The moon is an all-seeing deity, or so the people of Alsland — the subjects of the Goddess during Reginn’s era — believed. However, such blasphemous claims were soon erased by the children. He was a child then, and he remains a child, though it is not particularly his mind or body that lacks, but connections.
The small, shining moon in the sky, far outshining the rest. It was close to Earth, almost a fifth of the sky covered in its silver glory. He wondered what it was, and how it came to be. The Goddess told him that it was her creation, like the humans and the animals, and even through his veneration and devout faith, he still wondered silently.
In his mind, the moon was just like the deserts in the demon kingdom, with silver sand instead of gold, and darker patches of water splattered across the gray canvas. The white lines must’ve been marks, he thought, perhaps markings for borders or directions. Maybe the demon God or the Goddess used to live there in tranquil peace.
Someday, when everything was over and done with, he would like to slumber atop the sky marble as well.
Reginn returned his focus to Sivrit, Ayn and the strange demon in front of him. Sivrit had told him that the demon was her friend, but he would have to see for himself — demons were tricky creatures after all. The demon seemed blunt, commenting on his ritualistic battle armour as well as his demeanour. Thankfully, she must’ve not seen him beside Yuta, lest the long string of questions continued.
It was already night, but the pillars of lights kept the streets illuminated. They were similar to torches, but stationary and automatic. Humans, it seemed, had a solution for every inconvenience. Perhaps they were worthy of at least some respect.
In point, Reginn turned to face Sivrit, who was conversing with Ayn. Out of consideration, she had prepared him some clothes as well. This act of kindness — at least what humans considered kindness — reminded him of Caretaker. Even her appearance was similar, as if Caretaker was her ancient ancestor. They were like glass sculptures; beautiful, fragile, impermanent. Perhaps the fragility added to the beauty as impermanence adds to the value of every moment spent together. His eyes gravitated toward the concrete path, its unending repeating patterns numbingly mundane, as he reminisced.
The hero knew that Caretaker did not share his feelings, but to him, she was the only human worth anything, the only one. Before he met her, humans were but cattle to him, subjects to be used. They still were after, but he began to notice more things about them, their curiosity, ingenuity, and compassion. Reginn began to admire them like how one may admire the beauty of a dam made by beavers or the efficiency of ants.
But at this moment, he did not know how to think about humans.
‘...I do not ask for forgiveness but for a chance to atone for my sins. I thank you for my life, and my soul is forever yours’
This was what he prayed for at the end of his life. Perhaps the Goddess or some other greater force answered his call after all.
Without the rest’s knowledge, Reginn silently disappeared into the shadows. It’d be best not to draw too much attention.
“Good night…”
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“Well, this is where I live,” said Sivrit.
“So this is the mansion of a rich family…” said Ayn.
In front of them was a colossal building, occupying several blocks in the noble neighbourhood near Order-Citadelis. It seemed that the Kaines were one of the more prominent families within Avangarden, clear due to the proximity to the royals.
The group entered the mansion after the gates automatically opened themselves. Sivrit explained that the gates were equipped with facial recognition sensors in such a matter-of-fact way that baffled even Attila.
“Man, no matter how many times I come here, it’s always so imposing,” said Attila, “Are you sure you aren’t a princess?”
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“Hm? Why would I be?”
“So this is the mentality of a rich family…” said Ayn.
The environment reeked of wealth and prosperity, to an unnatural degree. Even the king of Ayn’s era could only dream of living in such luxury. In the front garden were two fountains, a hedge maze — the gardeners greeting Sivrit — and a statue of a hero.
“Who’s that?” asked Ayn.
“That’s the 87th hero, Jove Kaine! He’s like my great, great, great, great, great, great—”
“Okay, okay, we get it,” said Attila.
She heard this tale a million times before, so much so that she could recite it by heart. It almost felt like he was her own great, great, great, great, great… Anyhow, Attila would not let Sivrit create another victim of exposition and began to explain herself.
“So he was a great hero of Avangarden from Siv’s father’s side. I mean, he’s pretty famous around here for his career as a gladiator too, but mostly known for his decisive victory against Sonosis and the resulting peace treaty — is that right?”
“Well, you missed some stuff but—”
“Anyhow! I think I should head home now. It’s a bit scary how I was so naturally about to sleep over… See you tomorrow!” said Attila as she departed.
It would be another long day for her tomorrow, and sleeping over at Sivrit’s naturally equated to being late for her training session — as proven time and time again. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be as eventful as today, the mall collapse. However, she was confident that she would be alright.
“By the way, where’s Reginn?” asked Sivrit.
“...Huh?”
Ayn searched his surroundings to no avail, the ancient hero nowhere to be seen. It seemed that he was an independent actor, always preferring to do things on his own and being caught up in his own adventures. Sivrit hoped to learn more about him, but this day very well may have been her last time seeing him.
Ayn turned to face the moon whilst looking around, its beauty capturing his attention. To him, the celestial object was distant and foreign, but simultaneously a part of ordinary life. The lunar beauty used to be his image of what a hero should aspire to be, present among the common populace, but also beyond them, a protector from above.
The hero began to think about Reginn. With his great power, he must’ve been a great hero. For Ayn, he always had to rely on others, and it almost felt manipulative and cult-like how some of his comrades behaved.
To them, he was a delicate flower to be protected, to obey. Not a commander, but a princess. It was out of instinctual protective spirit, like those felt when encountering a baby or a soft animal, rather than passion inspired by power. To them, he was but a child.
From a child to the moon, was such transformation possible?
Did he want to become a moon?
“So Ayn, in return for letting you stay at my house for now, can you tell me some of your hero stories?”
There was a separation between his image of himself, and the way others perceived him. The world sees a princess, a damsel, a hero, perhaps divine. However, what did he see in himself? Weak, unworthy… Confused. What did he want to be?
“Sure, but I can’t guarantee they’ll be good though…”
“Well, a hero’s tale is a hero’s tale — especially from a real hero!”
Ayn could see in Sivrit’s eyes the admiration and respect she had for him, even though his display of heroism was pathetic so far. Even she was more heroic than him. Everyone around him was; Sivrit, Reginn, Attila… He only felt guilty from those bright eyes, unable to share this burden.
“...Yeah.”
Ayn took two steps on the staircase to the entrance, then turned back to face the moon in all its glory just one last time. His dream, his vision. However, the most important aspect of the moon was not its grandness, its distance or its beauty, but rather its mature tranquillity. The peace.
“The moon sure is bright tonight.”