Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 1

To Protect There Must Be a Threat

"The world here is bleaker than my home. Each time I tread this land it seems to grow bleaker still. Your people disgrace this kindly given light. I pity your Goddess."

The soullessness of each vowel; the sullenness of each syllable; the misery of his slowly breathing lungs… These were the ramblings of Melancholy. Tokken didn't need to be told so to figure it out. What he didn't understand, there on his knees, was how his unhealthily joyous attitude had deviated so severely.

Noire, or rather, Sagittar, stepped forth and offered him a hand to stand. Tokken hesitated to take it, but he hesitated more to not comply.

Even then, the teen steeled his nerve, breathed deep and took the plunge. "Noire, now that you’re here, please listen. I need to know something."

Melancholy tilted his head a crack and sighed excessively. "Don't force me to reply with meaningless yeses."

Tokken was stunned shortly by such abrasive, pitiable nature. He cleared his throat. He had to converse with the understanding that this was Melancholy’s speech. "I, uhm…" He looked off to the wall and asked, "I want to know how you're aware of my family's name."

"The Tsukis? How I know the Tsukis? Is this idle mockery? I don't want to be laughed at right now. It's tiresome to defend myself."

Tokken kept his head as low as he could to make sure his disposition was submissive. "No, no, I swear I'm asking honestly. I need to know."

Sagittar exhaled again, his neck craning forward. "Why must I delve into specifics? Of course I know of your family. It was my ancestors who forged the pact between ours and yours."

"A pact…?" Tokken questioned, blinking in disbelief. He remembered then, thinking back to that brief conversation in the Heads’ office, of the devils Alpha had accused the Tsukis of dealing with. "Y-You are…!"

"Not," Sagittar said loudly, silencing the teen and leaving him baffled. "We are not. It turns out, to our disillusionment, that your treacherous line had already made pact once before." The Harbinger whose false identity prevailed yet crumbled clutched his head in anguish, his tone despairing to the point he might cry. "Your kinship swore to be unpromised, yet Connaen, the Pact-Maker Aphira’s father, had long made this untrue. It maddens me with sadness that you would lie."

Tokken could say nothing as strings of accusations fell upon his shoulders. Just from the way he spoke, the Tsuki could safely assume them all to be true, and thus, burdens fell heavier on his spine, made worse by the influence of the Sin's despondency.

Sagittar slipped one last ribbon of poison. "But what can I expect when you align yourselves willingly with Deceit."

Tokken's eyes widened. Deceit did exist. But then, if there were only ten Sins, how could it be?

"Don't feign innocence," Noire said sharply. "It's depressing enough to see you so awestruck. I won't speak of the Devil. I refuse to."

Tokken's head dropped further. Was he, a Tsuki—a descendant of those who had supposedly struck a deal with such an entity—not entitled to know? How could a powerless boy like him possibly wedge an answer from this homicidal maniac?

"Alright…" Tokken acquiesced. "But I want to know one more thing."

Sagittar grumbled and sighed at the same time, tapping his hanging fingers against his coat. "Didn’t I say not to drag this on?"

The teen reached up to him carefully, bending his knees slightly, making himself small on purpose. "Yes, and I'm sorry. Just one more. I want to know the why."

" ‘The why’?"

Tokken nodded. "Why must I slay the Guardian? Why do I have to put such controversy against my name? What's the point?"

"You must do it because it is by your blood's oath."

"Beyond that!"

Melancholy grabbed the boy by the collar and tugged on it harshly. "Listen to me carefully, child, for I won't say it again. You are to spill the Guardian's blood. That is the pledge your family took. Why do you think you were granted such a weapon? That is the tool for completion, and you may keep it and use it elsewhere at will. Regardless, you must do it." The look of a crazed, old Sinner instilled a fear unknown to the teen. He was made to fright over something beyond perishing. Beyond death. "Do you trouble yourself with ending a life? You won't kill him, you know. You won't be held accountable. You simply serve to give us the opening necessary to make do what must be done. Do you understand? Do you hear me now? Must we make this process perpetual? Do it. Do it for us, for your family, and the whole world."

A state of sadness took a turn for insanity once more; a devious, restless expression formed on the man's face. His eyes became wide and fiercely imposing. He became stiff and strong, grasping the fabrics of the teen's clothing with much vigour and tension.

And after a brief moment, the strength diminished and the grip loosened, allowing Tokken to strip himself away with just a slight tear at his shirt.

Tokken breathed deeply, startled beyond belief, as he watched Noire lean his back forward and hold his head in pain and regret.

"Ah, God, curse this body and the soul within it. It corrupts me. I am disgusted. Forgive me."

"God…?" Tokken asked with a slip of his tongue, putting a hand to his lips to silence himself.

"God… Ah, that is right…" Noire said, uprighting himself with widened, shocked eyes. He had made a mistake. "Just now, what I said, don't let it hold your mind captive."

"Don't let it… You're a Crimsoneer, aren't you?" Tokken said in a shallow heave, much louder than was safe for him. 'Noire' tensed. "Dear Goddess, you just said you weren't a devil, and you…!"

Melancholy threw his arm sideways at the accusation. "I am no devil! Such blasphemous words are unethical! Are you so ignorant to my feelings that you would insult us so? Don't you hear the wails of my soul?!"

Tokken shook his head, took a step back and pointed a defamatory digit his way. "You just lied to me! And you said you weren't in agreement with Deceit, Noire!"

"I am furthest from Deceit's aid! And my name is not Noire!" Melancholy shouted back all the louder. Having said this, he raised a fist and smashed it right into his own head, condemning himself to his anger. With a voice filled with grief and spite, he shouted in a painful way that made Tokken’s heart chill. "Mirthless imbecile! Stop, stop now your invasive thoughts, Noire! How I loathe my being! I cannot stand myself this way! Not for a moment longer! Enough!”

Tokken’s eyes widened to their very extremes. The alarms that rang in his head had him wordlessly turn on his heel and run in the opposite direction. He felt through the soles of his shoes how the ground beneath him rumbled and shook, to the point it nearly knocked him off his feet, but he kept running as fast as he could; a feeling that was familiar as adrenaline pooled inside of him for the fourth time in his life. The walls shook in his vision, he heard glass shatter, people shout and scream, and the smell of blood hit his nostrils.

He kept running. All he knew to do was run. He ran for what felt too long before his legs gave under him. Tokken wasn’t tired, so he knew he had tripped on something, but he couldn’t will himself to see what it was or what was coming. His every breath was quick, but he wasn’t panting; he was hyperventilating. The last thing his enlargened eyes caught sight of before sprinting was Noire’s face as it changed from what it was. The man beneath had two different eyes; the right one was a feelingless mute brown, and the left one bore instead of a pupil the shape of a red, reversed triangle. The pitiably mundane eye brimmed with tears where the other did not.

A hand tapped the teen’s shoulder, and he flinched. Instead of raising himself, he tuckered his head beneath his arms and waited. He felt just as meek as when he tried to run from Emris in the forest with Chloe in his arms. But now that he had nobody to die for, he felt terrified of defending himself. His own life wasn’t worth the fear of combat. The smell of blood intensified.

“Child,” the quiet, wistful voice of a man croaked. “Find shelter,” he said.

The teen’s neck shook as he steadied himself from being pulled to stand so suddenly. When he put his weight on his feet, he was at least glad to notice he hadn’t injured himself again. And when he turned to see the man, he found a familiar face looking behind him. A winged soldier with peculiar, light armour wielding a medium-length sabre. It was Corvus. But his expression was different. Cold. His eyes were open wide and twitched. His loose lips were stiff. He was more robotic now than he had ever been, and from his arms dripped a red substance.

Corvus said nothing else. He didn’t even look back at the hitch-breath boy. He simply walked forward, opposite safety, his sword’s edge dragging against the floor.

Seeing this, Tokken decided he wouldn’t waste more time. Questions could hopefully be answered later. In a moment of realisation, he willed himself to run once more, this time keeping his eyes focused on the carpeted floor, being mindful not to let anything impede him.

“I still have a purpose,” he thought. “And I have someone to live for.”

But could he protect anything at all? Would it change a thing if he gave his life? He wasn’t too sure. But what mattered most is that he at least tried.

“Chloe, sit tight. I’m coming. Keep her safe, Mumble.”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The meal progressed with an atmosphere that was hard to describe. It made the air feel suffocatingly thick with few words exchanged. Holly had heard Emris’ rightful accusation of the lady’s land of origin. What’s worse, Annabelle had the appearance of one whose age would place her as one of the many young children who were scarred by the definitive invasion from the Syndie forces which suffocated a long-standing kingdom that once dominated the world much like the High Templars of Gorka Magna several thousands of years ago. The nation of Hyretix was one of clean and absolute beauty and order; it was once considered impenetrable. The civilians were happy, the armies were satisfied, the nobles bountiful, and by Saintess or Lord, there wasn’t even a Deity who could cast their combined strength asunder — yet another key difference that gave them rightful superiority over even the old Templars.

And then, the Syndicate appeared. Four hundred years of piracy, vigilantism, and finally rebellion brought about an at times forceful unification of land that would afterwards become known as the ‘Humble Arms of One’, and later simply ‘The Hub’.

Of course, this meant Hyretix had to go. The last nation in the continent to stand against the Syndicate that wasn’t Yanksee—the largest, too—fell a little over thirty years ago. It must be frustrating for her to see that while chaotic at times, The Hub remains standing.

Emris sat down, ignorant at first though suspecting things were awry just from the lacking eagerness Elliot seemed abundant in just before he left. He cast the boy a fretful glance, and then another, more cold-faced, to the husband and wife. While Emris would veer his livelihood for a child, he had no need to show such admiration to two parents as strangely unwelcoming and discomforting as them. He knew why Annabelle would shoot him inconspicuous peeks over her plate. He also noticed the tear streak down her pale face. It was he who was encroaching on their abode, not the other way around.

The father huffed and turned to Holly, and it must have caught her off her guard, because she jumped, startled. With the most tender voice he could muster at the time, which wasn’t very convincing, he asked, “So, what is your connection to the Guardian exactly? You don’t look alike.”

“Ah, well…” Holly cleared her throat to better be heard. “Business partners, I suppose.”

Emris grumbled at that, but wouldn’t say more.

“I see. Business partners, then. More specifically, with the Syndicate, correct?” Wilhelm pried further.

Holly nodded, gulping down a knot in her throat.

“Why does he insist on referring to you as his own kin?”

“I’m right here, ye know,” Emris raised a palm in saying this, his cheeks a pink he’d try his best to hide.

Holly shrugged. “I guess he’s just confused.” That comment made said man look off to the side. He’d never get used to hearing her deny him.

Elliot frowned, picking at his plate, uncomfortable at the pressure in the air. “Mister, what are we going to do? If the beasts outside find us, they’ll…”

“At ease, kiddo,” Emris said, the creak of his wooden seat made heard as he inclined towards the kid, “ye’ll be fine here. Them beasts are too thick in the mind to go chasin’ folk into their iron huts. They’re here to startle and divide us, but we’ve bigger heads on our shoulders, eh?”

The boy acquiesced with an unsure hum and then looked not to his parents, but Holly for confirmation. He looked relieved when he saw her affirm the fact with a comforting hand gesture. Seeing this, the mother only looked more disgusted and sullen, but she kept her gaze downward.

Wilhelm took note of Annabelle’s expression and gruffed, putting a hand on hers.

“Can we talk about something else?” Holly suggested, only to be immediately shut down as the father stood up from his seat to approach the boy.

“Excuse us,” Wilhelm said, patting Elliot on the back to let him know he should stand up too.

Holly blinked in surprise, stuttering over her words. “Oh, sure. Uhm…” Annabelle kept her eyes on the soup with a frozen look about her. A startling sight.

“Hold it,” Em suddenly intervened, adjusting his back upwards again. Wilhelm was surprised, to say the least. “Ye can talk here. We won’t pry.”

The thought of commanding the owner of the flat felt much too bold, yet all too characteristic of this particular man. When Wilhelm tested Emris’ resolve with a sharp glare, Emris returned it with one just as bold and steadfast.

Wilhelm scoffed. “Family matters should remain in the family. Come, son.”

When Elliot showed hesitance to comply, conflicted on whether to obey his father or the source of his fascination, Wilhelm became increasingly frustrated and thus took the lad by the wrist and began to tug.

Emris felt himself stiffen. He raised his voice. “I’m a Syndie. Obey the order and sit down.” It was unlike him to abuse power at a time like this, but something clicked in his mind and it just felt right. It could be racial discrimination towards the Hyretisian family, or more likely, his eagerness to protect the unknowing young.

Annabelle stood up in a jump and shunned him with a finger. Her voice was a crackling whisper as she struggled with their Hubbite tongue. “Do not…!”

In an act of anger, the father’s grip tightened a bit too much. It was unintentional, but then, Elliot whined in pain.

It happened so fast.

The moment a noise came from the little one’s lips, the table made a snap and a creak, and Wilhelm’s arm was yanked from its place, and in one instance, he was flung ‘round and his back met the kitchen counter and crashed into a plethora of unwashed dishes; breaking the ceramic behind him and leaving him woefully sore. Wilhelm barely exhaled a grunt and put a hand over his face before a featureless terracotta bowl smashed against his temple; the pieces scattering and cutting his skin.

Wilhelm almost lost his grasp on reality as he tried his best to understand what had just happened. His body was roughly shuffled around as his collar was lifted, the movement of broken glass and plates feeling like knives poking through his legwear.

“Emris, stop!” he heard the Lypin shriek. He realised he’d been thrown, assaulted and grabbed by the neck by the Guardian himself. Ironic as it were, it made sense. To guard is to protect, and to protect there must be a threat to be impeded, distanced or removed.

Wilhelm’s wheezing breaths became more shallow as he realised that he was the threat at that moment. All because he hurt his child in the most insignificant amount. And that was enough.

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

He had spent the last eight weeks visiting the exact same place without fail. After spending the day traversing a land of nothingness, responsive only for his own survival, the robot in flesh found himself meandering back to that humble little pub in the eastern end of Goddess-knows. He never remembered what days they weren’t open; or rather, he hoped there would be some kind of exception. Nothing was a greater disappointment than turning around in front of a cold bar to spend another few dozen hours walking, fighting and wasting time. When they were open, he would come with fresh bruises and cuts each and every occasion; sometimes with a limp, sometimes with a hunchback, other times he might even pop by with a patch over his eye. But he came. Every single time.

Until that night.

He had gotten in a brawl with someone worth their mettle and it cost him badly. In that same evening, he lost a leg, an arm and his jaw was gone. He stumbled upon the bar the following evening, feeling more lightheaded than usual. His worries had been made a reality when he found out the lady singer had been made upset in his absence. This man spoke so little yet he became such a warm sight to the bargoers and few tenders. What little he did say became as interesting as folklore and every blue moon he might even tell a story of his own adventures — he liked to keep them brief, of course.

It’s not so much that what he was saying was interesting, but the banter and laughter that followed seemed to cheer everyone up. The Silent Soldier, they would nickname him. The Drunken Bullet, those who had seen him fight.

When the man did walk into the bar after a night of absence, the singer and her grandfather seemed to light up. The old man got to work pouring the silent one a coffee first; he always needed one of those to start. While he did, Moon would slide on by and begin her endless rants about how she was loving it all but the stress of it came hurdling at times. She never lacked energy. Some might deem it annoying, but the man didn’t mind. He liked hearing her talk on and on. The most mundane of human things became a fascinating tale when she spoke of them. He loved hearing her talk on and on.

Moon took a cigarette from a pouch in her waist bag and lit it up before popping it in her mouth for a drag. The man frowned seeing this, looking forward as a coffee and a beer presented themselves. A bad pair.

Of course, she asked. “So, what’s had ya busy, mister Soldier? I was disappointed when I didn’t see ya in the crowd, sugar. Poppa said you never came.”

That accent of hers was enough to piece she was uneducated. Few could afford that nowadays. It had a charm to it. “I got in a mess,” the man said without further detail.

“Alright, but what kinda mess, hun?” she persisted, tugging at his arm.

The man took a sip of his coffee first, giving the old man that passed by the bar opposite him a thankful nod.

Moon chewed on her cheek and pouted, taking another puff. “Cack, cahg… C’mooon, please? I’d like to sing about it tonight, mister.”

Despite her brutish language at times, her singing transformed her into something beyond ethereal. The thought of an excuse to hear her melodies longer was push enough. He knew she knew that. A sly vixen who stole experiences like riches from the wealthy to spread to the commoners.

“It was about a little boy. I just had to teach his dad some manners,” The Drunken Bullet said, taking the beer and taking a sip. Immediately, he buckled and spat, thumping his hand against the counter and sputtering as if he had just taken poison to his lips.

Moon nodded along to his reply, but seeing this, turned to giggling uncontrollably, laughing richly and patting the man on the back. “Ah, sorry! Forgot to tell ya, Poppa stocked us up on somethin’ new tonight! Really rare stuff; Dragondrop, I heard them callin’ it.” Even as the man still coughed the last of the burn in his throat, Moon put on her storyteller’s airs and theatrics, twiddling her fingers around to imitate the sprinkle of mystical dust. “It’s said that that thine there’s the juices born of the Deity of Mischief, and it was used by villagers to keep the Wyverns happy and off their rocker for a bit and they’d stay away from the town’s gold. It’s probably an ol’ silly’s tale, but either way, it’s on the house. For your valiance, sir!”

“It tastes like flames! And there’s none a Deity like that!” the Soldier exclaimed, his tongue stung red. Once the last of the burn receded, however, he strangely took another sip of the substance. Taking a better look into his mug, which his peripheral had passively and mistakenly made to be yellow by muscle memory, he found a chunky, purplish fluid that almost looked like something a Dwarfelyn might cough up on a rough eating day.

Moon watched and heard him curiously as he braved the liquid, clearly unwilling to waste the old man’s generosity, even if he did get poked fun at by a few of the bar’s folk. She put her head on her palms and her elbows on the table and gave him a flirtatious, teasing little look. She had just heard him speak for the first time in days; she wasn’t about to waste it. “Tell me all about this ‘knightlyhood’ of yers, then…”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off ‘im!” Emris shouted mightily in Wilhelm’s face, his emotions embroiled like a steady wall that defined his few morals.

The child panicked and dropped off his seat to hurry up to his father as he was beaten, but he was stopped by a protective Holly and soon after his mother as the Lypin dashed behind Emris and grabbed him by his shoulders, pouring in her mightiest just to budge him backwards. It didn’t work, though. Emris was still within pummeling distance, and though his position made it awkward and clumsy, Wilhelm’s bones could hardly resist the Guardian’s crushing blows.

“Arrête!” Annabelle pleaded and demanded at once, feeling compelled to attack the Syndie for the crimes of his people but finding herself too concerned in her and her child’s safety. The sight of her husband’s disfiguring face and chest made her limbs feel weak, and so, Elliot shook free. “Ange!” she screamed, reaching out for a boy who was much too nimble for his weakened mother’s arms.

“Mister Guardian! Stop! Stoop!” Elliot shouted his plea, rushing by to the Guardian’s leg to grab hold of all of his waist he could take hold of.

Due to the huge difference in strength, the child couldn’t hope to even nudge Emris if he put every fibre of himself into it, but the act on Elliot’s behalf made an impact large enough to dissuade the aggressor enough to slow down his attacks and loosen his rampage enough for Holly to finally pry him off the man.

This was enough to stop Emris’ assault, though Wilhelm’s face would likely never fully recover from the more severe swells that ballooned his complexion. In a moment of recovery and comprehension, Emris turned to look at the boy, giving him a look over to see if he was hurt. The compassion felt out of place for such a violent man, and though the stare might be misinterpreted as anger to some, Elliot seemed to understand well enough. In seconds, Annabelle nabbed the boy into her grasp, and with all her strength, tugged at her husband’s arm enough to get him to crawl with her to the opposite end of the admittedly small room.

Holly, in turn, pushed Emris against the wall of the kitchen and held his arms as firmly to his sides as she could, her strong leg keeping him in place as well as she could.

Emris panted, his anger diminishing, and as his common sense slowly returned, he turned to face the family whose father he had brutalised. The horrible look on the defeated father’s face, the paralysing fear in the mother’s eyes, and the mute bewilderment of the child who looked up to him.

Emris sniffed, gathering his bearings. He looked left and he looked right. He looked down at his daughter as she employed her all to keep him from further wrecking this family and their possessions in a blind rage. He felt his thoughts rage at what the father had done, but then he realised that all that happened was a tug on the boy’s wrist.

Emris was the Guardian, and to protect meant to impede, distance or remove a threat. His breath got caught in his throat when he realised: he was the threat at that moment.