In honour of Akira Toriyama,
“Wake up and get ya’ arse out of ‘ere! We’re here!” Somehow, the old man’s bellow was even louder and brasher than his vehement tap upon the wagon’s door.
I’ve been up, Fino murmured as he hit the wagon back from the inside – not as if it was easy to fall asleep in that cramped carriage anyway. “Yeah, yeah, coming–”
As Fino tried to open the door, it got slammed back in – the sudden impact knocked him back down to his tiny seat, rekindling aches and wounds that had almost vanished.
“Wait. Not yet.” Desmi whispered from the outside.
Then why did you call for me then? Fino cursed while holding onto his bleeding nose.
Fino had, at last, arrived at Dreamcity after many moons on the road, and now that he was there and was able to even smell the smoke of exotic herbs and taste the wet wine-scented air – Desmi, the bastard, had the gall to delay his bliss even further than he already had.
Fino couldn’t discern much outside of the bustling bootsteps, songs, and hollers that were all too common for Dreamcity – but there were few traces of footsteps that sounded too graceful and poised for the people of the City of Colours.
A moment passed, and the ceaseless tapping on the wagon’s door returned.
“Alright, come out now,” said Desmi.
“Are you sure?” Fino grouched – for some reason, he no longer felt like leaving anymore.
“Yes, I’m sure. Now come on – I’m famished.” The tapping turned to violent strikes – the oaf cared not that he was hitting upon his own ride.
Why should I care? Fino grumbled, though his stomach was growling as well – it had been a long while since he had proper grubs to fill his belly.
Fino stepped out of the wagon and huffed in a lungful of the soiled air that he so cherished. He untied his scruffy dark hair and allowed it to flow with the breeze. His rusty joints felt as if they haven’t moved in days. If not for the many roofs and parasols littered throughout the city street, surely the mighty sun shining above would have blinded his golden eyes.
The streets of Dreamcity were nothing like Sentry – its colours were far more vivid than that archaic stone. Its paths were narrower, yet chocked full of ecliants, steelborns, and humans alike from all parts of Xearth – all were blissfully ignorant in broad daylight, smoking pipes and downing booze until the night claimed their souls. Flags bearing the portrayal of a drunkard being stuck within a wine barrel were aptly chosen to be the city’s emblem. Merchant wagons, noble carriages, and modest rickshaws parked by every pavement of the thoroughfare – Fino wouldn't be surprised if there were more carts than there were people. Fino could not turn his head to a spot where there were no endless rows of stalls vending items ranging from exotic wares, farcical weaponries, glamorous booze, relics of faith, and pleasuring goods. Men, women, and children littered every nook and cranny of the crowded thoroughfare – some pitching novel inventions that could lift them away from poverty, while others pawning away their possessions and bodies. Few watchdroids could be seen stationed at several posts, though they seemed oddly nervous while twisting their heads back and forth as if they were pigeons. Several folks could be seen awkwardly lurking from brothels to inns, their garments far too fancy and modest for the City of Colours – if not for the animal-shaped masks that they adorned, no doubt these secretive noble Lords and Ladies would have made massive headlines in the Daily Centum papers. Fino was never one to bother for such frivolous disguise – for there wasn’t a single soul in court who did not know of his fondness for Dreamcity.
“What was all that about?” Upon being content with reuniting with his second home, Fino turned back to the wretched old coachman.
“Sentinels roaming the street instead of watchers. Dunno’ what gives, but I’m sure ya’ don’t want to mingle too close to those bunch.” Desmi told, as he then removed his straw hat and fanned his scarry face.
“Why wouldn’t I? Aren’t I a Lord too?” the unlordly Lord jested.
Desmi merely lifted his eyebrows – his dull red orbs told Fino all he needed. “Right this way then, My Lord.” His tone filled with mockery as he held the door open for Fino to enter the finest red-light establishment in all of Dreamcity – the Love Machines. The sign afront the store was that of two ladies wearing fox-like masks, and together, they held a globe atop their palms – any downtrodden and randy punks in Xearth would be familiar with this emblem.
Fino wasted no time to step foot into the establishment – though the Love Machines’ chain is popular throughout all of Xearth for its brothels and inns, Fino has a precise fondness for this keep.
The moment his body graced the inside of the brothel, his ears were flooded with the silky chords from songstresses and musicians while his eyes flashed by pleasing lavender lights lit through purple-glassed lanterns. It spunk of spilt mead, sour sweat, and sugary fume. Hordes of folks swarmed the many bars to drown their bellies with wine and lungs with smoke – while others spent their time and arks at secluded booths, wrestling their body with the cakey hussies to empty their lust and stress. It was all just as Fino remembered – all but one thing.
A snap of the finger struck distinctly out from the rowdy stir – and for a moment, all instruments ceased to play, and all patrons and workers parted themselves away to form an empty path. A jaunty figure sauntered down the aisle made specifically for him, leading directly to Fino.
A tall man he was – his slim and browned body hidden beneath a lavender suit, woven by the finest fabric and woven by the most skilled tailors in Dreamcity. Both his hands were warmed by black gloves so as to not stain the gilded cane that he always brings around. To the dismay of few within the brothel, his fair face that so many wenches of Dreamcity so fawned over was hidden behind a red mask with the shape of a fox.
The man at last stood before Fino, and the brothel resumed its deeds once their Lord’s needs had been tended to.
The Master of the Love Machines gently took off his mask, revealing his one eye of gold and the other of purple. “Lord Five? What an honour to have you here at our humble establishment. It’s rare for us to be graced by a noble presence such as yours. How may I be of service today?” he graciously offered his service and pressed his cane of gold to his chest – the shaft’s collar and handle were hugged by a carved statuette of a stripped lady, a very apt choice for a man of his occupation.
“Relax. Ignore the fool – he’s with me,” Fino sighed as he then pointed at Desmi.
“What he said, pretty boy,” Desmi scoffed – the oaf seemed to find enjoyment in this whole affair.
Upon hearing Fino’s words, the once-composed gentleman sighed aloud and combed back his dark hair. “You really oughta’ stop showing up unannounced with mean-looking strangers like this, Fino.” He groaned as he then reached his hand out to shake Fino’s.
“He’s a bit rough on the looks, but he’s harmless,” Fino smirked as he shook his hand back.
“Dunno’ how much of your words I could trust, but I’ll bite for now,” he said before turning towards Desmi. “The name is ZZ. A pleasure to meet you.” He, too, reached out his hand to the old oaf.
“Desmi.” The carter actually shook his hand back – to the surprise of Fino. “ZZ? A rather peculiar choice, all things considered. That ya’ real name?”
“It’s about as real as ya' ecliants’ serial-names. Mine just happens to roll off the tongue better.”
“I don’t get a serial-name or any of that – too rich for my blood.” Desmi chuckled. “I suspect that’s one thing we oughta’ share. With ya’ being a halfling and all.” For all of his fault, the old grunt was nothing if not scrupulous.
ZZ merely smirked back in turn before returning a glower to Fino. “Harmless, aye?”
“Mouthy, but harmless. He’s a bit crankier than usual – ya’ have his stomach to thank for that.”
As if Fino was the Prophet instead of Nine – with the words leaving his lips, the growling of a hungry beast could be heard drowning away the merriment of the club.
ZZ eyed down at Desmi’s grumbling belly. “If that’s the case,” ZZ coughed and snapped his fingers once more. A pair of servers appeared out of nowhere – Fino could hardly notice them from apart the crowd. “A friend of my friend is a friend of mine. Please follow them, and they’ll serve you with as much as your heart desires.” ZZ pointed Desmi to his attendants.
“No thanks. Imma’ grab some grubs after.” Desmi rejected the offer – to the confusion of both Fino and his own stomach.
“Just go. It’ll do us both some good not to stare at each other’s mug for some time.” Fino implored the stubborn fool.
“Ya’ sure?” asked Desmi – his usual callous look softened, though his giant scar didn’t help much for his attempt.
“Yes, go and enjoy yourself, old man. Who knows if it could be the last time you have the chance for it?” Fino waved his hands as if he was shooing away a pesky mutt.
“Well, if ya’ put it that way,” Desmi sighed as he marched his old bones towards ZZ’s attendants. “Don’t go anywhere or do anything stupid. Ya’ got that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just go already,” Fino had to plead to Desmi as if he were the Lord instead.
At last, the irksome old man has left away from sight – no longer spoiling the revelry with his sour presence.
“Quite a character you have accompanying your journey there,” ZZ whistled swiftly.
“If I could, I would’ve had another. Too bad the lofty lords of the Order don’t really trust me to make my own decisions.”
“No use regretting and moping over it now. That’s hardly something one should do in the City of Colours.” ZZ clapped his hands, though Fino could never seem to tell if his snake-like tongue was speaking the truth. “What would you be having then?” the master of the establishment offered his servitude.
“What else? Throw me the usual.” Fino tossed his arms in the air – he could almost feel tipsy from the atmosphere alone already.
“Are you sure? Today isn’t the greatest day to visit the grave, don’t ya’ think?”
As if the music and laughter had vanished wholly from his ears and the vivid light blackened before his eyes – Fino merely glared back at the man who could never seem to control his tongue.
“A joke, a joke.” ZZ laughed wryly, then snapped his fingers again – summoning two skimpy-cladded ladies behind him. “Ladies, bring our esteemed guest to his usual accommodations.”
“Right this way, My Lord.” The one in red underclothing tugged onto his right arm.
“It’s been a while since you’ve come to visit us, Lord Fino. I was starting to think that you were bored of us.” The other in blue held onto his other arm.
Fino tried to shrug them off of him – his sour mood was battling against his desires.
“Have fun, Fino. Drown your worries away and welcome in bliss,” the sleazy fox parted his final advice before fading away in the misty crowd of drunken and mindless husks.
Way ahead of you, Fino uttered silently – not knowing whether he was sober or drunk or whether his words were truths or lies.
*
It had been a long while since his heart had beaten this loudly and his head jumbled this madly. The steamy chamber was secluded away from the regular front of the brothel – it was not lit to the colour of lavender like its other half, but instead, the colour of crimson. The dwellers acted more like beasts than men – their unending fountains of arks could not quench their thirst for blood. Only a few could be granted passage to the backroom of a Love Machines’ establishment, where prohibited acts could be conducted away from the prying watch of the watchers – though Fino doubted those sunken lots would care much even if they did find out about the brothel’s secret.
Fino’s head felt as if it was splitting apart, yet it felt so pleasing all the while. Sweat trickled down his brow and brown fleece from the intense air of the chamber. His laps had all been sapped of their strength – after having two wenches, each sitting atop each of his legs. The hussies served him dark wine and colourful fruits to his tongue – no matter how much he’s had, he could never seem to be satiated. Amidst his drunken bliss, Fino reverted his attention to the night’s attraction.
It was as if a gladiator ring was built within the small chamber. Rows of pompous men and women, peasants and Lords alike, encircled the ring and threw their arks to the centre as if they were no more than grains. Yet there were no brutish seasoned battlers pitted against each other like bulls – but mere wide-eyed children who had been abandoned by the world. Both seemed no taller than a barstool. Aside from a loincloth, they had no other garments to hide away their bruised body, whereabout even the outline of their ribcage could be seen clearly apart from their skin. Their unkempt hair stretched down to their shoulders and veiled away their eyes – if not for the colour of their mane; Fino would hardly be able to tell the two apart.
“Ten silvers on Gold!” A masked noble shouted as he waved around his pouches of arks.
“Seven bronzes on Ginger!” A prissy courtesan yelled as she fanned herself with her furry scarf.
“Five bronzes on a draw!” A dishevelled grey coot howled as he shook about his empty bottle.
One by one, each pitched in their bets and gambled away their arks on which kid would come out victorious.
“One gold on Gold!” Fino slurred his words as he then tossed a single gold ark to the dealer.
With all bets finalised and all seats occupied – a shrieking bash on a bell by the dealer and the incessant cheers from the bibulous audience signalled for the bout to begin.
The ginger boy clumsily approached his opponent and tossed a punch at the golden boy – a punch that any could have predicted and dodged, yet his opponent failed to do so. As the golden boy’s face was pummelled and sent his frail body to the ground – the spectators’ vigour fiercened, particularly from the ones who were praying for his downfall. It was only a mere feathery knock, yet the brat still hasn’t risen back up yet. Barely any blood was trickling out of his nose, yet tears were already beginning to pour out even further.
“Get up and throw a damn punch already, ya’ brat!” Fino grunted as his face heated up, it was hard for him to see much of the fight from where he sat – with how many arms were waving about afront his face.
As if the boy with a golden head had heard Fino’s plea – he gradually lifted himself up and wiped the blood off his face. With no grace nor form, he lunged his entire body towards his foe while slinging his arms in circles like they were windmills. Another desperate attempt that normally should never work – yet somehow, his wild haymakers made contact with the boy with a ginger head. The barrage of furious fists had his opponent on the defence, frantically holding his arms up to guard against the blows.
“Attaboy! Rip his fuckin’ head off!” Fino clapped his hands wildly – he could feel his heart burning, unsure whether out of excitement or the copious amount of booze that he had drank.
The golden boy’s domineering position did not last long, as his energy soon depleted and his mighty swings dwindled to mere pillowy slaps. With his opponent drained of his might, the ginger boy swiped at the golden boy’s heels and knocked him to the dirt once more. The blonde kid was pinned flat on his back, with the carroty kid sitting atop his shrunken stomach. Left to right, the ginger delivered feeble yet unending blows onto the blonde’s face – the sounds of bones creaking could be heard with each strike, though Fino could not tell whether it was from the golden boy’s head or the ginger boy’s hands.
“No, no, no! Push ‘em off!” Fino’s cries were drowned away by the cheer of other folks who betted on the ginger.
The endless applauses and cheers from the bloodthirsty crowd were even fiercer than the bout itself. Each time the ginger boy’s knuckles sunk deep into the golden boy’s cheeks – the drunken sops became tipsier. Each time the golden boy’s teeth were knocked out of his blistered mouth – the lustful sadists moaned aloud. Each time the ginger boy’s tears trickled down onto the cheeks of his battered foes – the rich Lords laughed haughtily, knowing that they’d earned back their arks and more.
It was a short yet long bout – and the ginger boy emerged victorious atop the battered golden boy whose face had been reduced akin to a red pulpy squash. Despite being the victor and being showered in the audience’s adoration, his eyes were sullen, the skin on his hands was shredded apart, and his fleece drowned in waters of his own makings. Throughout the entire bout, not a single voice was uttered from his tiny lips, and neither did his foe.
“Damn it all!” Fino clawed at his throat as he frustratedly pushed the hussies off of his laps – it was his fifth loss of the day. In a mindless fit of rage, he reached to find a bottle of wine, but they were all empty, and the wenches who were supposed to serve him had both fled away. His dome felt as if it was steaming up like a cauldron – the stuffy chamber filled with snobbish cretins was certainly not helping. Fino sluggishly lifted his body up; he could hardly stand on both feet, and his vision felt as if it was muddling. The sight before him was melting into puddles. With his mind giving up on him, Fino then gauchely stormed towards the entrance of the secret chamber, bumping against walls and merry drunks as he trailed the blurry path.
Somehow, Fino found his way out of the backroom of the Love Machines and was greeted again not only by the purple lights and clammy odour of the brothel but also by the tawdry owner himself, who was tending the bar all by his lonesome.
“Still unlucky as ever?” ZZ asked calmly while cleaning a goblet with a cloth in place of the usual bartender, Old Hick – the movement of his hands was awkward, as if it was a toddler’s first time scrubbing dishes.
“Shut ya’ fucking mouth,” Fino slurred his words, almost biting onto his tongue. The dastard owner of this joint stood still before him, yet in Fino’s head, it felt as if ZZ’s whole body was being warped around like rope and then expanded wholly like a balloon. What am I seeing? Fino struck his own frenzied face as he gauchely wobbled towards the twisted monstrosity in human clothing before him.
Yet before Fino could even touch the bar counter, his standby guards in purple stepped in between the two – despite their flamboyant garment of choice, they still had a sword sheathed by their waist.
“Easy, gents.” ZZ rested the cleaned goblet on the counter and waved his gilded cane at the impulsive bouncers to return to their posts. “What has gotten’ your mood so sour?” he tossed Fino a bottle on the house.
The floating bottle seemed like a descending comet to Fino – he barely managed to catch it with even with both palms. Like a wild animal, he bit the cork off of the bottle and began to drink – yet it tasted nothing like the sharp and fruity beverage that he so cherished, it was too pure in taste and colour. “That golden boy ya’ got there was pitiful. I had better hope in him given what ya’ told me.” Drunken and dishevelled, Fino leaned against the counter and chugged down the bottle, even though it was just simple water. “Little runt couldn’t even go one round in the ring.” He burped aloud as water trailed down and stained his shirt, not a single shred of nobility could be spot on him.
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“Well, I never plainly said that he was a particularly mighty fighter or any of the like.” ZZ chuckled with a smug and satisfied look. “In fact, he’s a rather bright lad, the brightest one I’ve seen in a long while. Can ya’ believe that he recently invented a–”
“Bullshit. Don’t think ya’ could lie however ya’ want just because I’m like this,” Fino slammed the empty bottle onto the wooden counter. “A boy that I may want – my ass.” As if he were a child, Fino mimicked what ZZ said to him – and as an even bigger child, the water gargling inside his mouth splashed out everywhere with each word uttered.
The bartender effortlessly dodged every single droplet that flew his way, keeping his silky lilac suit kempt and spotless. “Yes, I did recommend for you to have a look at him. But pitching arks on the boy as if he was a racing horse was certainly not something I expected you to do.” ZZ’s eyes of gold and purple stared down at Fino as if he were filth. “Perhaps something warmer, I anticipated. After all, the poor kid has been waiting for so long – heck, he probably does not even know whom he is waiting for any longer.” The chatty fox sighed theatrically. “But that hardly matters to you, right? What’s one more steelborn to the pile?”
Fino’s vision returned slightly as ZZ’s words dawned on him. His face reddened up, unsure whether it was due to the copious booze or shame. He had no rebuttal to give to ZZ aside from incoherent garbles.
ZZ’s once smug look softened to a kinder one. “Go get some fresh air and clear your head, Fino.” He tossed Fino a wooden pipe – it had a deep bend, and its bowl was chocked full of exotic herbs readied to be smoked.
Yeah, sure… Fino whispered, though he doubted that ZZ could have heard him amidst the rowdy brothel. With the smoke pipe in his grasp, Fino gradually made his way outside of the establishment – his head ashamedly drooped down low to not meet the gaze of any passer-by, and with each passing step, his mind and soul sobered up faintly.
Fino reached the outside of the brothel. Though night had dawned upon Dreamcity, its thoroughfare was still chocked full of life and vigour – only a tourist or fool would ever think of sleeping in the City of Colours. While leaning against the brothel’s wall, Fino reached his face near a street torch to light up the smoke pipe. The earthy smoke puffing inside his mouth warmed his body ever so slightly on this cold night. A pipe was a rare commodity even in Dreamcity – and Fino could feel the glares from every poor and envious miserable wretch in these streets. Drunken oafs drove their noses towards the smoky trails. Austere watchers struggled to hold their post at the smell of the fragrant scent. Even children eyed him with eyes of longing – though steelborn runts abandoned by their parents could hardly count as children any longer. Fino could swear that more steelborn bastards were infesting the city than rats.
“Mind passing me a puff?” In the shroud of night, while his back was against the wall, a jolly voice carried by the breeze and landed next to Fino.
As if his mind had sobered in that instant, Fino quickly turned to his left and reached behind his hind to unsheathe Maria. The sky was dark, and the street torch was not enough to light the night. With his blade rose to the air, Fino could still yet see the face of this shifty stranger. But as the moon reached its zenith and its light gleamed down onto Fino’s dagger and spread its miracles to the dusky corner – the once shrouded figure emerged from the darkness. No way… Fino stuttered. It was a man he had least expected to find here in Dreamcity.
His snowy yet scarry fleece glimmered alongside the moonlight. His ivory mane and golden orbs commanded respect from all Xearthers. His modest and plain attire did not befit his magnanimous position as the speaker for Ark, allowing him to lurk undisturbed amidst the common folks.
“What are you doing here–”
Before Fino could utter any further, Nine quickly covered his mouth with his hand. “Keep it down.” As Nine murmured feebly, a group of Sentinels could be seen at the end of the corner.
The tense Sentinels seemed to be chasing after someone – and that someone Fino had found for them.
The two waited until the Sentinels eventually retreated out of sight.
Nine finally removed his hand away from Fino’s face. “You’re lucky that I didn’t bring Centria with me – else I would’ve beaten’ the brakes off of you for pointing that blade at me.” The bastard still tried to act all high and mighty after blatantly creeping up on Fino in the wake of night. If his glorified staff was here, Fino would have made sure to snap it in half like a twig.
The hell are brakes? Fino cursed as he wiped the scent of dirt away from his lips. “Please tell me that I’m still drunk.” Still in disbelief, Fino shut his eyes and begged to Ark.
“I didn’t know booze still works on you after all these years,” Nine smirked – very tactful for the Prophet himself.
“What do you mean by that–”
“Thank you so much, gramps!” A kid interrupted their conversation. Fino didn’t even notice that he had been next to Nine all this time. The boy was no bigger than the ginger and golden boy that were pitted against each other, and in his hand was a pouch of coin that was far too plump for Fino to believe that the runt earned it himself.
“Don’t mention it, kiddo’. Just make sure to get home safely and not speak with any other strangers, got it?” Nine gently patted the boy’s head.
Fino and Nine stared acutely as the kid nodded merrily and ran away from the thoroughfare before the greedy vultures could catch a whiff of the gold in his pocket.
“You’re real alright,” Fino sighed – he could only count on one hand for all the people he knew that would waste their time doing charity for random kids off the street. “How did you even find me here?” Relinquished to his fate of never having a peaceful night, Fino muttered while puffing another smoke from the pipe.
“A coincidence, or perhaps Ark guided me here – for he wishes for his children to meet up once in a while.” Nine’s words were flowery as ever.
Unfortunately for the frivolous prophet, Fino has never been one to fawn over lavish words of faith. “So what actually brought you to my neck of the woods then?” Fino probed once more as if he were the Lord of Dreamcity.
“Unlike you, I’m actually here on official work.” It wasn’t terribly convincing when he did not even have the temerity to look Fino in the eyes as he spouted that.
“Is that so? How official could it be if you’re even snooping behind the back of your own entourage? I didn’t think you’d even be allowed to step foot outside of the Arkeep without the Secret Servants accompanying you.” Fino blew out foamy smoke as if he were a dragon conjuring fiery breaths. The Secret Servants, five elite watchdroids tasked with protecting the Prophet, were always supposed to be by Nine’s side – yet not even one of them could be spotted in sight.
“Even I need some rewind at times, you know? Having folks snooping behind my back all the time gets more tiring than you think,” Nine sighed. “Besides, I doubt that my secretary would be much fond of this city.”
“Ya’ reckon’? And I don’t think the city of woes, wines, and wenches is the best place for the Prophet of all people to prance about either.” Fino couldn’t help but chuckle at that, his laughter mixed along with a fit of cough.
“I’m not here to indulge in my desire. There are other ways to rewind, you know? Purer ways at that,” Nine stared at Fino’s unkempt self – such eyes filled with judgement were no strangers to Fino.
“That right?” Fino’s mouth moved, but his mind could not care less. He then passed Nine the pipe – Fino wondered how the masses would feel if they could see their Prophet smoking a pipe afront a raunchy brothel in the dead of night.
For all of his bravado, Nine spat the pipe out the moment it grazed his lips – his fair face contorted and puckered as if he had just bitten into a citrus. “What have you been drinking?” Nine hurled it back to Fino, gagging slightly in the process.
“I dunno’. Anything that I get a hold of,” Fino burped as he smoked the pipe again – he could then taste not only the fragrant fume but also the dinner and drinks he had had.
“I still don’t know why you would rather settle on such slobs when you could be dining and drinking on the finest that Sentry could offer.” Nine squinted his golden orbs at the sight of Fino indulging in the reeked pipe.
“Meat spoils and meads sours when they are feasted on the same table as them,” Fino mumbled, as his cheeks were filled with smoke.
Nine sighed exasperatedly, yet he did refute it. “It wasn’t always that way…”
“It wasn’t always that way indeed…” Fino blew out the last puff of smoke.
“You should come back home soon.”
“No thanks.” Fino gurgled and spat onto the dirt. “I’m not terribly interested in playing your game of thrones.” With his collar as a napkin, he wiped his mouth off of any residue.
“No one’s forcing you to play anything.”
“So I’m not even good enough to be a player? Well, if all you need is an extra pawn on your side to even out the playing field, then I’m more than happy to resign my title of Ace. And you could then grant it to any other obedient sop you wish.” Fino cackled – he knew that among all of the Aces right now, only three Nine could trust, and they were all his blood. “Or are you so afraid that one of these days, one of ‘em may strip you off of your throne?”
“If any of them wishes to take on my duty, I’d be more than happy to give it to them.” Nine simpered dimly. “But that’s aside the point. I’m not speaking as the Prophet or an Ace – but as your brother. Five, we all wish for you to come home and celebrate the seventieth Arklympics with us.” Nine smiled cheerfully when he said that, akin to the boy that he gave arks to earlier. “Eight will finally get to be the Honorary Champion again after all of these years. You could not miss it–”
“Sounds like only endless torment awaits me if I return,” Fino sneered – he couldn’t think of a worse way to spend his time, surrounded by both events and folks that he hated.
Nine’s joy only lasted for a fleeting moment, as the arch upon his lips drooped down when hearing Fino’s admittance. “As opposed to here?” the nosey Prophet asked.
Fino had no retort – he allowed the night’s breeze to muffle his mouth and answer on his behalf.
“You have asked me, but I haven’t asked you yet. What are you doing here?”
“What else? Wining and whoring – my favourites. You speak as if it’s a rare treat for me to be here.” Fino chuckled and coughed at the same time as if it stung his throat to just slur those words.
“Oh, I don’t doubt your love for this city, but even during these tumultuous times? For a man that shies away at the slightest hint of trouble, I find it hard to believe that you would brave to the centre of the realm only to drown yourself in pleasure.”
Once more, Fino had no retort – the crackling sound of street torches popping eerily like crushing parchments, yet they were not loud enough to drown away all other noises from Fino’s ears.
“It is that time of the year again, right?”
What? Fino flipped his head back suddenly, nearly spraining his neck – that sentence has caged his attention. How did he… Fino’s muddled mind was struggling to think straight – he didn’t think that anyone besides him would have remembered.
As if he were a magician, Nine reached behind his coat and unveiled a singular white lily. “Sorry, that’s all I could find.” He delicately handed the flower to Fino.
Was he also here to… Fino thought as he looked down at the flower – its petals were intact, and its stem was fresh. Why now? After all this time… Fino gnashed his teeth. His mind wished for nothing more than to crush the bud in his palm, yet his body would not allow him. “I don’t need your damn symp–”
“There you are. What did I say about not–” A breathless Desmi stormed out of the brothel and intervened in the brothers’ reunion – yet for a brutish man such as himself, even he knew to cease his tongue and close his jaws at the sight of the Prophet of Xearth. “Your Heavenlier!?” he stuttered his words, rarely enough for him. “I was not expecting to be graced by Your Heavenlier’s presence here of all places.” He bowed his head courteously in a manner that he had never shown Fino before.
Where did your pride go, old man? Fino scoffed wordlessly.
As if he was no more than a slight gust of wind, Nine did not pay any heed to Desmi’s intrusion and instead returned his sullen gaze to Fino. “I should be leaving soon. I’ve kept them waiting long enough.” A smile he ported, yet his tone had shrunken – his usual jovial vigour was outwardly stranded.
“About damn time.” Fino cursed silently – he had been waiting for those words to be uttered the moment he ran into Nine, perhaps he had Desmi to thank for that.
“If you won’t return home, then at least stay vigilant.” If there was anyone whose warnings Fino should heed, it might as well be from the Prophet himself. “The Sentinels have concluded their dealings in Screwpile, and Dreamcity is their next stop.”
“Yeah, I’m aware. First Eight, now you…” Fino sighed. “Why should I care about any of this?" he clicked his tongue.
“His Heavenlier is saying it out of the kindness of his heart, you mongrel. Show some gratitude.” Desmi cursed aloud, startling even the surrounding folks who were minding their own raucous affairs – it was unlike him to get this irate over lordly matters.
Fino’s reddened again, this time, he was sure that it was not because of the booze. “What did you just say to me, you little–”
“Enough.” A mere word from the Prophet quelled them both from their trifling squabble. Nine then tenderly rested his palm on Fino’s shoulder. “You’re always welcome back. We’ll be waiting for you.” He murmured, his face juddering sporadically as if it was trying not to crease.
Fino fiercely shrugged his hand off. “Well, you’ll be waiting for a long time then.” Fino burped at his face in spite.
“Let’s hope that does not come to pass.” A wry smile it was – Nine held onto his wrist as if Fino’s strike actually wounded his hand. “Until we meet again, brother.”
Fino had nought to say to Nine – not tonight, at least.
Nine waited not for a riposte. He dimly bowed his head and bid his farewell before walking past the colourful thoroughfare and into the valley of shadows, where no street torches warmed the night’s air, and no blissful folks loitered the stony pavements.
“Farewell, and I pray that Ark blesses your days, Your Heavenlier!” Desmi shouted at the top of his lungs until Nine’s figure had wholly faded away into the evening’s depth.
Nine had vanished. Fino’s head was still burning wildly, perhaps a part of him was still trying to convince him that what just happened was merely a drunken dream – yet the white lily rooted tightly between his frozen grasp squandered that childish delusion of his.
With Nine gone from sight, Desmi seemingly returned to his usual grim demeanour. “What did I say about leaving my watch? You’re lucky that His Heavenlier was there to look after ya’ heedless mug.”
As if Fino’s ears were deafened to Desmi’s taunts, he merely walked away to the corner of the Love Machines – he did not have any strength left in his limbs and lungs to engage in further bickers with the carter.
“Hey, I’m not done with ya’. Where are you going?”
“To do what I’m here for…” Fino held onto the flower just tight enough so as not to know whether he’d crumple it or not.
“But the brothel is this way–”
Fino glanced back at the prying oaf; his golden orbs were no longer blurred by doubts and poisons, and his mind cleared of pity and false bliss.
“Oh, right.” It took him but a moment before Desmi gasped with widened eyes as if he were a watcher who had cracked a mystery case. “Fine – but be quick about it. I’ll be waiting inside.” Having remembered the purpose of the long journey itself, Desmi made his way back inside the brothel – a rare showing of consideration from him to Fino.
As Fino reached the corner of the brothel, a narrow entryway revealed itself for darers to brave within the darkness and arrive at the hidden lot of the Love Machines. Before he stepped foot into the threadlike passageway, he gazed down at a puddle of water by his feet – and what he saw, he loathed. A dulled face and baggy lids – grubby and slovenly. His attire was drenched in sweat and stained with spatters of spoiled booze and dregs of smoked herbs. The only possession of worth he had was the pure white lily in his sullied palm, and it was not even his – to carry it forth or to abandon it behind, his body moved regardless of his mind’s pride. I forgot to bring anything for them again…
*
An empty lot of land was behind the brothel, where no souls lay eyes upon except for the moon’s eye – even less so when it’s night, though Dreamcity has never been a city that really sleeps. One would hardly believe that there would be such a lonesome patch of dirt behind the Love Machines. Even though the bustling thoroughfare of Dreamcity was just a hair away, it felt as if they were worlds apart – no noise nor colour from the city of sins could crawl their way into the lot. The patch was dirty yet plain, even if there were people there, Fino doubted that it could fit more than nine of them.
In the middle of the empty lot, a hump of dirt stuck out like a sore thumb, grubby and unnatural – it wasn’t something that one would expect to find in such a desolated space.
Fino leisurely approached it. With the moon directly shining down onto the quiet tomb, Fino knelt down and lay the white lily upon it. “Thank Ark that you both share the same cradle, else it’d be really awkward for me to bring only one flower.” Fino laughed by himself – if anyone else was to look at him right now, there was no way they would believe that he was sobered.
With no one to disturb their chat, Fino planted his buttocks upon the dirt and faced the grave with no tombstone. He pulled out a bottle of wine, though he didn’t drink it, and merely placed it down by his legs. “Sorry that it took me so long to come around this year. Ya’ wouldn’t believe this coachman I had myself tangled with. A pain in the ass, I tell you.” Fino complained.
Yet the tomb did not comfort him.
“The entire country is going to shit, too, apparently. I guess ya’ both had it lucky leaving here so soon.” Fino scoffed.
Yet the tomb did not share in his jeer.
“And you wouldn’t believe it, but that jerk Nine even had the audacity to play saint to my face and to have me make up with the scums of the Order. After all of these years treating me like shit… and after what they’ve done to you – as if I’d ever.” Fino remained steadfast to the one creed he held.
Yet the tomb did not praise his valour.
“Sorry, that’s not really something that I should be talking about on this day.” Fino apologised, the night would do well to dim away his blushed cheeks.
The tomb riposted not – yet, the howling wind, like carolling ghosts, seemed to titter back at him.
“How are things up there? I hope that Ark has given you both proper quarters – if not, he’ll be hearing from me once we meet. Not as though I really remembered the guy,” Fino jested.
The hoots of owls and squawks of cicadas mimicked her awkward laughter.
“I wonder how old he would have been this year.” Fino scratched his stubbly chin. “Probably old enough to study in Harford, ya’ reckon?” he asked the silent grave. “At least one of us oughta’ inherit the smarts, right?” His glee grew, outwardly proud of his own joke.
The rustlings of shaded leaves upon trees and bushes served as tiny applauses.
“I still remember when you gave me the news. I couldn’t believe it – I’m pretty sure I even had Six slapped me across the face just for good measure.” Fino laughed, his throat felt as if it was drying up. “Then, we spent the longest time trying to decide on a name. You wouldn’t accept any of my ideas,” he laughed further and harder, it felt as if he was swallowing a scorching stone – yet he could not stop, even though the fleeting blessings from nature had rescinded, and silence had redescended upon the solitary cemetery.
No one was there to laugh alongside him.
“When the big day came, I remembered fainting halfway through. However you survived that whole ordeal was a wonder to even Ark himself.” Fino shuddered at just the memory. What is this? His palms were beginning to soak in sweat – but he did not mind.
No one was there to share his memory.
“Even with the burden of motherhood, you still insisted on working at the Love Machines, no matter how much I pleaded with you not to,” Fino sighed, just the thought of how much of a handful she was brought back so much pain to his head and heart. What am I doing? His heart was beating erratically – but he did not mind.
No one was there to be frazzled with him.
“All of your friends from the Love Machines came to congratulate you, but none of their gifts could even hope to match up to mine.” Fino bragged. When will this… His fleece was itching all over – but he did not mind.
No one was there to be awed by his generosity.
“If only I could have had my bros and sis to come to meet you as well – well, the ones who would have cared, at least. If Two was still here, she would have loved to meet you both,” Fino mumbled – even though he could hardly remember much of the ones who’ve passed, at least for their worth, he had carved them forevermore into his heart. Stop this, you damn fool… His mind was drowning in empty and meaningless thoughts – but he did not mind.
No one was there to relive the days of the past with him.
“And then also that one time–” As if his tongue had been sliced off, the right words evaded him.
“Sorry, I mean when–” His memory drowned in a haze, and his vision grew murky – he could resist it no longer.
“I–”
No one was there to condemn him.
The bottle that he had brought, still by his lonesome side and filled to the brim – he yanked it by the neck and hurled it at a stone wall. Though he could see the glass shattering to hundreds of shards, even its shrieking moment of death could not overpower the overbearing silence.
“Damn it all…” the man laughed alone, silently and pitifully. “Why did you have to leave me, Felia? Why couldn’t you have just listened to me?” He felt something trickling down his cheeks, but the clouds seemed not to be raining.
No one was there to comfort him.
The empty lot felt as if it was shrinking down and suffocating him. The moon looked as if it would fall down upon his head at any moment. The tiny grave, placed between parts of forlorn and fete – it took the white lily, pure of the sins of Fino, and it gave nought in return.
Get a grip already, you damn coward… Fino smeared his face with his dirty blouse. “Sorry, I really need to start getting a hold of myself. Don’t wanna’ keep embarrassing you both,” Fino chuckled, though his jaws were jittering feebly. His legs had numbed from sitting still for so long – and when he tried to stand up, it felt as if chains were binding him down to the dirt. “Until next year.” The promise of a reunion – Fino parted that to them and them only.
Time to head back– As he dusted his pants and turned his back to the tomb, the moonlight moved its grace from the grave to the narrow path where he must pass in order to leave the lot - yet as if a sentry was stationed at the gate, Fino caught a glimpse of a tiny body laying by the corner of the entrance.
Fino took a step back. He was still staggered as to how he had not noticed that earlier. Who’s that? Fino squinted his eyes closely as he warily walked towards him. Fino crouched down next to the small body – small enough to fit inside the grave behind him. As he gazed at the boy’s face under the moonlight, bits and pieces of memories from his drunken stupor resurfaced. Is this? It was the golden boy from the gladiator ring that made Fino lose his bet. His scrawny body was tattered and bruised from the bout, neither his limbs nor chest were shifting, and his skin also seemed to be charred to black in certain parts – he was dead.
How long have they been there? Fino grazed past the boy’s burned wounds, wondering how he could have received these – they were still warm to the touch, like a melting candle.
As Fino held onto the boy’s shrunken and withered palm, the moonlight shone over his face, and the breeze fanned his mane – revealing his head of gold and closed eyes. The trail of tears upon his cheeks had dried, yet they still glimmered. His body had crumbled, yet a sorrowful smile persisted upon his face – a smile that Fino hadn't seen on him back then. At a closer look, the kid even bore slight resemblances to him, from his pathetic shell to his feeble smile that only comes when they’re alone – perhaps ZZ’s words held some merits after all.
Could he have been one of my… Fino stared into the boy’s paled yet blackened face, and he did not bother to finish his line of thought – for it no longer mattered.
With Fino’s soiled hands, untouched in years by the warmth of ones he held dear – he feverishly shoved them deeply into the dirt like a wild drunkard, even though he did not even nibble a single slip from the wine bottle he brought and shattered. What am I doing? Even though his nails were splintering, he kept on digging the dirt out and dirtying his silver ring. Why? Even though the skin was peeling off the tips of his fingers, he kept on scooping out handfuls of dirt, little by little. Enough, already… As the empty lot was being hollowed out and the moonlight brightened further and further, he kept on scattering away the dirt to the sides, ensuring that not even a speck of it would stain the boy’s singed skin. Not yet… The hole was becoming bigger and bigger, but it was still far too small for the small child. Please, Ark… No, no… I will not beg... Fino prayed not to Ark, and it was not for his hands or gravel but for the child and his loves – praying for their peaceful rest somewhere even further beyond the reigned sky of Ark.