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The full moon shines bright upon Laku as he stews in his pensiveness, draped over the railing of the Rising Stones’ terrace. In a similar yellow hue gleams the key now dubbed Ethos, light in his hand yet cumbersome regardless. A symbol of the inheritance he struggles to carry; yet for all it stands for, it is but one burden upon his neck tonight.
It feels strange to have all the Scions back in this building. He remembers the day of their disbandment all too well: how he’d braced himself for Zenos’s rejection as an official associate—even now he snorts over the wording—but was slapped in the face with losing his home, his friends, in one fell swoop. The truth of it was nothing so dramatic, but he can’t blame his past self for his reaction. His dynamis had been far less stable. The correct antidote and his continued access to his former lodgings whenever he wished to visit had dissolved most woes about the subject.
Hindsight paints it hilarious how out of sorts he was over such a nonissue, when current news of the world’s incoming annihilation inspires nothing but weary acceptance. That it was his killing blow upon his godly mother that unwittingly charted this course does not surprise. That he’d managed to awaken Kirimu into this era only for the poor guy to face another calamity does not either. For a sliver of a second the smoky hand of despair knocked on his shoulder, before he shrugged it off as an irritant he’d long discarded. He’s seen this all before, he’s done this dance. The world will need to break harder to crack him.
Who approaches him in the periphery is not the ghost of his old Ascian adversary, nor the new one who graced him with the news. The heavy steps that stop right beside him are of someone far more familiar and welcome. Without even turning to look at his fiancé, Laku leans against his arm, leeching warmth when numbness has sapped his away.
“You lasted there longer than I thought,” he says. Not much of a greeting, but they’re well past pleasantries in the safety of their bond.
Zenos readily accepts the weight of his warrior against him. “A test of endurance, listening to your comrades prattle on about preparations when they can barely comprehend the scope,” he responds. “But your mother asked what the gathering was for, and I thought it best she heard it from me and not their melodrama.”
His poor mother’s horror upon hearing Zenos’s typical blunt explanation of their demise now haunts Laku’s mind. “Sure, great, let’s scare her more,” he scoffs, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over Ethos. “We can’t have her forgetting how doomed everything her son touches is.”
“Doomed?” Zenos’s hand comes to rest atop Laku’s. “Or made more interesting? The world has tried to destroy you before. Each time you only grow sharper, the gods tremble more before your might.” His fingers run circles over Laku’s whitened knuckles, willing them to relax. “If fate wishes to test us again, I say let it try.”
The corner of Laku’s mouth quirks up despite himself. “Makes sense you’d mostly be upset that you didn’t get to it first, huh?” he jabs both with his words and his elbow. He knows full well Zenos’s world-ending tendencies are behind him, but he’ll never miss an opportunity to tease.
But his fiancé doesn’t rise to the bait. “I find I prefer the world’s continued existence,” he says instead with unexpected softness. “It has you in it.”
And Laku’s heart squeezes. Even after all this time, Zenos’s straightforward affection takes him off guard. He tries to laugh off the sudden wave of emotion, bumping his forehead against Zenos’s shoulder. “Sap.”
Zenos smirks, pressing a kiss to the top of Laku’s head. “Only practical, my beast. I would hate to waste perfectly good hunting grounds—or wedding venues.”
“Funny that. Not the first time I’ve planned the ceremony to the tune of the apocalypse.” The last time was nothing more than manic daydreams; now the reality of the task’s enormity presses upon Laku. “I hate Ascian crypticism. The bitch couldn’t even give a timeframe. At this rate we might have to bite the bullet and elope.”
“I thought you wanted a lavish affair, with all your Scions and whatnots in attendance,” Zenos hums with an edge of amusement; not mocking, simply poking fun at their difference in personality.
“Yeah, well, my whatnots are part of our life too,” Laku defends his sentimentality. So what if he wants to share his love with his friends and family? That’s the normal thing to want, is it not? Even if the two of them are the furthest from normal. But neither are the circumstances, and that more than their differences dares come in between the plans. “It’s just… Practical might be the exact way we need to be about this.”
Zenos’s hand rubs up and down Laku’s arm, sensing his fiancé’s tension without needing words. “Not a matter to dwell on now, my love. The future is a fickle thing after all.” Though he keeps his voice light, Laku can tell he, too, has fallen deep in thought.
With a sigh, Laku turns the key over in his palm. “You’re right, one crisis at a time,” he concedes, though the weight remains. “At least we get to be dramatic about it. No one can say our relationship lacks flair.”
“I do recall you bemoaning the lack of excitement before,” Zenos reminds him. To make his point, he lifts his engagement ring to bask in Living Memory’s glow once more. “To think I considered myself difficult to please.”
Laku buries his face in Zenos’s chest. “Oh, don’t you start with that. I swear, if I have to hear one more time about how I manifested this…” Yes, the voice most telling him so may be his own, but the point stands. His groaning is muffled against fabric, equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement.
Zenos merely chuckles in that brief, soft way of his. The sound vibrating through Laku where they’re pressed together. “Would you prefer I lie and say destiny favors drama for its own sake?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Then by all means,” Zenos murmurs against his hair, “let us blame the stars instead.”
The moment is broken by an unexpected presence spotted by Laku’s future vision before Zenos has the chance to react. His senses flare as he catches the shift in Laku’s posture: the subtle tensing of muscles, the sharpening of focus as his face lifts from his chest.
His own hand instinctively drifts toward the hilt of his blade before he reins in the impulse, curiosity overriding battle-readiness. “Trouble?” he asks, sweeping the empty terrace with his gaze.
Laku’s stare fixes on the far stairs and whom he knows walks beyond. “Annoyance, more like,” he replies as he drops Ethos to Zenos’s safekeeping. Better not place it anywhere around Calyx. “Stay here. I’ll deal with him.”
Zenos doesn’t ask who ‘him’ refers to. If he did and found it was Laku’s electrocuter, he might have chosen to follow—their foe’s plush toy form notwithstanding. As it is, he frees his fiancé to stalk up the stairs by his lonesome.
Before Calyx can get one grating word out, Laku grabs him by the throat and shoves him against the nearest wall. The reaction disappoints: he barely makes a sound, other than the soft thump of his stuffed body hitting tile.
“The violence is unnecessary,” he states as coolly as everything else. “This vessel has no pain receptors for your abuse.”
“It also has no vocal cords for your bullshit, yet here we are.”
The doll’s cartoony eyes, though expressionless, give off the impression of mockery as though he’s purposefully ignoring Laku’s antics. It would be so much more satisfying to hear this creature scream, but the world continues to deny Laku what he wants.
“Let me guess,” he growls. “Mommy sent you to spy on us.”
“Could you please use any other vocative?” Calyx deadpans.
Laku’s grip tightens further until he can feel the stitches give beneath his fingers. Still no reaction. It only feeds the beast within, and he has to forcibly unclench his hands to keep from doing something he may regret. “Answer the damn question, cottonbrain. Or am I going to have to take you apart and see how you tick?”
As Zenos watches from below, unable to rein in his curiosity, his amusement grows with Laku’s futile attempts to intimidate a stuffed toy. “I could assist in the interrogation,” he calls up. “Mayhaps a dunk in the nearest fishpond would loosen his tongue?”
Calyx’s attention flicks past Laku toward his partner, unimpressed. “Your barbaric theatrics are wasted. I came to deliver a message; one you’ll want to hear before your tantrum ruins another of my bodies.”
Laku’s teeth bare in a snarl, but he forces himself to release Calyx. The plush drops unceremoniously to the floor… though not before he gives him one more slam and a kick for good measure. “Make it quick.”
Calyx pushes back the stuffing that spilled through a new hole in his side, but remains as unperturbed as ever. For all appearances, he doesn’t so much as flinch despite Laku’s manhandling, and it fans the fires of the warrior’s ire. It is a testament to Laku’s self-restraint that he keeps his hands at his side instead of tearing the damned toy to shreds. He has half a mind to snatch him up and dunk him in the river anyway.
But he supposes the information gained is worth his temporary mercy.
“The Fourth, huh,” he mutters even after he has allowed the squirrel to walk free and returned to his lover. “Surprisingly forthcoming for a self-important little freak. What do you think his angle is? Does he want me to kill the other Winterers for him?”
Zenos snakes his arm around Laku’s shoulder in response to of an exasperated little huff. Even annoyed, his bunny seeks his comfort. How mutually satisfying. He’s no more impressed by the information than by the messenger, but a new hunt is a new hunt. “Does it matter?” he asks. “We shall slay whoever gets in our way. Unless you plan to spare them out of pure spite for the messenger?”
“Sparing them asks for effort I don't feel like wasting,” Laku grumbles. “But you’re right—doesn’t matter if it plays into his hand or not. If they stand between us and answers…” He trails off, flexing his fingers where they rest against Zenos’s chest.
There’s a fire in his eyes now, the spark of battle-lust that Zenos knows so well. It pleases him. “Then let us hunt again, love.”
“You bet.” As Laku reaches to return Ethos to his possession, he notices something odd: it emits that same dim glow in his partner’s hand. It did not in Y’shtola’s, it did not in Shale’s. Only his own, and now here.
Zenos’s eyes narrow as he too notes the faint pulse against his palm. “Curious,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Laku. “Your little trinket seems to recognize a kindred spirit.”
Laku reclaims the key with a roll of his eyes. “Or maybe it’s just drawn to drama queens.”
“Long shall we reign,” Zenos drawls, then reaches for Laku’s freed hand as the key disappears into his pocket. “Come. Lest your friends think you’ve shirked your duty.”