Really makes you wonder how many people someone like Solomon had to kill before reaching his level of power. Tyr was tired. Exhausted. Worn down in every conceivable way a man could be. Emotionally, physically, mentally... Refinement and cultivation were no replacements for an honest night's rest, forcing him to stop after a time. He hurt all over, not so much from what those men had done, but the repeated changes that had occurred to his body. That level of pain, their attempts to kill him pale in comparison.
He was sick of death. It was harder than he thought it'd be, or maybe given time to consider it – it was easier than it should've been. These men deserved no life and served a far greater purpose than they would've in life, but the smell of it was most bothersome of all. All the shit and blood and other bodily fluids that would leave a dead man. It stuck in his throat and mouth, gagging him every time he opted to breath through his nose. Burnt hair and charred offal. His psyche had a pressure on it that he'd never felt before, a melancholy that forced him to request to return home. A dire need to get it off of him.
Killing was easy, so easy. But there was a weight to it. It was easy to put paint to canvas, but impossible to get it off once dried. Had to cut or burn it out, the soul wasn't a slate you could just wipe clean at a whim. A thing left a stain, little marks here and there. He could smell that, too.
Tyr entered the estate, caked from head to toe in filth, not taking the time to remove his armor, leaving a path of it through the foyer and hallways. He saw the looks on the faces of the men. Those blackguard who silently nodded and averted their eyes, and those northmen who stared at him hard frowns. Even a grim lot such as they had never seen something like this, but they knew it was beyond them, the 'work of a primus'. Those who stopped and dirtied themselves so they didn't have to. Tyr was thankful for that, their firmly rooted traditions and faith, some lie in the past that would've told them that everything one of 'his kin' did was necessary. A godly truth in their eyes.
Nine days. Two thousand gold credits before Asmon had declared himself unable to pay any further, though promising some future merits if Tyr had a mind to claim them. He didn't. He kept killing and stomping the filth down into the mud where they belonged, no need for anything else. It all served a purpose.
Showering, armor still on at first, bits of viscera clogged the drain until he stooped and did his best to force it all down the drain. He wanted it gone, scrubbing at his skin until he was freely bleeding and some began to come off. That didn't stop him, it didn't hurt. He scoured his flesh, wishing it would, but it didn't. Not much more than a dull tingle. He couldn't get out out of his fingernails, peeling them off with a tremor in his hands. His eyes burned, and he wept freely. Not for the men he'd butchered. Tyr wasn't that kind of person. Not for any reason at all. The pressure on him so fierce that it smashed his sense of self flat. There was no 'why', it just was. As he was. Having not slept or eaten in well over a week, as soon as his hands were idle he was lost again. Worse than ever.
He'd done what he'd needed to do. It was necessary. Those people were not people at all, they were a cancer to the living world that needed to be cut out and burned from the canvas. But if that were true, why did he feel this way? Why couldn't he get rid of that pit in his chest? He swore he'd put his hand to breast and could no longer feel his heart beating. But then it would start back up again. Maybe he was going mad.
It wasn't long after that he fell into the deep embrace of sleep and all of the nightmares it had to offer. For two days he slept, rising briefly to gorge himself on anything edible within reach. Ignoring the others and returning to sleep for another two days. After that, he pondered and read more. Contrary to his expectations, absorbing the information was not easier than before. Peeling back all of these onion-like layers of the world energy phenomena only to find more waiting for him. It didn't make any sense...
He'd grown stronger, but not sharper of the mind, unable to discern what convention existed to see to one thing or another. Tyr had yet to exhaustively test his mana, but it was clear that killing would not turn him into some kind of super genius, which was unfortunate. Still, bits and pieces of Solomon's texts began to come together.
Slowly answering the questions he'd sought his whole life even while being totally unaware of their own existence. But most importantly, it gave him something to do. Feverishly digging through any book he could get his hands on, they wouldn't shake when he kept himself occupied.
Alex had tried to confront him, or at least he thought that was what had happened, but he'd only told her not to get in his way. Tyr had no time for their games, and it was clear that even after all that he was no closer to solving the mystery of his own oncoming demise.
But it was not a waste of time. There had to be meaning to this, it couldn't possibly be random. His life had to mean something...
–
“Why do you think there are no poor people here in Amistad?” Astrid was curious. She hadn't seen a single beggar or street urchin in the whole place. There were orphanages, but none of the telltale signs in near every city to denote a society that had left people behind. She had a habit of looking for them everywhere she went, finding it curious that some people could just sleep on the street. Eating irregularly, rarely bathing. Odd.
“I don't know.” Sigi replied absentmindedly. “Magic, maybe. Apparently they can sow and reap their fields year round, even in the winter. Can make crops grow with spells, too. Haran has people who can do that, bloomers I think they call them.”
Astrid knew it. The issue she had with this fact was that Haran had equal access to wealth and yet beggars existed there, usually not hungry – food was too common, but poverty was a real component of life even in the capital. Corners that would one day be hers by right. “Why is Haran such a...”
“A dump?” Sigi laughed. “It's not. Oresund is the same, don't you remember what your father always said?”
“Our father, Sigi.” Astrid huffed and pouted. They'd been together for some time now, companions and sisters in all ways but blood. It agitated her when Sigi indicated otherwise. Ragnar had only ever been good to her and all of his daughters, treating them far better than the southern kingdoms treated their princesses. Primus', as was common sense, had far more daughters than sons, usually locked away and prevented from doing anything with their lives.
“Fine.” Sigi shrugged, surrendering to the logic as they walked the streets of Amistad. She had to agree, this place was clean and rich and full of wonders. If Haran was a dump, then what was the more humble Oresund is comparison? No. It wasn't a dump, neither were. Amistad was just different.
Ragnar had always taught them the dangers of allowing society to fall into over reliance of magic. Whatever danger that was, was unclear, only that it was. He had insisted that magic had potential for great works, but that it was the plague upon mankind that would doom them should it go too far. Sigi and Astrid both wished they'd understood those words, but the eccentric primus wasn't keen on 'idle chat', always at some study or another. Trying to answer a question or many questions that he never shared with anyone, even his son. Nobody knew what he was working on, his 'great project'.
Thus, in the 'civilized' kingdoms, mages operated within laws. Only the republic, among those possessing a primus, allowed them to run amok with relative freedom. Even then, it was a point of contention. Jartor, Ragnar, and their fathers before them had long been proponents of keeping mages on a short leash until such a time as they were needed. And as with them, the clergy followed, and the church wasn't known for treating mages very well.
“I wonder what Vidarr is up to.” Astrid pondered. She hadn't seen or spoken to her brother, her only brother and future primus in several years. That wasn't odd in Haran, but Oresundians kept closer ties with their kin. Even if that man was a century old, he had a good relationship with his sisters.
“Whoring. Hunting. Drinking. What else would he be doing?” Sigi chuckled. Vidarr was even older than the primus Cortus had been. Yet despite his inhuman, advanced age, he'd never seemed to grow up and mature the way one would expect. It stood testament to exactly how old Ragnar was, to have had two sons, and another after Floki had departed from the lands of men. Floki had never borne a child, he'd had other tastes and Ragnar hadn't forced him. The title being left to Vidarr who would come after. Ragnar was, what the women affectionately called a 'the baby making machine', and Vidarr was off to a good start. In recent history, he'd even had a son of his own. Which made Ragnar the only primus alive that had a grandson, such was testament to the strength of their line. That's what they said.
“That looks good, let's go in here.”
Sigi pointed to a fine establishment all cast in sandstone. A stepped structure flanked by blocky obelisks looking like some kind of ancient ziggurat only smaller. Outside, a metal sign hung indicating it as a place for eating, the 'Rusty Trombone'.
“That's an odd name for an assyrian establishment...” Astrid observed the sign fixed with the brass form of the instrument, as rusty as the name would imply. “I guess it's as good as any, I am positively famished.”
They'd had enough time to explore the wonders of the city, taking the opportunity before school started to visit various eateries and shops. Inside, it was dim, with bronze braziers and hanging lanterns full of bright flame at each corner to light the interior. Not a single window was set into the thick walls, an odd design choice to say the least.
What was odd, was the group of nobles dressed in the way the Varian's did with their puffy sleeves and frilled necklines surrounding a much taller man than they. A ruff, it was called. Tyr absentmindedly picked at a piece of naan. His eyes were glazed and at no point did he turn to address them. Seemingly oblivious to the insults being hurled at him from the party opposite him.
“Oi, are you listening?” Each and every one of them was soft and slight of build, with a paleness to their olive complexions from spending too much time out of the sun. Not a single ones of these nobles could've been over twenty winters old. “What's a northerner doing all the way down here? Don't speak common? Go back to where you came from, dog.”
Astrid became nervous as she saw Tyr snap from his fugue state and look up at the man thrusting his finger at his chest. Nervous because she'd seen what he could do when left to his own devices. She made to walk forward before Sigi grabbed at her arm and shook her head. She was uninterested in entering a potential brawl where Tyr was armed, and they were not. Her own safety wasn't what she was worried about, but Astrid's was important to her. She did not trust that man, husband or not, not after what she'd seen.
“I asked you what you were doing here!” They had rat faces and even rattier voices. Based on the clearness of their skin, they were mages. Maybe even fellow students of a high year.
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Their guard detail filtered into the establishment slowly, the bow legged walk of sea faring men with their thick beards and grim faces. They almost immediately made moves to resolve the situation, by fist if necessary, but Sigi stopped them as well.
“...Eating?” Tyr raised an eyebrow, confusion plain on his face. “Do you want some?” He offered the naan bread to the man only to have it promptly slapped out of his hand. Tyr sighed, staring down at the delicious bread, aggrieved at the thought of it going to waste. Thus, floored or not, he picked it up and continued eating much to the disgust of the Varian entourage assaulting him.
“I don't want anything your filthy hands have touched, rutabaga – now be up and gone from here. This table is reserved for nobles.”
Sigi didn't know what was happening. The look on Tyr's face was twisted and wroth, indicating that he might just stand and kill the man. But his tone was fairly even, addressing them in a fairly friendly manner. Even offering them food...?
“I see.” Tyr replied. It made sense, he carried his sword as he always did – but it was sheathed and the leather that bound it was shabby and well worn from past events. Beyond that, he was wearing the same loose linens as always. Clean, but not what one would identify him as anything but an everyman – and no rings or robes or amulets to identify him as a mage either. To them, he must've looked like a commoner. “Actually, I'm the--”
Spotting Astrid and Sigi standing there out of the corner of his eye, he'd almost made a mistake. The plan was to register everyone under their maiden names to avoid trouble. People would naturally draw their conclusions eventually, it wasn't exactly a 'good plan' but the intention wasn't to live an alias or secret identity. Just to go as long as they could until they had all successfully enrolled in the academy. Naturally, the professors knew exactly who they were, and didn't seem to care much about it. Everyone in Amistad was 'equal', there was no nobility here and certainly no reserved tables for them in a foreign run restaurant.
Even the greatest of the archmages who didn't find him or herself in possession of a council seat had a vote worth no more than any other mage – in terms of their influence on the legislative process. On paper, that was the claim.
Naturally, it wasn't perfect considering how common it was for powerful nobles to stay in the city. It was punished harshly under the law, but of course that almost never happened. Amistad was an oligarchy with the ridiculous notion of democracy sitting at the fore, and corruption was bound to be everywhere. Advanced magic was expensive, and Tyr was confident bribery was commonplace.
Before he could respond, or the northmen menacingly fingering their axes could do the same, a tray slammed into the table with an unnecessary amount of force – spilling a bit of the honeyed tea that Tyr quite enjoyed.
He sighed at that. So much waste.
“Leave.” This new entrant growled. He was tall, but not big, cutting a similar figure to Tyr but thinner. In fact, they looked a lot alike in many ways if one ignored the difference in their complexion. He was dark and brooding around the eyes, with hair spilling past his shoulder-blades worn in a similar warriors tale to Tyr's own. Straight and even blacker than Tythas', neatly manicured and glossy compared to Tyr's wavy mop of snow white hair. Like complete opposites, they similarity in garb and style only served to nail home how different they were. The stereotypical northerner against the darker features common in the south.
There was no need to repeat himself. This man was important, striking no small amount of fear into the Varian nobles who bowed deeply and near ran from the establishment before being hemmed in by the northmen. Thankfully, Sigi once again had the presence of mind to stop them from beating the nobles for their insolence.
A primus was a primus. Tyr was a primus, and many Oresundians considered him their primus only after their own. Haran and Oresund were akin to sister nations, where the old blood still flowed, and the primus' of both were treasures, living divinity.
“Sorry about that. I will ensure that they are held to account for their disrespect by whatever standard you wish.”
“It's fine.” Tyr shrugged. “I'm not really sure what that was all about.”
“Very. Do you mind if I sup with you? My training ran overlong today and I've always wanted to see if assyrian cuisine is as good as they say it is.”
“Sure.” Tyr shrugged again, completely oblivious that he'd just been 'bullied'. He wasn't a stranger to the concept, just used to it. Jartor looked the other way most times in terms of disrespect, having always insisted that the prince handle it himself. Instead of doing so, Tyr had begun to ignore, retreating into a shell of solitude and letting them ramble on. It was just a truth of the world, a thing that happened and after training with Varinn – he'd grown yet more accustomed to ignoring things around him. Discipline, maybe.
There was no greeting. Tyr recognized the man as a noble, but didn't care much beyond that. A moment later, Astrid and Sigi joined them at their table – picking from Tyr's plate with abandon and noting that it was good. The northmen made their way to the corner tables, ordering their own food and ale from the half terrified barkeep. Apparently they didn't have ale here, serving wine or a drink called 'arak' distilled from anise seeds. That didn't please the northmen, but they were assured that this arak was far superior to any northern spirit and that challenge seemed to placate them.
“They've been uncomfortable. Varian nobles have always been a bit overbearing, but here in a place where nobody cares who their fathers are, they aren't used to it. It won't happen again.”
“Like I said – I don't mind. It was a bit awkward, but I don't think they need to be punished. In fact, I'd prefer that you didn't.”
“Really?” The youth raised an eyebrow, the glossy hair rolling like midnight silk over his shoulder. He was pretty. Too pretty, more so than anyone Tyr had ever seen – and he'd never been much for the men. But, hypothetically... A sharp, chiseled jaw, thick eyebrows and incredibly clear skin framed two bright silver eyes. He felt the sudden urge to hate the man despite not knowing his name. Even his lips, well proportioned and no stranger to a smile were superior to Tyr's own. He'd never felt insecure or jealous by looking at another before before, until now. A day of many 'firsts', it would seem.
“People make mistakes. They need correcting, maybe, but lashing out at them is unnecessary. They don't know me, and I don't know them. If I went ahead and executed everyone who talked to me like that, I'd never stop swinging.”
Astrid and Sigi cast a glance between themselves at the bizarre response. They'd expected him to be angrier, like he used to be – causing a potential international incident. Instead, he was bizarrely and uncharacteristically apathetic. They kept seeing new parts of the princes personality, being in such close quarters to him. It did nothing to answer any questions regarding what kind of person he was.
“You are noble.” The man laughed, an infectious noise that made others want to do the same. His voice was light and smooth, like honey. “My father would have them drawn and flayed if you'd asked for it.”
“I'd do it myself if I wanted to.” Tyr said, voice dull and empty of any emotion.
With that, the situation became a bit more awkward. The Varian noble, whoever he was, gave a halfhearted response of 'I see', returning to his meal. Tyr was oblivious to it, what with his fairly poor social skills. Seeing the heavy silence as normal. Astrid though was no stranger to that, something that had never seemed to change for Tyr was his complete and utter inability to act like a normal human being. If there wasn't a question asked of him, or an argument to participate in, he'd remain silent for hours or even days. Just staring at things, and it had always been that way, it used to make her extremely uncomfortable. Still did, at times, but there was charm to someone content to simply be. Enough people talked too much as it was, no need to add to all the noise.
“How is your meal?” Astrid asked the man, blushing a bit, something Tyr did not fail to notice. Finding himself plain irritated at the sight of it. He might be awkward and maladjusted to all things social, but he knew what that face meant. “Oh, that reminds me. Prince Iscari will be attending the academy, Tyr. Sort of last minute, your father says primus Octavian had him transferred as soon as you were admitted.”
“Who the hell is Iscari?” Tyr asked, eyebrow raised and looking at her with his deep blues, not recognizing the name.
“Um... I am.” The man, Iscari, answered. “We've known one another since we were children...”
“...”
“You really don't recognize me? I thought you had, or I would've greeted you properly. I guess we've both changed, you're certainly a lot taller. And... Considerably more difficult to talk to.” Iscari smiled widely, a disarming splitting of the lips. Tyr felt a sudden urge to slap him in the face.
“...No. You and I have never met, don't play games.” Tyr replied, still drawing a blank. Even with his awakened and enhanced ability to cram information and process it beyond the average person – he didn't think he'd ever met the man. He knew who Octavian was, but not this Iscari.
Astrid groaned, while Sigi chuckled. Each feeling a different type of way at the obliviousness of their 'husband'.
“Ah, well. I've had a fair few spills of late and I'm sure some information was knocked loose.” Tyr extended his hand in the greeting of warriors and merchants. “Tyr, youngest son of House Ebonfist of Oresund.”
Iscari looked at him strangely, grabbing only half of his hand – just the fingers. It was uncomfortable, and he didn't shake it. He... Pulled at it? Tyr had no idea what he was doing, perhaps it was a Varian custom. Or perhaps the guy was just fucking weird. Tyr did not like him. He rarely liked people at all, but he'd grown good at pretending. Problem was, he couldn't seem to do it with this one.
“Iscari Longinus – prince and future primus of Varia.” He replied with more than a decent dose of confusion, perhaps lost in whether or not it was some kind of strange jest. Tyr didn't noticed it, similarly lost in the absurdity of the claim. Primus? Now he knew how all of those farmers must've felt when he introduced himself in a similar way.
“Primus?”
“Well, yeah... We practically grew up together, you and I... I know who you are, and I can understand the use of an alias but using it with me wouldn't make any sense. I'd recognize you anywhere, kind of hard not to... With the uh, white hair and all. It's not like I'm about to go screaming your name and revealing your identity if you want to keep it a secret for whatever reason.”
Tyr's mind whirred to connect the dots. No dice. Octavian did have a son his age though, that was common knowledge. They were supposed to meet one day, naturally, but it'd never happened... He thought... “I'm very sure we've never met before. Regardless, it's nice to meet you. Would you like to be friends?”
“Uh... Sure...?”
“Good, now do me a first favor as my second ever friend and shut the hell up. I'm trying to eat.”
Of course he didn't. Everything Tyr said was peak of comedy to this foreigner, laughing and continuing on in some long dialogue of how they'd met.
Iscari seemed nice enough. Well mannered but not overly anal with the way politicians and nobles stuck to customs. Speaking like any other man and not difficult to converse with. According to him, he and Tyr had met multiple times throughout their youth and had even promised to attend the same university before the latter's mother had passed. After that, he hadn't heard from Tyr since – with his many letters sent to Haran receiving no response. His requests to communicate with his childhood friend were denied as well, it was a frustrating circumstance and Octavian didn't seem to care.
Declaring it normal for people to grow apart. Tyr was unsure of all of this, but he remembered Alex spinning a very similar tale. He had possessed no recollection of her at all, despite the fact that she claimed that they were childhood friends, growing up together. Before marriage, that is, once they'd been married he could never forget her. Haunting his night terrors as she was wont to do.
Hmm... Those two events weren't the only things. Tyr could barely remember what his mother looked like, among other significant events that he knew for a fact had taken place. Everything before he had hit his twelfth winter was a foggy mess. He'd thought initially that this was common among primus', as his father had elaborated that his own memory too saw strange gaps – but only after being centuries old. Tyr was too young for that to happen.
Their bodies were eternal but their minds were nearer to that of a human, just better, but not wholly different. Even a primus had limits. Except, betraying Tyr's expectations, Iscari had no gap in his memories whatsoever. Memories of the blood pact they'd forged as their fathers had before them, running about the palace in Dorian and playing at all sorts of games. Alex too, a mischievous trio that had caused no small amount of grief for their parents at the time.
Another question he'd have to answer. Another task added to an increasingly laborious list of the things he might have to resolve.