood had let him sit at his side in the Emperor’s box, and he had been amazed by the spectacle - the blaring of trumpets, the cheering of crowds. Justice in Westhelm was bloody and loud, a victory to be earned before thousands.
Fluixon dies without fanfare, his head hitting the ground with a single clean stroke as his body slumps into the sand. He is vaguely aware, beyond the thundering pulse of adrenaline in his head, of Thomas’s sharp cry, but the rest of the world is eerily silent. Slowly, he lets his blade fall, droplets of blood splattering into the dust.
He stares down at the body on the floor, then at the head that had rolled a little ways away. The black clothes were singed with fire and almost shredded in some places, a thousand tiny nicks in the fabric sending alarm waves through Saparata’s body. Fluixon would’ve never let his clothing get anything less than pristine. The legs and arms are skewed at an awkward angle from where it had fallen, like a broken marionette, and the intricate armor is slashed and dented. The head laid on its side, blood oozing from the neat cut that had severed it from life.
The violet eyes are still open in the pale, drawn face, dull rage aimed sightlessly at the sky. With a tenderness he feels between his teeth, Saparata kneels down and closes them, before grasping at the sticky black hair and getting back to his feet, lifting his chin to stare defiantly up at the near-empty viewing box.
Thomas’s arms were being pulled behind his back by Captain Manchego. Slowly, the other Conquesodors began to clap - methodically, ceremoniously - but there was no fanfare. No cheers or raucous applause. Fluixon’s head weighs heavy in his hands.
The war was over.
Saparata goes home, buries Fluixon by the seaside, marks his grave with dripstone and goodbye, friend. Then he goes back up the steps to his gilded house and gets to work.
He keeps busy, in the aftermath of the war, constantly travelling back and forth from Yggdrasil and the Pandoran nations. He goes to every public event and ceremony that he possibly can. He speaks at Thomas’s trial, feeling a sense of bitter satisfaction upon hearing the verdict. He watches as his old friend dies, as alone and defiant in the end as he himself had once been. He cheers with the rest of the crowd, then returns to his house and his paperwork, already looking at the next thing on his schedule.
Cass, Madzvie, and Legacy all urge him to rest, after the ordeal he’d been through, but he finds he doesn’t need to - he finds solace in his work, in attending memorials and speaking on stages, on guiding the leaders towards uneasy peace, as he had always intended to do.
“A second wind,” Cass tells him, frowning. “You ought to take a sabbatical, I’m serious. You’ve more than earned it - let others worry about the cleanup.”
“I’m fine, Cass,” Saparata replies, sifting through the papers strewn all over his dining table. The trap had been removed from the ceiling already, courtesy of Lady Jamminhead; the blood had been scrubbed clean from the table.
The room was perfectly safe, and so there was no good reason for Saparata not to use it.
He taps his fingers rhythmically on the wood. “I’m trying to draft a letter right now. Schpood has the lion’s share of Dante’s mines already, but he’s still looking to take some of the former Commonwealth territories, specifically Mykonos. I’m trying to convince him that this is a bad idea.”
Cass’s lips twitch. “Knowing Schpood, his main motivation is probably just getting back at Sitzkrieg and Knight_Arcturus. Mykonos is too weak to defend themselves right now, and I know a fair number of them resent Artie. If you wrote to him about that, and asked him to try working out a compromise instead, he’d probably listen to you. Westhelm is still licking its wounds. None of them really want to be involved in another major conflict, no matter what their Emperor says.”
She meets his eyes, her brow furrowed. “But don’t think I didn’t catch you changing the subject. You need a break.”
Saparata doesn’t want a break. “There’s too much to do.”
He resumes his careful writing, his pen scratching over the parchment. Cass watches him calmly, saying nothing. Under her patient gaze, his skin prickles. He can practically hear her judgement, and he sighs, looking up.
“I didn’t say anything,” Cass says.
“You’re thinking it,” Saparata retorts. “I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.”
“But are you really?” Cass squints at him, before sighing, her shoulders slumped. “Look, Saps. I… what happened to you was horrible, and we’re all a little to blame for not believing you sooner. We want you to take care of yourself. You’ve done enough; we can take it from here.”
He shakes his head. How can he explain to her the comfort that exhaustion brings him? “I’ll rest once this is over.”
She leaves not long after that, sending him a last disappointed look over her shoulder, a gesture that reminds him, like a punch to the gut, of Jophiel. And when he thinks of Jophiel, he thinks of Fluixon.
And when he thinks of Fluixon, he decides abruptly that he’s been wallowing long enough. Eyes dropping back to his parchment paper, he resumes going through the motions, his wrist aching tenderly all the while.
Saparata speaks to the scant Mykonian leadership, then abandons his letter and decides to visit Westhelm to talk to Schpood in person, if only to get a change of scenery and to get away from Cass’s worried stare. The meeting goes well, and an agreement is reached that Mykonos would not interfere with a Westhelmian taskforce to capture Knight_Arcturus.
Schpood claps him on the back as they leave the room and step out into the bustling streets, guards marching diligently at their heels. “Ah, diplomacy. Can’t say I miss it very much!” He grins at Saparata, his eyes bright, and Saparata can’t help but smile back at him. Against all odds, he likes the Emperor, and not just out of gratitude for his protection during his exile. Schpood is brash, demanding and cruel, but his love for his people and country is real and powerful.
“Think of it as a more superior form of war,” Saparata suggests. “You’re still attacking your enemies and defending yourself. You’re just being nice and legal about it.”
Schpood snorts. “That’s exactly why it’s not fun. Being brutish and violent is where it’s at!” He snaps his fingers decisively. “Come on. Let’s get something to wash away all these niceties. A new bar has opened near the bathhouses. You’ll love it!”
Buoyed by the Emperor’s boisterous energy, Saparata lets himself be led through the roads, grinning to himself behind his long silver veils. Westhelm is beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon. The arid winds and crunching sand beneath his feet make him almost nostalgic as he falls in step with his friend’s brisk pace.
He can make out the Colosseum in the distance, towering over the rooftops of the other buildings, Westhelm’s banners billowing in the wind. But he spies it only for a moment, before Schpood slings an arm over his shoulder and all but steers him over to the doors of a wide-windowed, warmly lit bar.
“It’s not the same as Remy’s - bless his heart, he was a national treasure - but the chefs here make a mean roast. Not to mention the beer is just fantastic,” Schpood was saying, before he turns and waves off all of the attempts by the patrons to pay him respect. “At ease, everyone. Gods, can’t a body just get a drink in peace!”
“Ahh. I forgot Remy died in the war,” Saps hums, as they sit down a little ways away from everyone else. He’s surprised at how little attention the crowd gives them after Schpood’s dismissal. In Pandora, on the rare occasions where he accepted an offer from Cass or Madzvie to go out to eat, nobody seemed to be able to stop looking at him. “What happened to his old establishment, then? Closed down?”
“I’m afraid so,” Schpood sighs dramatically, signalling to a passing waiter for two beers without looking over his shoulder. “It’s tragic. I’m debating whether to erect a statue for him.”
Saparata can’t help but laugh incredulously. “Didn’t he kill one of your senators?”
“Nope,” Schpood tells him airily, popping the ‘p’. “He was cleared of that in the Colosseum, my friend. And his food was incredible. Like I said, national treasure.”
Their beers come out. Some of the foam splashes out onto Saparata’s hands from when he and Schpood clank their tankards together in a toast. To Saparata’s delight, it tastes delicious; sweet and tangy and refreshing in the back of his throat. After proclaiming his approval to Schpood, who agrees loudly and eagerly with him, he sets his tankard down and leans towards his friend to hear him better over the crowd. “So how’s the post-war life treating you? Your people recovering well?”
“I should be asking you that, Saparata,” Schpood chortles, waving a hand flippantly at him. “Oh, we’ve been fine. We got over all the pomp and ceremony a couple months ago, more’s the pity. I quite like parades.” He sobers a little. “There’s a couple more statues scattered about in the streets now, if you’ve noticed.”
“I noticed.” Saparata bows his head. On their way here, they’d passed by more than a few statues of soldiers, senators, and councilmen, their visages preserved forever in granite and stone. In Schpood’s throne room, a bust of Spyder now sat on his right side, matching the one of Owo on his left. “We’ve got several memorials standing back home in Pandora, as well. Tricolour recently unveiled this giant monument of Jophiel, on the outskirts of their town. It’s very beautiful.”
He had been at the ceremony of the unveiling. It had been the last occasion that King Gabory of Tricolour had appeared in public before his suicide. Saparata had stood beside him as he’d pulled the large white sheet off of his sister’s marble hair, and had looked into her face as she had smiled down at him, radiant and peaceful, just as larger than life as she’d been when she was alive.
He swallows hard at the memory. At his side, Schpood stares thoughtfully into the distance, his eyes wistful. “It must be very beautiful. I’ll be sure to visit it soon,” he muses, before shaking his head as if to clear it, bringing his tankard to his lips.
Saparata does the same, savoring the sharp taste on his tongue. “Ish, this is good.”
Schpood chugs down half of his tankard before dropping it back onto the table with a satisfied grunt, smirking. “Of course it is. Pandoran beer is water to Westhelmians.”
“I’ll never be able to have Pandoran beer again after this,” Saparata jokes, but then Schpood turns to him, expression dead serious.
“Why should you?” he asks bluntly. “You could stay here, in Westhelm.”
Saparata gapes at him. “What?” But Schpood only grins lopsidedly at him.
“Come on, Saps,” he says, as if Saparata is the ridiculous one. “Wouldn’t it be nice? Moving here permanently. Then you would be able to have nights like this all the time. And it’ll be easier helping with these silly foreign affairs you’re so worried about anyway, if you’re staying in Yggdrasil instead.”
“But - why?” Saparata stammers, gently setting down his own tankard. “I live in Pandora. I already have a house.”
“Do you?” Schpood levels him with an intense stare, his smile dropping. “I’ve gotten letters from Cass, you know. She says you’ve been using your work as an excuse to stay out of it. That’s why you’re here now, isn’t it?” He holds out a hand, gesturing to the bar, to the warm celebratory chatter of Westhelm after dark. “So why not stay?”
Saparata stares mutely at his hand, at the tantalizing beckon of his fingers, then shifts his gaze back up to the Emperor’s face. Behind Schpood’s jovial demeanor is something he has grown entirely too familiar with.
Concern. Schpood, like Cass, is worried about him. Pities him, for his inability to readjust. Saparata jerks away from him and clambers out of his seat, pulling his veils back down over his face. “I think I should go back to my rooms now.”
Comprehension flashes over Schpood’s features, followed by immediate scorn at Saps’ verbal shove at his hand. “Oh, alright. Go sulk some more. That’ll definitely help you!”
Saparata seethes as he pushes through the throng of patrons, ignoring the rest of Schpood’s shouts. Shoving the door open, he doesn’t look back as he flees out into the growing dark.
He’s not sure where he’s going at first, his throat clogged with a thickness he despises and his eyes blurred with the beginnings of tears. The sun has nearly disappeared, the last rays streaming over the edge of the horizon, plunging the Empire into frigid blackness. Saparata is distantly aware of the spray of gravel and sand beneath his feet, but he doesn’t even slow as some of the sharp stones slip into his sandals.
He used to live in a desert. That’s what Westhelm reminded him of. The discomfort of the fire and the chill is all he has ever known.
When he slows to a stop before the archways leading into the Colosseum, he wants to laugh, because of course. The night is cold and still, the banners hanging limply overhead. Behind him, the streets are still too crowded - too loud - so he steps over the threshold and into the blissful quiet of the pathways leading into the arena.
Saparata exhales shakily and blinks rapidly to clear his vision, forcing his shoulders to relax. Furious anger is still coursing through him. How dare Schpood and Cass presume to know what he needed? The war is over, but his job is not. He was strong enough to survive then and he’s strong enough to push through now. He’s fine.
He’s…
Saparata presses his back to the walls of the archway, pressing his hands to his face through his veils. Of course he’s not fine. He eats and sleeps and talks and laughs just as a normal person would - because what else was he to do? - but he just can’t do it in that house. Not when he remembers what it was like when it was stuffed full with living bodies: Thomas’s warm brown hands as he gestures wildly, chattering to Gotoga about some mechanism or another; Rotation’s crooked grin as he chases Newkids gleefully around the table, while a patient Snowbird watches on.
Fluixon, standing at Saparata’s side, leaning against him as he points to a blueprint of a rooftop, his voice a faint rasp as he explains their plans.
Saparata slides down against the wall until he’s sitting in a heap on the well-worn floors, teeth gritted against the onslaught of emotions building up in his chest. More memories spring up from where he’d tried, slowly and bitterly, to suffocate them in the back of his mind.
Jophiel’s sweet contralto as she’d presented her kingdom to him, Seraphim following proudly behind her (had she been plotting to kill her, even then? Saparata would never know). Then Turntapp, the cruel, powerful man who had taken Saparata in and protected him when no one else would’ve.
They’d all died, violent and painful, while Saparata had been forced to go on and on and on. And he’d won. He’d ensured that all of his enemies paid tenfold for what they’d done to him. He’d killed his dearest friend, put an end to the war, and gone home to a house that had once been the place of the upending of his world, and was now completely empty.
Just as he’d always wanted. His head hurts. Slowly he turns it to stare into the sand pit of the arena, then startles, eyes widening.
There was… something, standing in the arena. It stood tall and stark under a robe of heavy brocade, studded with the textures of a million stones. It smiles at him in the dark, eyes black as obsidian.
It was beautiful. Shaking with awe, Saparata gets to his feet and pads tentatively closer, and it watches him silently under its wide-brimmed hat, blonde hair like liquid gold tumbling in a multitude of braids about its shoulders, skirts billowing with an otherworldly glow. It holds a gnarled staff in its huge, white hands. There is something familiar about its presence, something that reminded him of…
Saparata’s lips parted. “...Ish?” But the thing, to his surprise, lets out a rattling scoff, the gust of air from the sound fluttering Saparata’s veils. He flinches when it speaks, its voice surprisingly feminine.
“No, silly. This is Westhelm. Do you think your little Admins have any dominion here?” It tilts its head, straw hat rustling in the utter silence of the arena. Saparata is sure that if it had pupils, it would be rolling its eyes. “No. I am the Straw God, one of the protectors of the people of this realm. I have been called upon by its ruler to guide you, so here I am. Even though you reek of the stench of unbelievers.”
Saparata’s jaw drops, and for a moment he just stares up at the deity, trying to process what he’s seeing. The first thing that comes out of his mouth is, stupidly, “Schpood told me he didn’t actually believe in you.”
The Straw God huffs, its eyes narrowing. “He doesn’t, but he is beginning to; he is in Westhelm, after all, surrounded by my many worshippers. Moreover, he is worried about you, Pandoran. He prays for something, anything, to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” Saparata argues, a flicker of his anger from before returning. “I just need time. To get over myself. I-I…”
The Straw God looks at him in much the same manner Cass had earlier that week, calm and unimpressed. Saparata gropes for a moment for yet another defense, mouth moving soundlessly, before he huffs, hands falling at his sides. He resists the urge to stomp at the sand like a child. “I’m trying my best, okay? Trying to readjust to not being on the run anymore. Still trying to process just why my best friend decided to betray me, and trying to clean up the utter mess he left behind.”
He stares defiantly up at the deity, throwing his hands up in the air once more, hating the way his voice cracks with helplessness. “What else can I do? Almost everyone I love is dead, and I just have to accept that and keep going. I can’t run out of things to do. I can’t take a break. Because then I’ll have nothing stopping me from joining them.”
He snaps his mouth shut abruptly, trembling with grief. It was too honest of an admission. He’d always been weak willed, unable to bear the brunt of common sorrow unless there was something to tie him down, to keep him from taking the final plunge. In his last life - in Theria, the land of his heart - death had come as a relief.
In this one, he’d chosen to live. He’d clung to life out of nothing but grim determination. He’d climbed down from his tower in the freezing cold, shivering with fever, and chosen to live, if only to make things right.
Somehow, in this life, he’d chosen to live for Fluixon.
The Straw God is still looking at him, but its expression - he couldn’t quite look at its features without his vision growing spotty, but he swears that its expression is somehow less judgemental and more… thoughtful. Still, he thrusts a hand up at it and demands, newly angered, “Well?”
It hums, tilting its head again. Then, in a slow, colossal movement, it bends down on one knee, bracing itself upon its staff to lean down into his face, the trinkets hanging from its hat jangling like chimes. Saparata grits his teeth, but its question catches him by surprise. “Well, what would you do if you could join them?”
He freezes. “...What?”
It pulls back, gesturing flippantly with one of those silvery hands. “Not permanently, of course. But what if I told you that you could go visit the land of the dead? See all those who have departed once more? What would you do?”
Saparata blinks rapidly, pinches himself to ensure he’s awake. The Straw God watches him expectantly, tapping its fingers against its intricate staff.
“Could you really do that?” he finally asks, voice coming out smaller than he’d intended. The God makes another exasperated noise, pulling back as if offended.
“Could you really do that, he says,” it mutters. “Of course I bloody well can! But answer my question, Saparata of the Southern Isle.” It leans towards him again, eyes boring into his face. “What would you do, if given the chance to visit the dead?”
And what a loaded question that was. He thinks of his final moments with Jophiel; her tender smile at him over her shoulder as she turns her back to him. He thinks of Turntapp’s gentle hands pulling him up onto Yggdrasil’s rocky shores, steadying him as he sways with exhaustion. He thinks of Thomas and Sera and Gotoga, Newkids and Snowbird and Hvyrotation.
He thinks of Fluixon. Always, always, he thinks of Fluixon.
“I would take it,” he tells the deity he doesn’t believe in, staring at the sand beneath his feet. Was Fluixon really down there? Could Saparata see him again? “I would go and seek them out. I’d talk to them all one last time.”
“But that’s not all you would do, is it,” the Straw God rumbles. It’s a statement, not a question. He looks up, startled, but the deity only blinks back at him, its expression impossibly kind. “You know, there is one thing that I love about mortals, and it is their utter devotion. They would even fight gods to save their loved ones from the clutches of death.”
Its meaning is not lost on him, and he bows his head, eyes squeezing shut. A terrible hope is beginning to blossom inside him, and he almost doesn’t want to allow himself to feel it. “Yes, I would try to bring them back,” he admits, hands balling into fists at his sides. “But that’s impossible.”
“Oh, I’m not denying that it would be hard,” the Straw God snorts. “Maybe even very hard. Mortals aren’t supposed to come back from the dead. Not unless the gods themselves will it. But, you know… ‘impossible’ things happen all the time, in this world.”
“I have to try,” Saparata decides, opening his eyes once more. He takes a pleading step closer to the deity, lifting his hands in supplication. “Please, you have to let me try!”
A beat of silence settles over them, so profound that even the thrum of the city beyond the arena seems to fade away. Then the deity smiles, and gets to its feet.
As it pulls away from him, it steps back to reveal a dark, yawning stairway, descending deep into the earth.
“Go forth, friend of Schpood,” the Straw God intones, nudging him gently with an enormous hand. Its touch is surprisingly warm. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“I hope I bring them back,” is Saparata’s breathless reply, before he begins to make his way down the stairs.