Mhaieiyu

Arc 2-3 INTERLUDE

By Virtue of Elior

On the eve of King Elizor VII’s suicide, none—not the people, not the guard—mourned his loss. He was as unspoken as the passing wind; a mere whisper only few would ever hear, and less so would care to listen to.

The grieving post-Ducasse’s death a week and a half earlier, however, still waned, even with his warmongering ways. Far more eventful than your run of the mill battle tragedy, the murder was by none other than his own second son’s hands. Of course, the people of Yanksee weren’t to know. They were convinced of his heroic sacrifice. Only the Syndicate and the witnesses knew the truth now. Under normal society — better said, normality at all, the circumstances surrounding the King and General’s concurrent death would have been of great controversy. Perhaps the people and especially the army would start a coup to overthrow the failing family’s government. Maybe the libertine community of Owilyns, high nobles close to the dynasty, would become fed up with the nonsense and make rule of their own. Mayhaps his own Ace brothers would turn against him, leaving behind an incomplete house of suits.

None of that followed.

Simultaneous to the grieving lingered an air of celebration. For the first time since Yanksee’s conception, the worthless rule of recent kings was finally forced to be replaced with new blood. The deceased ruler’s consort, Prudence, trialled for conspiring in secret against her own husband, was executed less than a day after the former’s loss. Thus, in less than forty-eight hours, the highest bodies of the Kingdom were destroyed. And with no known heir of Elizor’s, the Aces would take over — more specifically, the one chosen by Ducasse to reign.

On the easternmost edges of the city, a large crowd of tens of thousands of otherwise busy individuals had collected, becoming a sea of people in front of the gates of a great structure of marble and quartz, known by all denizens of Yanksee as Anziamelle, that gleamed its majestic prowess, untouched as a virgin. The white stone shone with the power of benevolence and imposition. Every square inch of the walls had with them a hand-carved decorative ornament, such as rose lines that kissed from the damp ground to the sun-bleached ceiling, as well as statues commemorating great individuals of either mindful, military or selfless splendour originating from either Yanksee itself or the fallen Kingdom of Hyretix; each with a clean sheen that dazzled yet enraptured mortal hearts. Even certain Celestials were immortalised here, recognising their valour with laser-sharp detail.

Atop the two behemoth agar wood doors sat a wide balcony, its railings masoned in such a way that they swirled like looming clouds over the citizens and low aristocrats below. On this balcony stood two guards facing each other on either side of the entryway, suited in brilliant, knightly silver and gold-lined armour, each with a grey rifle whose stocks touched the floor.

After a time that felt like ages, with nothing but the vast speakings of the public, a horn and trumpets sounded loud for all to hear, announcing the arrival of the heir.

The crowning ceremony was about to begin.

Not a whisper in the presence of the Prince King-to-be. The pressure was rising to a beaker’s break, and the people, though wanting to cheer, or celebrate or sing, remained unspeaking. From within the fortified manor, a triumvirate led through with one in the middle and two behind; the first, Lord Ace of Hearts, Arturius, and his two younger brothers walked after. Shouldering them were a quartet of royal knights, the Octavians, each in a suit of refined, excellently smithed gold-dipped armour backed by a cape with Yanksee’s cross banner plastered on it, and a helm that covered their faces with a similarly golden metal visor that squeezed inwards and then fanned out near the bottom; five thin vents in each. A tiny slit gave their sight right atop the visor, and at the very peak of their helmets, an array of plumes of different colours respective to each of the four guards. White, for Trajan; red, for Romulus; blue for Nero; and violet for Domician.

Only when Arturius stood over the balcony’s stone railing could the people exhale their long cheers, making a mostly masculine cry that could wake wyverns from their cavernous nests; if they did exist still. The earth rumbled as a great many soldiers all rammed their boots against the floor, raising their weapons and firearms high for their new ruler.

Arturius looked stunning, yet so eccentric, too. He was dressed in a voluminous red frock embellished with silvery tufts all about, wearing at least three separate layers of clothing at once, consisting of a tuxedo, a coat and then the gown; which, in all of one piece, peeked behind him and over his head like a peacock’s feathers. Over his face was a red veil, as if this were matrimony between man and nation; with him as the bride. The full piece of his display was thrice his body in width.

There were so many of Arturius’ wears to see that few could distinguish his siblings apart, they garbed in far more simplistic tuxedos and a kilt, in Auberons’ case—much to his barbaric style—and today, that was just right. Though not the firstborn, and certainly not Ducasse’s favourite, Arturius would have the last laugh. Begrudgingly, the General was forced to rechoose his promised son, as Aneirin, swelled in ignorance and his personal ambitions, was found to be unfit to rule. Despite the eldest son’s narcissism, he strangely did not complain. His next best choice would have been Auberon, but Ducasse needed not to be informed why that decision would have failed miserably; the lad full of brawn and no mind of his own. Of course, the runt Adolphus couldn’t be seen in power, and thus, the final choice was obvious. To none of Ducasse’s pleasure, Arturius stood here today, having triumphed over his brethren in a game of elimination he deemed comical.

The question many were left wondering, however, was how exactly the Kingdom had turned to the Aces’ favour.

Trumpets continued their tune for a good few moments, allowing the dynasty’s theme to seep into all ears before finally, all became quiet again. In came the ceremony’s court; the many high nobles responsible for the crowning. Not just men, either: of the six individuals gowned in silk and jewel, two of them were feathered, owl-like bipeds. On each of their heads, designed in accordance with their sexes, were platinum circlets and emerald-encrusted tiaras.

The two Lord Aces, six senior courtiers, four royal guards and the thousands of people waited anxiously for Arturius to make his move. He stood before his people, arms tucked into each other, so relaxed on this so momentous occasion.

And then, after an eternity of rising tension, two soft hands moved upwards and slowly removed the veil, his immaculate pale ginger hair sliding near his eyes and tarnishing his view of his beloved crowd. He cast his arms wide, a promise of glory, and what followed was a rupture of noise. The spell this one man had so suddenly cast upon the world beneath his feet was unfathomably powerful. It gave life to the sullen, made light of darkness, and drove hearts to beat. Lord Ace of Hearts, that was his title since birth.

But, from today onwards, he would be more. Offering peace among his subjects, promising virtue after decades of conflict, Arturius’ plans had long been revealed. The single decisive action that made his future people adore him. The Perfect Prince. Arturius Mensomóte.

Taking a bow right by the railings, always facing the many, and constantly in view, the countless citizens watched in awe as the crown of Yanksee; a gorgeous piece with every gemstone imaginable—alexandrites, jades, opals, more—singed into its every surface and stacking like a wedding cake. With the gentleness of a porcelain baby, the gorgeous piece was placed atop the new ruler’s head, and when the fingers of the human and the talon-like appendages of the bird removed themselves, a massive applause ensued, including the courtiers, knights and the King’s siblings, who, for once, smiled together; content at their brother’s success despite the odds.

That day, a great banquet was shared with the nation’s denizens. Fish—a luxury here a near mile above the sea—was divvied up from massive hoarding nets along with a great many bottles of wine and spread about on many long tables set for hundreds to dine at a time; all in front of Anziamelle for the young King’s viewing pleasure. The light had long begun to dim by then, an orange sky replacing the harsh beams of sun. Though it had been two hours since the ceremony ended, the people continued their jolly, enjoying food, drink and company that brightened this miserable city if only for a night, but surely, in the future, many more such days would come.

Standing atop the balcony, alone if not for the two stationed guards, King Arturius III watched over his country’s enjoyment and let the chilled air blow against him. The sight was worth the cold. Smiling, he didn’t feel the slightest unnerve when his shoulder was tapped and a second person stood with him. Much like Elior’s, Arturius felt too much pride to move his eyes away from his prize.

“Bask,” the second person, Adolphus, said with a chuckle, putting his elbows on the railing. “Bask, for this might be the last pleasant day of your life.”

“This burden will torture me, will it?” Arturius asked sarcastically, giving his youngest blood a simper.

“Oh yes. Tear you to pieces, too, I’m sure. Mind and body.”

“Is it strange I don't feel a bit of worry, then?”

The other man chuckled. "Of course, but what can I expect from our dear Monsieur Excentrique, ah?”

Arturius chuckled. “Sí, sí. Abandon your Hyretisian tongue with me. I’m more fond of the Rennies. I would have been. Poor bastards.”

Adolphus woah-ed, nudging with his elbow. “Watch your speak, s'il vous plaît! Hyretix is our motherland!”

“And Rennegard gave us independence, no?”

“Ah, of course. To the Rennies,” Adolphus jeered, lifting a glass of wine.

“To the Rennies,” the King sniggered, clinking back with his own and allowing them both to take a sip.

“Pity Aneirin wasn’t here to see this, don’t you think?” Adolphus said after a while.

The King of Yanksee sniggered, sly, “Well, that’s just how Diamonds always has been. Off on his own, seeking glory until he’s self-loved himself to death.”

The Lord Ace pressed his back against the railing. “Truth. Best off this way, I suppose. He’d have spent a good while eyeing the women before you.”

“Hm, no, I would doubt that. He’s never been a ladies’ man.”

“If you insist. Still… Forget that now, then. What’s your first course of action?” Adolphus said.

“There’s little we can do until the Syndicate gives us news,” the monarch said.

Spades hummed. “Isn’t it strange? Relying on the Syndies for once is… I have to say, it’s ironic.”

“Ironic for you? After the breach?”

“I wouldn’t say I assisted.”

“I would contest that claim, but…” Arturius trailed off with a smirk, “...I think I’m too inebriated to.”

A silence settled, and the guards, their last turns ended, took their leave. Little by little, unbothered by the breeze, the two Lords watched as the party below thinned one by one. Soon enough, it was just the drunks left behind.

“Tell me, oh dear brother of mine,” Adolphus began, the flush on his cheeks seemingly gone as the tone turned severe. “Could you make me a promise?”

“A promise? Haven’t I made enough promises already?” Arturius joked. He could never take his siblings’ worries too seriously.

“Yes. For me, please. Just one.”

“I suppose I have no choice…” he said, turning to face the Ace of Spades, that smirk never leaving him. Even his mannerisms were queer.

Adolphus rolled his eyes and looked down at the invincible drop of wine at the bottom of his glass.

Arturius ceased his antics for a moment upon hearing those words.

“Ever since… Well, Fifi died, it’s been…”

“Yes, it’s been very quiet around here, hasn’t it?” the Ace of Hearts finished his sentence with a mildness, leering off his balcony away from the lament of his likeness. Despite the atmosphere, he managed in a chuckle. “But please, can’t you call her Josephine? For crying out loud, 'Fifi' sounds like a bitch’s name.”

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“It’s not a bitch’s name, Arturius! That’s how she wanted to be called,” Adolphus protested, earning a fleeting glance. “It’s how ma wanted to be called.”

Upset at the saddening subject, the King took a deep breath and faced him. “What is the promise?”

Adolphus hesitated, but he committed to the demand. “Promise me you won’t go the route of Father.”

Arturius grinned, wrapping an arm around his brother’s back and pulling him close, sheltering him in that massive, attention-whoring dress of his. “Please, niblet. There’s a reason I did what I did. Do you think I would go so far just to repeat history again?”

“They say it’s normally an inevitable, visceral cycle,” Spades said.

“I know, I know,” Hearts admitted, putting a gloved hand on his face. “Buuut, I don't conform with 'normal', do I?”

There was that sultry tone again. Adolphus grimaced. “You shouldn’t have done what you did.”

“You’d prefer I hadn’t?”

“I’d prefer you had let me do it. That way, your rule wouldn’t have blood on it.”

Arturius shook his head, patting the younger one on the back. “Don’t take this the wrong way, niblet, but you couldn’t have killed your father.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“It’s not who you are.”

“You couldn’t…!” Adolphus tried to say, only to be shushed by the ruler. The two were brought to their knees as Arturius pushed them both down by the wrist.

Then, clasping his hands into both of his, Arturius closed his eyes and said, “I couldn’t do it either. I did it because you needed me to; not out of revenge.”

“Revenge isn’t what I…” Spades closed his lips. He couldn’t deny that claim.

Holding his hands tightly, Arturius looked down on his little sibling and smiled honestly. “I am your big brother,” he said, “by oath, I will bear your sins.”

With no more words, the two pressed each other's foreheads against the other. Adolphus mourned the loss of his mother together with his sibling.

On the day Ducasse was murdered, Josephine, or ‘Fifi’, was found unconscious in a bathroom within the Anziamelle. By the time she was rushed to a hospital, she was pronounced dead due to hypoxia. The cause of death was tied to strangulation, and General Ducasse Mensomóte confessed to the murder.

The government superseded justice in this Kingdom.

When the law allowed his action to pass, Adolphus swore to take the matter into his own hands. Before he could reach the rear balcony that loomed over the great cliffside the manor stood on, where Ducasse would often smoke his cigars in peace, the deed had already been done. In his place, Arturius. His hands were sticky with blood and Ducasse’s body was nowhere to be found.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Tap tap tap, scratch. A dip then followed, a little splosh, and then back to the same. Tap tap tap.

For hours, if hours existed. For days, if days could count. Weeks? Months? Years? Centuries? Whole eternities, perhaps? Is time measurable at all somewhere like this? Where the passing of one’s life in the natural world beyond would not be enough here for a blink? Where one can spend life toiling away in scripture, yet the beat of a moth’s wing has not yet occurred where people roamed?

Time was irrelevant here. Seconds outside this blindingly white realm only passed if doing so were ideal.

In this place, only a few things existed, and right now was a special occasion. A tea table had been set, though one could never see it. Tea was being brewed by a silhouetted man. All was a shadow here except the angel and his books. Everything else that had the pleasure of being here could never hope to match the importance of the light all around. Though that light should illuminate all darkness, all extraneous was overshadowed regardless.

The taste of the tea was disappointing.

“Mhmn, aharha! Behehah, abhorrent! Ghastly!” the silhouette of Isosceles cried out in laughter. “Names, what are they, but arbitrary, redundant distinguishers of our individual selves!? Am I not unique enough to notice? Are we not — blast, are we not defined by our doings? What blight!”

The angel could never drop his smile around this company. Watching the Magician dance and prance about, he took his feather pen off the page. “Awfully fixated regardless, aren’t you?”

“Because you insist! Let me, just allow me, and I can show you. Show you the meaninglessness of it. Titles, names, cordial yet dim choices. Irrelevant! Indifferent! Unchanging, it is!” Isosceles said in chortles and pig snorts, his laughter greatly and uproarious.

“Suggestionise, then,” the winged one said, amusing the invitee.

“Lucifer, maychance! Fallen angel, it fits, does it not?!”

“Lucifer is…” The angel shook his head no. “Lucifer is far too antagonistic, don’t you think?”

“God!”

“Much too egotistical.”

“Dealmaker!”

“That one already exists.” Seeing no end to this, the Celestial took the sporadic one’s attention by tapping the cover of his ever-expanding book. “Can I take some of your interest for a second?”

Isosceles craned his back so far backwards that any ordinary fellow would have found it snapped in two like a dead branch. “I don’t, blasphemy I speak, yes, wish to be bored. Take no damage, your heart. I wish you well, but well, I do not share, not once, in your unenviable ambitions, might!”

In the face of rejection, the angel’s smile only softened. With the lovely voice of a mother, he said, “Don’t be so quick to foolhardiness. It may not spike your wants too deeply, but…”

The shadowy figure turned around properly and waited. A moment, if a moment could pass, was what it took for the insane man to realise. “Bloody gracious choir from above, is it true?”

The Celestial nodded in excitement. “Quite! Your debut has finalised!”

“Magnificent! Overwhelmingly magnificient!” the Maddened One threw himself boldly into the angel’s arms, rustling his feathers a bit in the act. Though caught by surprise, the embrace was returned, but only shortly.

“Don’t get so lit so quickly, either. Now, while I read to you, care to suggest some more?”

To the idea, Isosceles nodded his head vigorously. “Righto, indeed, and well I shall do! Find your page, elvish heaven-sent! Work your magic and I shall show you mine! Ahem!”

The winged one leafed through the pages of his own writing, a smile of absolute pride and love for every letter jotted and dried, and he searched for Isosceles’ name among the words upon words.

“Yeseah!”

“Yese…” he trailed off and paused his doings, glancing up for a moment. “Why?”

“I sneezed that one. No. Luze!”

“Too informal.”

“Minerva!”

“Flattering, but I wouldn’t dare take her name.”

“Bahah! I have fooled you into thinking yourself a woman!” Isosceles jested.

The angel pretended to find that funny. “How very whimsical of you, Jack.”

“Stop that!”

“Aha, my apologies.”

“LUUUZBEEEEEL!”

Isosceles scratched his cheek. “Too similar? More emotive? A bit exhausting, saying that each time.”

A roll of what could only be imagined to be newspaper smacked the crazed one right over the head from behind. Though hurt, Isosceles just giggled it off.

The Celestial stood up from his non-existent chair and spread his arms wide, his book resting on the armchair that also didn’t exist. "Little Miss Fortuna! You bless us so! What a surprise. I don't recall having sent you any boiled cocoa recently..."

The littler silhouette of a small yet well-endowed woman with twin waist-long ponytails that dropped from her head like ribbon bands had appeared from nowhere and nothing, brought into the light by means just as otherworldly as the rest of this bizarre space. With a grunt, she said, "First off, if I'm so little then I must be jailbait because I'm hot as roasted 'tatoes."

"Russet?” the Celestial, Luzbel, teased with a sneer.

"Roasted, smartass. Secondly, I'm older than you, pipsqueak. Oh, and third, what the hell have you been up to?!"

Luzbel jots, indifferent, "Hot as roasted... Quaint, a new expression!" He rolled his eyes downward to face the shortstack three times shorter than he. He saw she was having none of it. "Oh, but what am I being accused of now?"

"I saw you through my lenses, snaking about, interfering again," she proclaimed. Her disappointed frown couldn't be seen regardless.

"I haven't a clue what you could be referring to.”

"Buddy, I ain't got a single reason to believe a creature who refers to himself as Treason."

His wings fluttered briefly in embarrassment, and the light of his halo beamed a bit harsher. "Y-You hurt even me with such comments."

She couldn't care less for his theatrics. "When are you giving it back?"

"The Event Horizon is such a fanciful item. Couldn't I borrow it for a bit longer?"

Isosceles tilted his body at a strange angle. “The Epitome?!” In saying this, he got swatted yet again.

Tapping her foot onto the uncold, unwarm, unfelt floor, Fortuna corrected Luzbel. "The book was never borrowed, you stole it."

"I did? Pity," Luzbel said without a hint of concern.

"Yes. Now. When are you giving it back?"

"Once I've studied the full list of Guardians until modern day?"

"We both know you're lying, Luzzes."

"Bell Facade!" Isosceles perks up and chimes a new name suddenly, getting a third, rumbling smack at the nape from the woman.

"Silence already, buffoon! Which one are you doing now?" she asked Luzbel.

"The Fifty-Seventh," Luzbel said in earnest.

Fortuna groaned and craned back. "Holy Gates, really? Why? He's just gonna walk around a bit, shrivel up and then die. He’s not special."

"You're certainly right for the time being," he said with a smile.

Fortuna furrowed her unseeable brows. "For the time... Oh, no. No no. Luzbel!"

"A bit of quiet time is needed."

"Luzbel, give it back right now! Luzbel——!"

In an instant, the figure was gone, and with her, her voice disappeared too. Every aspect of her being here poofed into actual nothingness, cast away back to the realm of the normal. The Celestial writer wiped his forehead, with no real sweat on it, and a fake blush on his cheeks. “I think I share your opinion on women, my dear associate. They can be harpies until the end of all.”

Isosceles giggled foolhardily. “Yes, and I’ve met few!”

“I can’t be too cruel on her, having said. I think it’s only natural for the Archangel of Creation to be so bothered by what I have done.”

The Magician grinned and nodded feverishly with his words. It was dubious whether he was actually taking in anything of the scene. “Knowing you, the lows burn to bear the highs, richt?”

Instead of answering, Luzbel turned to him and gave him a poke on the snout. “I won’t accept your nicknames for me, however… I like the one you chose for this,” he said, tapping yet again on his ever-precious tome. “The Epitome. Wonderous.”

Isosceles snorted in compliance, all too happy to make his friend even a smidge more elated than he already was. He leaned his head in close, always floating an inch off the surface of nothing beneath him. “But of course, whatever else, whatever else?”

“Now,” Luzbel said, with a flick of his fingers, “I wish to be alone for a moment. I have business to tend to.”

Of course, the Celestial of pronounced wings had no need to ask and make politeness. With just his usual smile, the Magician and the small table with empty mugs had vanished too. Now, in this void of white alone, Luzbel took to his brightly dais and made himself comfortable with it, allowing his flowing hair to drape past his robes and pool at his feet like poured, molten silver. Opening the Epitome, he made a set few scribbles, allowing the silence of nothing to be reinstituted yet again by the same noises as always.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot to read to him,” he said to himself alone, lifting his gaze off the scribbles. He chuckled, shook his head and craned his neck down again.

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Scratch. A dip and a splosh. Tap tap tap. The blinding ring over his head shone harsher for a bit, and then, something new was introduced.

A third body took form in this deceptively heaven-like world.

Luzbel smiled as he watched the silhouette of a young man take form before him. His smile broadened at the sight of his spiked hair; he remembered each strand like the back of his hand. He had grown too acquainted with his features by now.

“Welcome back,” Luzbel said, cutting the boy short of asking questions with a wave of his wrist that destroyed his vocal cords painlessly. Stepping off his self-made throne, he allowed his bare feet to feel the atmosphere the lad projected as he made his way up to him, his two massive wings bobbing lightly behind. Once close enough, the angel stopped. Even though angels were built with the human figure in mind, he was obscenely tall in comparison.

Putting a hand on his cheek, with a humble look that almost begged yet truly demanded, Luzbel’s voice came to a whisper. “Tsuki, I have another request, if you would.”

The youngster could do nothing. He was frozen still, either by fear or the influence of Treason's imposing gaze.

“I found out someone has reached for my work. They are watching us. Their curiosity sinks into my senses,” Luzbel said, his voice laden with great satisfaction that pronounced itself further when he closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath of the not-air around.

The hand grazed down his cheek and onto his shoulder, grasping it firmly.

“So, to this end, if you will, allow me to change the world again.”