One night, in days wiped from mind, a boy limped from a fetid, unilluminated alleyway, sobbing. His poor clothes had been torn into shreds that hung from his body, leaving him naked to the world all the while blood trickled down his leg. His unruly hair looked black until he entered the torch-lit street, where it was revealed to be a dirty auburn shade. The boy looked around, lips trembling as he grasped his other arm by his side, helpless and so alone.

"Are you okay, pup?"

The boy squealed in surprise and turned frantically to find a wrinkly man with thin brown hair sitting barely a step away from him. He thought about running away from the strange-looking man but didn't.

"No," he answered with a sniffle. "How could I be okay?" His voice broke even as he tried to sound strong in his denial.

"I see." The old man sighed, scratching at his mustache. Then he waved the string instrument by his side. "How about a tune?"

"But I don't have any money," the boy said, almost breaking into tears at the reminder.

"Come now, don't need money for art."

The boy frowned in thought. "You have to buy the instrument, don't you?"

The old man showed a sly grin and whispered, "Who says I bought it?" The boy took a moment to realize the joke and giggled slightly. He had never imagined that a good person could steal. "I made it!" the old man exclaimed with a laugh and a proud smile.

"Wow." The boy looked at the instrument in wonder. At that moment, the act of creating one's own instrument for art struck him as a spark in the dark.

"So, how about it, pup? Care to listen?"

The boy was wary of everything in his hurt, but he had caught sight of the light he was searching for and wouldn't let it escape. He nodded enthusiastically with his weak fists pumped. The old man smiled and gestured for him to sit. Sitting hurt, so the boy lay down on his back.

The old man began to play, and the boy swayed his body along the sweet rhythm. The boy had never heard anything like it. The strings reverberated with a sound that, for a moment, seemed to make all the injustice in the world fade away.

And so, the pair mused together under torchlight in the cobblestone streets of Verdua. While the old man gazed at the boy, he looked up at the stars in a dream.

The piece was short, but it was so varied, it seemed like the entire world had been captured in those few minutes. One thing that stuck with the boy was how the notes toward the end were all in major. All except for the last.

How was it so perfect? The boy could not understand.

"That was..." the boy said after the old man finished. "Beautiful. It was beautiful."

"Know what that means, pup?"

"No." The boy shook his head with a smile, wiping his tears away. He may not have known what it meant, but the tune gave him hope. It brought images of a future where it would all be worth it. One where all his misery would be compensated. He couldn't even imagine what could be so wonderful as to compensate for it, but that only made him more excited.

'After I survive these years, my life will be something to behold,' he thought. 'A spectacle!'

The old man ruffled his hair and said he was welcome to listen any time he wanted. And so the old man's songs became his salvation in the struggle to survive.

They became the color in his bleak world, the mountains in his flat mind. He was absorbed by its beauty every time he heard it. The piece of music became the only thing he looked forward to, his only source of will to live, to the point he couldn't imagine a world without it. Where could he escape to if not the music?

He also got closer to the old man, though they never seemed to feel a need to talk at length. One time the old man saw him eyeing a bronze coin in the hat he kept in front while performing. The boy was ashamed of his greed, but the old man said he should have it.

While the boy's promises to himself of a better future went unfulfilled, those times were the happiest he'd ever lived. As he swayed along to that single piece time and again, he watched flowers bloom and leaves wither.

He may have slept in the dumpsters of the alleys where, in the dark, creatures crawled all over him, but at least there nobody could hurt him. It was his own little area. His home. And with the old man nearby, he almost felt satisfied with what life had given him.

That was until one day he heard the old man's voice engaged in an argument. He peeked out of the dumpster and saw a group of men around the corner in the very same spot where the old man had played the tune for him first.

They were yelling something about money. He recognized those men and almost made a sound as he was flooded with emotions he'd done everything to wash away. He put a hand on his mouth and breathed through his nose.

The boy couldn't see the old man. For a moment, he indulged in the fantasy of not being the target of the ruthless men's harassment. That fantasy was shattered as a scowling man with sharp brown hair smashed the old man's instrument against the wall that the boy could see.

There was more yelling, but the boy couldn't make out the old man's words. Only moments later the brown-haired man took something from his pocket. It was sharp and shiny, its glint catching the boy's eye. The man thrust the knife forward.

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The boy ducked and put his hands on his ears. He kept them there even when he knew the men were already gone. He'd heard nothing. He could entertain the hope that nothing had happened until he went and saw. He considered staying there forever. Curiosity didn't let him. He had to know.

Once he got out of the dumpster and walked around the corner, he went blank. The old man was leaning against the brick wall under the torch with a pool of blood underneath him with the broken pieces of his instrument littered on the ground. His wrinkled hands were rested atop his wet belly, and his empty eyes stared down at his feet. His hat was gone. The hat he used to collect what little he got from generous passerbyes.

A feeling surged from the boy's chest, pressing up his throat until he felt he might choke. He could imagine screaming or clawing at his chest but just stood there still and silent. Truth be told, he didn't feel any need beyond what he might've expected of himself.

He blinked slowly once, and his eyes grew deeper. Somehow, the world seemed to become enhanced. It was all so clear at that moment. Multiple paths opened up for the boy. His years of suffering were over, but without further consideration, he knew which one he would take. It was something close to him, tempting him to grasp it, so he did.

Then something poured out of him. He was completely still and did not make a sound, but it went out of his, nonetheless. It was his human core being forsaken by his will.

Suddenly the only thing he could think was how unattractive the old man was. The wrinkles he had at times dreamed of one day having disappeared from his mind as a possibility.

He walked around the old man thoughtlessly before lying next to him, gazing at his feet, hands on his belly, just to see what it felt like. It was ordinary. He couldn't stand it.

Then, in the distance, a scowling man with spiky brown hair approached alone. The boy grabbed something from the ground and pushed himself up from the wall, tucking his hands behind his back as he waited for the man to notice him.

The man was yammering on to himself about bastard this bastard that until his gaze stopped on the boy.

"Hey, brat, what are you doing, huh?" He spoke loudly. "Wait, I've seen you before."

The boy frowned, not recalling such a thing.

"Well, what are you up to? You trying to cause trouble?"

The boy shook his head.

"I don't think so." The man stepped closer, towering over the boy. "How about you give me your money, and I'll let you walk away?"

The boy dug his single bronze coin from his pocket and showed it. "This?"

"That's all you got?" The man laughed. "Not a very good beggar, are you?"

"You want it?" the boy asked. "Then take it."

The man sneered before going to snatch the coin. At that moment, the boy rushed in. He grasped the sharp piece of instrument so tightly his hand turned white and stabbed the man. It wasn't enough, but as if out of instinct, the next movement came to him. He struck the man's groin and evaded his grasp before tripping him.

With a huge thump, the man came crashing down. Now the boy smiled as he jumped on the large man. He was grabbed, but too late, as he managed to stab the man's eye. The man screamed and thrashed, but the boy thrived in chaos and maneuvered to stab the man again and again. Blood splattered on his face and stained his clothes, but he cared about neither of those. He just felt a will that demanded more, so he took the man's eyes, throat, and even his tongue. He stopped moving and screaming. The night went silent. But the boy kept hacking away, teeth clenched in a visceral smile.

For a moment, he thought he heard the music. However, he'd already accepted that it was long gone. This art was purely his. It may have been primitive, but it was his. One day, it would become something else entirely.

He beat the man's skull with the piece before it got embedded so deep in his skull that the boy couldn't pull it out. But even then, the boy kept brutalizing the man. He hadn't done it to kill the man, to begin with. He didn't care about what the man had done, nor did he care whether he thrashed or screamed. It was just nice to feel warm insides on his cold skin, and he had simply wanted to satiate some of his curiosity.

***

Gadreel watched from the side with a melancholic smile as the boy dug out the man's eyeballs and saw what else he could find and do. He wondered what had happened before that moment. Memories blurred, the details lost—but why were the things he longed to recall the most distant?

Still, it was such a beautiful night. Gadreel walked over to the old man's dead body and squatted coolly. "I wish I could remember your name," he said with a sigh.

Finally, he turned to watch the boy standing atop the corpse of the man. The boy's hands were drenched in blood as he spread them out with his eyes on the stars. Gadreel remembered that moment clearly. The promise he'd done his all to keep.

The promise that he was done with the art of others. He would make his own art, concerning only himself. The world was only worth living in if it was his absolutely. Thus, he would make it his without the slightest consideration for any other living creature that walked the land. In that way, he could fulfill the old dream he was incapable of reproducing after his detachment. That was his only hope, for nothing else remained.

With just a blink of the eyes, the boy was gone, and Gadreel found himself back on the floor of blood amid the grand castle hall. All in all, it wasn't quite what he'd expected.

With all that remained of him, he grasped the old bronze coin in his pocket with one hand. All the while, he reached out toward the wildly convulsing young man with his other hand as if reaching out to that long-dead part of himself. He whispered incomprehensibly as he watched Aurelius. He'd surprised Gadreel. He had thought Aurelius was something else, but it seemed that it was all in his mind. The young man in front of him was just a tormented boy with more power than he could handle. And while his wide eyes were overwhelmed with emotion, Gadreel still couldn't grasp even a sliver of it.

It was funny how little it really changed when Aurelius had ripped out his heart. Watching it pulsate in his hand, Gadreel would've laughed if he could've.

He couldn't. He was fading away from existence. His body grew hot to the point his forehead radiated warmth, but then he went cold to the point his teeth clattered. In such a way, he varied through states while the ceaseless torrent and strikes of lightning turned distant and tinny.

His skull still pounded, but even that lessened by the time Aurelius stopped convulsing. Even with his mouth foaming and bloodshot eyes like stone, his body seemed to be fighting to breathe and stay in the world a little longer. Gadreel almost spent his last moments wondering what a powerful mix of emotions the young man would feel if he ever woke up, but it was too insignificant a matter to waste any thought on.

What he ended up with was a question. A question he felt that an answer to could summarize his life. Even all the way from the dumpsters of Verdua to the Royal Castle of Acelot. A question of which the answer would determine if his promise was fulfilled. If Aurelius was what he was supposed to be. But a question to which there was no real answer.

'Was this it?'

He surmised that a man who must ask such a question already had the answer. However, he'd turned the world into his canvas and humanity into paint. A greater spectacle did not exist. What was a man with no heart to do?

With a final flash of lightning that sent ripples of colors through the stained windows around the hall, the coin fell from Gadreel's grasp as the pressure was relieved. He didn't cry, nor did he laugh. A dim light just faded from his eyes, and he died with a slight smile.