Chapter Text

0 - the Fool

When Goro Shido, the thirty-seventh heir in line to the throne of the Yamato Empire, took the duty to be the Empire’s envoy to the neighboring Kingdom of Samail, he inherently knew that he was doing a service for the Empire, maintaining the good relationship between both governments.

He also knew that the Emperor—his damn father—was signing Goro’s exile while capitalizing on that offered peace and security between their borders. Goro was a convenient bargaining chip, ready to be disposed of should negotiations between both powers go awry. Therefore, when Goro was sent to that neighboring country mere a week after he received the court order, he had believed that his reception in the foreign realm would have been cold—that the rest of his life was going to be spent in superficial networking and saving faces and fake pleasantries—

—and yet, the first person who had greeted him at the borders between the Empire of Yamato and the Kingdom of Samail, was none other than the Left Hand of the King of Samail himself.

1 - the Magician, the Trickster

The name of that man was Akira Kurusu, and he had been assigned by the king to be his attendant for the next six months of Goro’s stay in the Kingdom.

The message was clear to Goro: ‘the King of Samail does not trust the envoy of Yamato.’

And yet here, on the third week of Goro’s stay, in the comfort of the study room flavored in oak—in a room so lavish, so accommodating than the one he had in that cold Palace of his father's Empire, with everything under the roof of this mansion all his—the summer sun lighting it up in warm amber, Akira’s light-hearted laughter filled the cozy space that made this place more of a home.

“You do not strike me as a gentleman who’d go this bold, Goro-san—I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first name."

The smile on his face twisted briefly into scorn, then back to saccharine pleasantness. "I don't mind. It would feel odd to call me by the Emperor's exalted last name."

'Especially when it comes from a citizen of Samail,' he mentally added. He remembered the things he read in the Royal Library, of a holy war fought in the name of freedom of the founding families of Samail Kingdom a thousand years ago, of thieves that gave to the poor and invited the wrath of the royals, of cities running red with blood and curses that lived in the lineage of the noble families, of ashes and blood and freedom and separation.

It was independence paid with blood and tears and curses. Samailans.

It was unbelievable that Akira still treated him like... like a prospectus acquaintance.

"Wouldn't that be to your benefit? Names have the power within these walls," a hum, followed by the sound of chess pieces hitting the board as Kurusu rearranged the pieces for a new game—a new challenge that Goro wasn't sure how to proceed with, "After all, and what is stronger than the very name of the head of the mightiest Empire in the world?"

The question was bait, as far as Goro was concerned, and he knew that Kurusu also knew. Goro presumed that it was to test his depth, and the next chess game was an excuse, so that Kurusu could find out more information about this pitiful prince of the Empire, an insight so profound that the man could use it to twist Goro's arm, and perhaps later, the Emperor's too.

It was a trap to keep Kurusu's enemy closer, a trap that should be handled with care.

And yet.

"That very same name revolted those living under the roof of this mansion, Kurusu-san," Goro countered, his hand deftly rearranging his white pieces accordingly, taking the first move before they had even agreed verbally to a rematch, "Contrary to your suspicions, I have no intention to sour the relationship between our two governments. Diplomacy may be one of my strong suits, but it is not one that I enjoy brandishing, nor do I aspire to thrive in such a field."

"Oh?" Black moved, followed by the sound of wood hitting the board, stern and crisp, "And what, pray tell, is the aspiration of the thirty-seventh one in line to the Throne of Yamato?"

Goro offered a quiet smile, the first act of demureness that he learned from his mother as he quietly sharpened his fangs. Make them yearn, Goro. Make them curious, make them wanting, make them slaves to their desire, and you shall control and toy them however you wish.

"Beat me first in this game, then maybe I'll tell you."

2 - The High Priestess, Faith

The lady dressed in her knightly garment was of noble birth, and she was waiting by the living room to be received. All of the helpers in the mansion had known the lady for a long time, offering their due respect even as she rebuked every one of them. They were the ones who looked out for her when she was just a child.

The lady was the heir to the Samail noble house Yoshizawa, who was also the twin sister to the Queen.

She was also the owner of this mansion, apparently, one that was lent to house him until a suitable one could be built near the main castle.

"Apologies for my tardiness, Yoshizawa-san," he had greeted her, only for him to earn a quizzical look. Goro frowned, faking foolishness, "...I must apologize, have I addressed you wrongly?"

"Oh! No, no, it's just—we rarely use such suffixes these days. It's very archaic, even in the court of Samail," she clarified, red eyes twinkling with something akin to mirth. Goro tried his best to tuck away the ire he had at Kurusu, who had emulated the Yamato culture and made him assume that the same thing applies to Samail, and pursed his lips to offer the lady a wane smile.

"My apology still stands then, Yoshizawa-s— Lady Yoshizawa. Please forgive my ignorance, I do aim to learn more about Samail."

Her voice was like the clinking of glass, brimming with vim and vigor. "Please address me as Kasumi. Pretty sure that we'll be working together closely, dear Prince," she offered, reaching for a roll of parchment in her bag, sealed with wax. 

"But I digress long enough," she said, pushing the parchment—a King's decree, likely, considering the royal stamp in place, "I am here to inform you that you have been summoned by the King himself."

(Busybody. That was one word that he could surmise about Kasumi.)

3 & 4 - The Empress and Emperor

"It is my greatest honor to be in your presence today, Your Majesties," Goro genuflected and took his head low, a bow humbly offered only to the highest of highs in the court of his Motherland—only to the reigning emperor Masayoshi Shido.

"You may rise, Prince Goro," came the silky voice of the Queen, gentlest even among the noblewomen of Samail. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, before she spoke again with bemusement, "And you may raise your head. You are our esteemed guest in this land, and it is the height of impropriety to treat you any lesser."

"Your graciousness knows no bounds, Your Highness," he cordially responded and raised his head, meeting the rose-red eyes of the young Queen. Sumire Yoshizawa's glance held a veiled expectation that Goro was unable to ascertain, but, at the very least, he had a general idea as to why he was summoned in the first place.

Now, if only the King, who asked for his presence, would kindly step up and just tell what he truly wished for, instead of sparing a look of consideration with those eerie gold eyes of his.

The Queen kindly gestured at her spouse, her hand on top of his, and he gently shook as if he had just been woken up from a short slumber. The edge of his lips turned upward, and Goro—

('Looks like it's my loss,' Kurusu whistled, gray eyes shining brightly under the light of the setting sun. He smiled despite his loss, an upturned smirk, 'You bet for a question to be answered. Now, I may have not bet in kind, but to offer no less than a similar reward as a courtesy would have been un-Samailan of me. Ask me anything, Goro-san.')

—flinched, at the likeliness of the King, Ren from the house of Amamiya, to his Left Hand—the one and the same who had been standing at the perimeter of the audience space, acting like the attendant that he was. Then. Is Kurusu supposed to be the King’s body double? A shadow? Secret twins?

He saw them locking gaze, sharing a smirk at each other, worldless banter and secret signings traded amidst a formal audience.

Had this been his father's court, someone's head would have already rolled. Likely Kurusu's.

Fortunately, the rude display ceased some moments after, the King’s golden eyes locked back with his auburn, noting him with curiosity and—

—looking at the King reminded him of a time when he was dragged to the court, in the middle of the night. The Magelords of Yamato gathered around him as they chanted their curses, carving the mark of the heir to the Empire. It was the rites of passage privy only to the royal family, a ritual that required blood, a ceremony that demanded his misery and shacklement, turning him into a subservient subject unable to directly harm the one who sat on that cursed Throne.

The low hum coming from the King shook Goro out of his brief recollection, as well as broke their stare-off. 

"Mm… Yes, he'll do just fine, Akira," the reigning ruler casually said, bewildering the Prince from the rude gesture so much that Goro wasn't able to school his confused face. "Take him to Sakura and depart for LeBlanc as soon as you're able."

LeBlanc? The lush forest to the north of Samail?

"Beg your pardon for speaking out of turn, but," he shouldn't be making this kind of rookie mistake, too early in the envoy game, but Goro was a prince of the Empire, no matter how much a curse that inherited position was, "I will depart for LeBlanc?"

Kurusu's chuckle filled the room, closer than Goro expected. When he glanced at his right side, the sharply-dressed chauffeur with those gleaming gray eyes flashed him a smile of mischief.

"It is customary for high-ranking officials of Samail to go through the admittance ceremony,” Kurusu explained, that smirk of his widening even further. Maybe because he already caught Goro's stare of outright denial. 

“But I'm a,” Goro quickly stopped midway, catching himself before the word 'mere' escaped his mouth. His mouth tasted like ash, the recollection of his Marking brought forth to the forefront of his mind. The gold eyes of the King made his control over emotion rattle, and Goro found himself slowly hating the man. “I'm an emissary, your highness, not even a member of your noble court.”

Ren Amamiya's loud guffawing echoed throughout the room, as if Goro had just told him the greatest joke of all. When it died, Yoshizawa's hand once again stroking his own, the King looked down on him with peculiar interest.

“You are here for a peacekeeping mission, correct? Acknowledgment from LeBlanc will help you integrate into our society, and gain an understanding of how my kingdom works,” he explained, looking at Goro as if he were a child. It was infuriating. 

“You may treat yourself as the disposable pawn of your father,” the corner of Ren’s lips twisted when Goro let away a visible flinch. How did he know the very weakness in his heart that he kept hidden for almost as long as he lived? “But realize that I and Akira have never seen nor treated you nothing less than the dignified heir to the Throne that you are. Samailans don't do things that way, and I think it's about time that you learn it yourself.”

5 & 6 - The Hierophant and The Lovers

Goro departed for Samail alone, without a single retinue in hand.

For all his title and right to the throne, he was treated more like a commoner than any other heirs to the throne. Probably because he was an acknowledged bastard, born from the woman who captured the heart of the man of the highest station in the country, and then was discarded after she fulfilled her use.

Of course, the information about his upbringing was something of a royal secret. For all his follies and weaknesses, Masayoshi Shido heavily depended on the good image that he displayed to the public, thus Goro was still expected to act—to live—like royalty.

To do—to be something that he was not, meant inviting the Emperor’s ire. Not on him, but on his mother. And vice versa. It was an excellent strategy to keep both of them in line. 

It was how Masayoshi Shido kept his supporters from biting back against their master.

Wakaba Isshiki-Sakura understood that completely, much to his surprise.

Panther’s Lyre was closed for the night, with most of its patrons had gone home or retired to their rooms, likely another machination of the King’s left hand. Everyone except for Wakaba, at least, who turned out to be their first point of contact before he and Kurusu could depart for LeBlanc.

“Oh, my Prince,” she started, calmly sipping on her second cup of coffee. The title felt heavy in his ear, especially after knowing that she was among the bright minds of the Empire to have successfully avoided its retribution. By all means, as a subject of the Empire, Goro should report her presence on his next communication to the Emperor’s Crows, but she was married to the head of the oldest noble families of Samail, and the establishment they were currently indulging in was one among her ventures as a businesswoman-slash-informant.

He was trapped in the lioness' den, so to speak. 

“If no one is too reticent to say this to your face, as a former subject to the Empire, I shall say this as bluntly as possible: everyone in this kingdom envies the empire cur, who is favored enough to be sent out to LeBlanc,” there was a pause, her intelligent eyes gauging his reaction, “Sakamoto’s words, not mine. Words travel fast with that boy, so I can guarantee that the guards, their mothers, and everyone else in the city knows of your departure.”

Goro frowned. There was every reason available for her to lie to him, and even more reasons for him to better err on the side of caution. “That is truly counterproductive to what Kurusu has in mind.”

She snorted, putting away her cup and taking up his presence once more. Goro needed no further elaborations to know that he had gotten her attention. “But that boy is such bright sunshine and a skillful knight. Admittedly, I do wonder just what you did to earn his ire?”

Oh. “I threw him to the ground for being too—” Goro bit his lips, boxing his rising ire himself at the memory of a blond on the pebbled ground, Kurusu was impressed and equally shocked from the view, and managing a polite smile, “—touchy-feely with me.”

Anyone else would have given him a bewildered look, but Wakaba only gave him an introspective hum, an indication that she understood more about what he was about to face, just from that little tale itself.

“LeBlanc will help with the gnawing side effects of the Mark on you, my Prince,” she quietly confided, and Goro’s mouth clamped shut.

“You were an heir.”

“Distant cousin to your father, yes. The Mark had died with the previous Emperor, but side-effects linger from time to time.”

'I can feel him watching my every move, still,' he would have guessed from the strain on her expression, even when the one putting her curse had already died. It was a relief that Goro wished to have soon—the freedom to have his own thoughts and not worry that Shido would abuse the Mark imposed on him and compel his son to do his bidding.

The door to the backside of the tavern opened. Kurusu came back in, a woman with long orange hair following behind him like a protective puppy, and Goro knew that their business was concluded. So was their little chat.

Wakaba understood that too.

“As you face the Altar of the Morning Star, you will be presented with two choices. My only advice to you, dear Prince, is to follow your heart,” she offered, her eyes gleaming with knowledge beyond his reach, “Because when you do, even as you walk among the ruins brought forth, you will walk with your head held high, with your dignity intact. It’s a preferable way of life than being the Emperor’s pet dog, if you ask me.”

7 - The Chariot

“Unfortunately, the old man was only willing to part with Ryuji and Yusuke to accompany us to the north, Goro-san,” Kurusu said, while daringly smiling at him as if the arrangement was no trouble. No, everything is a problem with this ape, and the fox who was to become part of their entourage.

Most infuriating was that Kurusu relished in Goro’s attempt to contain himself from bursting in anger, giggling so much that the Panther’s Lyre manager (Ann Takamaki, he needed to file her name somewhere in his brain, considering that she co-owned the tavern, and thus by extension co-owned the spy network that Wakaba maintained) slapped his back to get him to stop.

“Stop teasing the guy, don’t you see how he was ready to throw a fit?” She chided, the flames in her tone turning more genial than biting when she turned to him, “I tried finding a good wagon on short notice, but most of them have been sent out for the relief effort in the Southern Ridge. The basic types are the ones left.”

As he straightened his posture, Goro examined the wagon in question. It was as the maid explained: a basic wagon covered with a plain brown tarp, bare even from any equipment for the comfort of the passenger, and, fortunately clean, as if the last of its grime had been scrubbed away.

Goro hummed with approval, much to Takamaki's surprise. "It's discreet and good enough for a short trip. Thank you for your assistance, Takamaki-san.”

She looked at him as if he had grown a secondhand, and then elbowed Kurusu’s side so hard that the latter yowled. “Unbelievable, Akira, he's a perfect gentleman,” he heard her hush, before she flashed him another smile, “I'll load more blankets and cushions for your trip, my lord.”

She was gone, back to the adjoining small warehouse right next to the tavern, before he could comment more, already out to do what he was about to ask her. That also meant she left him behind with the infuriating attendant of his, alone.

And Goro made sure to express his displeasure in his most offended frown. “Now what was that all about,” he huffed, growing more irritated with how Kurusu replied with a snigger, “What manner of ill words have you told her?”

“Don't be mad, Goro-san,” Kurusu appeased, still having the nerve to address him so brazenly, so unapologetically, “It was a harmless bet, whether you'll throw a fit with this modest accommodation.”

There was pity in his voice, a muted presumption Kurusu had on him based on this little bet alone. ‘Despite your station, you were not treated or given respect befitting it.’

And Goro burned with indignation from the man's gall. So much that not even the other man saw him move forward, shaking hands reaching for Kurusu's collar and yanking it closer. The startlement in those gray eyes only served to feed the flames in him, and Goro relished that gnawing bloodlust.

(He remembered the ritual ending, himself bathed in his blood as the healers worked their magic to drag him from the doors of death, embers of rage embedded deep within him—a kindling flame that intertwined with his soul, thirsting for the destruction of the man who had trampled his dignity by branding his existence.

He remembered the devilish gleam of gold in his father’s eyes, as he looked up from the pool of his own blood. The glare of a man ready to cast off anything for the sake of his ambition, ready even to curse his blood to follow his bidding.)

“You have no idea,” he drawled, fury and hatred blending with malice that the other had never witnessed, “of the life that I’ve lived so far, Kurusu. I suggest that you refrain from making assumptions about that. What if you’re wrong?”

Goro pulled him close enough to taste the air that man breathed.

“What if that wrong assumption costs you your King’s life?”

8 - Strength

The cobblestones under him were cold, the air smelled like electricity, and the Magelords chanted around him. His head hurt, his limbs had no power, his wrist bled, and his skin itched with the crust of blood—

—his father’s eyes gleamed goldenly, the words spilling out of those lips muffled and far away, and the next thing he knew was the weight of something foreign settled within himself, a presence too much for his broken mind to consider—

"Son of Man, yoU aRe chOSeN."

—he remembered screaming out, feeling every part of him wrung out of blood, of life, with each fray of nerves burning and burning and burning. He recalled the wagon (wagon?) harshly shook, recalled sitting up from the sheer shock of the memory-dream, recalled something—someone—throwing his weight unto him, recalled the tight hug and the spoken appeasements, recalled that he was miles away from that accursed Tower where his own father cursed his soul with the Mark.

He was shaking. Kurusu’s warmth around him was something that he tried to cling to, and Goro hoped that it was enough to stave the cold in his memory-dream away.

“You’re okay, Goro, you’re safe here.”

He clung to that lulling voice too, trying to gather his composure together, no matter how frayed. Kurusu seemed to shout out something to the wagon driver ('Sakamoto, that was Sakamoto’s voice that replied'), and, from that point on, his frontal lobe finally kicked his lizard brain.

He was on his way to LeBlanc, a territory of Samail. Akira Kurusu was assigned as his security detail under the King’s order. Ryuji Sakamoto was to be their designated wagon driver, while Akira and the other knight in Kingsguard retinue, Yusuke Kitagawa, rode by his side. As far as everyone at the checkpoints was concerned, they were part of the regular supply group from and to the Samail Capital, and were delayed due to last-minute requests from one prickly caretaker of the area.

He was not in the Capital of Yamato.

Goro took a deep breath, desperately trying to still his shaking hands. They still weakly trembled against Kurusu’s steel mail. Kurusu shifted on where he sat, probably noticing that Goro was slowly coming back to himself, and then, surprisingly, tightening his embrace. He was nestled right under the man's jaw, helplessly taking in the offered comfort: the hug, his gloved hand gently stroking the back of Goro's head, and the orderly manner of his breathing.

They helped, even if the gesture was too intimate for his liking.

"... I'm fine now." Goro's not, but he still had his pride. "You can let go now, Kurusu."

A beat of silence, but Kurusu did not stop stroking his head. "You sure?"

"Yes."

They did not speak about it—about how a nightmare took a vice grip on his psyche, or how Kurusu was almost thrown out of the wagon as the latter attempted to calm him down—at least until they reached the next checkpoint.

9 - The Hermit

Goro could ignore Sakamoto's hissy fit or Kitagawa's suspecting glare, but he found that it became increasingly harder to ignore Kurusu's silence as the man looked at him with those enigmatic gray eyes. So he called for parley, in the safety of Goro's inn room accompanied by his attendant—and demanded another chess match. Dinner would be ready in an hour or two, and Goro still needed the break from the nightmare he caught at noon.

"We can trade questions while we play," Goro offered quietly while rearranging the white pieces on his side. "I expect for you to tell truths, Kurusu, half or incomplete they may be."

It's peculiar to see the resignation in the smile that graced his beautiful face. "I can't believe that you're doubting my character, Goro-saaaaan."

"There's a reason that Niijima is the King's Right Hand, while you're his Left."

Even funnier when that resignation turned into a pouty acceptance, as Kurusu finished rearranging his pieces. "I would sully my hand for Ren's sake, that much is true."

Goro didn't even bat an eye at that remark, placing his pawn forward. "...What are you, his body double?"

"Oh, we're starting already?" Kurusu inquired, too flirtatious for his own liking, "I was born an orphan, Goro-san. The Amamiya house took me in for our likeness to each other. We shared childhood, and later on, I took the vow to become whatever he needs me to be."

There was a weight there, as Kurusu spilled out his history, and yet Goro felt that there was more to the story than just a knight pledging his loyalty to his brother-king. 

"Tell me about your nightmare, the one that Wakaba warned me about. Is it the Mark?" he brazenly asked, swooping on the white bishop as he did so. Goro cursed under his breath as he decided on a course to counter his advance.

It did not escape him that Kurusu was baiting him, laying layers of traps in hopes for Goro to spill his secret, with how badly he failed during their first game of chess.

Well, Goro wanted to twist this man's arm a little, too.

"...It is as you suspected,” he moved to take the pawn, the glare of auburn eyes daring Kurusu to reveal his sleight of hand. “How much do you know about the Mark?”

“As much as Mrs. Isshiki was comfortable telling me.”

“Useless facts, then,” Goro listlessly replied, as he swiped another pawn with his bishop. Kurusu's flash of a smile elicited a smile of his own, as he delved even further into the man’s trapping, “Something about the benediction from our patron, Yaldabaoth, branded into our very being, our very soul. People who were appointed by the Apostle, and in this context, the Emperor himself. Check.”

Another hum, followed by a smirk that slowly turned into a frown as he scampered to build his defense. Too late. “You’re very chatty about this, Goro-san.”

“Only because I intend to capitalize on this chance to get some truths out of you, Kurusu,” he countered back, “What will I find in LeBlanc? Check.”

Ah yes, he enjoyed the souring look on that previously arrogant face. It made crushing all of Kurusu’s effort to scavenge his crumbling stratagem even more satisfying.

“Two blond priestesses and their caretaker cat,” Kurusu huffed, pulling his King piece even further back, out of Goro’s reach. It was the invitation that Goro needed as he continued to push on, the traded questions briefly disregarded as they decided their steps in quick succession—

“You’re being too reckless, Goro-san…”

—and Goro snapped out of his fugue, Kurusu’s eyes on him, with that gaze full of pity. No, instead, it was a gaze that his mother used to give him, with a mix of worry and kindness, sprinkled with pleas. The Prince examined the board once more, noting the way Kurusu led him around the field to where the chauffeur wanted him to be. 

No exit. Nowhere to run.

Like The Mark would always haunt him.

Goro sank to his seat with a huff at the fleeting thought and glared at the dark-haired man. “Congratulations on your victory. Shoot your last question, I shall entertain you that much at least.”

Kurusu had the decency to look guilty and uncomfortable, at least, as he uttered his last question of the evening, “What is the Mark, truly, Goro-san?”

Those gray eyes looked far too earnest and too kind, too gentle for the responsibility the Samail King put on his shoulder. How could Akira Kurusu live as the Left Hand of the King and still maintain such a clear gaze? And when Goro decided to disclose an evil that had kept the empire united and running, would that gaze change? Would Kurusu look at him and see a victim, instead of a survivor?

‘No. No, I don’t want that.’

“It is a blessing anointed to the chosen royal members of the Yamato Empire, Kurusu,” he replied, resigning himself to give away crumbs if only to satisfy that curious mind, “And a sign of entitlement to the Throne. But it was also a sign of claiming that we will forever be subservient to Yaldabaoth’s will, and by extension… the will of the Apostle.” 

10 - Wheel of Fortune

“You’re late, you’re all late, what took you so long, Inmate?!”

Kurusu winced from the high-pitched yelling of the girl, half Goro’s height, in a blue prison guard outfit. “Could you please drop the moniker? It has been years…”

He had to blink to make sure that he heard things right (‘Years?? The girl was barely done growing up!’), even as the blond girl launched herself at his chauffeur. The latter had shifted their momentum so that they spun around, securely catching the girl in his embrace as she shouted at top of her lungs, something about ‘You should have brought Ren too, you imbecile, we miss him too!!’

Years ago. The King’s name. Goro kept to his silence until the girl dropped to her feet once more and turned to him. Golden eyes looked back at him—

(—like his father’s as he mouthed, with a sickening smile, ‘you’ll always be under my rule, Goro, my little puppet to follow my commands, my wishes, my wiles, all your life—’)

—sending shivers down his spine as he struggled to breathe.

She did not seem to notice his internal crisis (or maybe she did, if she noticed the veiled panic on his face, but chose not to call him out). She leisurely closed the gap between, them while Goro tried his best to tuck his anxiousness away, hidden from sight, with barely any success.

“So this is the Yamato Prince you’ve been telling me in the letters?” She inquired, shifting on her feet as she eerily examined him with her glare alone, “…Yeah, I can see why that fool wanted him checked and admitted, alright, that softie brother of yours. Come on, Justine and Morgana are waiting. The time to enter The Altar of the Morning Star is near.”

LeBlanc, in its entirety, was an area covered by lush forest so dense that Goro couldn't help but wonder just how far the Samailans agricultural technology has gone. A certain level of human intervention must have been taken, considering that there was a stark difference between the temperate feel of the rest of the kingdom, compared to the oppressive humidity of the jungle around them.

There was nothing natural about this part of Samail. The empty, open clearing that looked like an old amphitheater clad in alabaster before him, was another proof of such.

There was a simple gate at the front, made of giant chunks of marble stone stacked together. Standing next to it was another blond girl, likely twin to the one who's been guiding them further in (Sakamoto and Kitagawa had chosen to stay, something about this being a royal affair, even when the girl told them that they had every right to follow suit, their standings as heirs and all that). The black cat on her arms twitched, its blue eyes judging Goro's every move as if he was about to commit a crime.

Goro paid the cat no heed, choosing to focus on the other girl instead. Similar gold eyes looked back at him, sending chills down his spine, before they turned their attention to his chauffeur again. There was mirth on her face, twining with nostalgia, as she greeted, "It has been a while, Inmate."

"Not you too, Justine, it's been a decade," Kurusu complained in that wily, high-pitched tone that Goro had only witnessed today. Goro blinked again, and again, trying to understand just what manner of facts were unraveling before his eyes because these girls looked barely thirteen—

—the other girl had gotten close, by his right, and swung her baton at his thigh. Goro yelped in response, shooting the girl (Caroline was it?) a confused glare, one that she replied with a glare of her own.

“We’re not children, you numbskull,” she huffed, tapping her baton to the ground. Did she just—?

Her smirk grew even wider, almost in menace and mischief, as she yelled to Kurusu, “Oi Inmate, you should have told him what he's about to face here! You make us look like bullies now.”

“But you two are bullies,” the left hand of the King uttered in jest as he joined them, gesturing for everyone to gather around in a circle. It was peculiar that the cat had gone to pick a spot for itself at the perimeter of their little circle as if it understood what was about to transpire.

It was frustrating that Goro was the only person who had no idea what was gonna happen.

“Kurusu, what are we doing?”

The damn raven-haired man just winked at him and pulled his sword, its blade black with golden inscriptions from the hilt to the tip, and raised it before him—before the very marble gate, as if nothing beyond there asked for an offering.

“All praise for you, most compassionate and merciful. Guide us along the path that you've blazed, away from regression, your humble companion, Akira Kurusu, appeals to you—”

His surroundings were blurring into a mess of red and black before Goro realized that Kurusu was offering a prayer, the inscription on the blade of his sword gleaming softly. The Prince was too captivated by the view, despite how grotesque it became with passing moments, that he ignored the nausea building in his stomach.

“—please grant us your grace, amen.”

When Kurusu's prayer finally ended, the scenery around them stabilized. Peculiarly, the alabaster view of the amphitheater remained untarnished and unchanging, but the surrounding area of greeneries had turned violet-red, the ground dark with trails bloody pink. The sky was dark like night, littered with countless stars that Goro was very sure that they were not in any recent star maps.

It was like a dream.

Akira Kurusu chuckled, still as brazen as ever even with a white domino mask on his face, and offered his hand, as if kidnapping the heir to the Yamato’s Throne was not a deed worth a beheading.

“Welcome to the Reverse Side of Samail, Goro-san. I will be your guide for this journey.”

Any other person would have begged the man to bring him back, balking at the disdainful sight of this peculiar world. But there was an allure in the way the alabaster amphitheater gleamed with eerie white, along with the two figures by the center of the structure, thrice as high as Goro and looked more like giants than humans.

Goro should be scared.

Yet his heart thumped with anticipation, their presence pulling at the edges of his senses.

Judging by the smirk on Kurusu's lips, the man expected such a reaction.

Scowling, Goro reached for the offered hand and let the other drag him down to the center. “You better keep me safe, you fool. Just because I'm the last in line to the throne, doesn't mean that Yamato will not move, should their Prince die in a foreign realm.”

11 - Justice

Maybe Kurusu's intention to bring him here was to have him murdered. Maybe the King had been preparing his forces and planned for invasion, fighting against the dominion that once reigned over Samail, with his head served on a silver platter as a declaration of war.

Either way, Goro was going to die, at this rate, with how the humanoid giant, tinted in that mystic pattern of black and white, had casually, magically, flung his blade at him—or the empty spot next to him. Whether it had missed on purpose or not, the sheer terror gripping Goro's heart was real, so much that it almost sent him toppling backward. 

“Look at the brat, Robin. Spineless like his father,” the monochromatic figure sneered, a mimicry of the voices of the voiceless classists disgustingly licking on his father’s boots and begging for that man’s favor—an echo of pitiful people trying to elevate themselves by stepping on the weak.

(On him. On his mother.)

“Spineless?” he blurted, the years of his discontent and fury—everything that he had to endure to keep his mother safe—coming together like an unyielding wave. Rage was something that he had to wrestle down, to keep the flame snugly under his skin, every time it reared its ugly head. The one who lost his temper was the first to be disposed of in court politics, after all, and Goro took care to keep his control in check, tightly directing that gruesome aggravation in the direction that he wished—

—the few words from this checkered-motive monster, however, easily unraveled his control.

He knew what moved him when Goro pulled that blade—too big for his stature, yet the gigantic grip fit fine on his two hands—and threw caution to the wind. One step, two, a close-in, and then a swing that the damn monster avoided, leaving him open to a counter.

The monster opted not to take advantage of it, laughing shrilly as he circled Goro instead.

“So weak-hearted that he could not secure the Throne by his own hand,” he purred, “So treacherous that he turned to the Lord and chained everyone to his will. He’s a spineless man, a cowardly man who could not move the hearts of the people. So he falls back to using trickeries, seeks such power from the Reverse Side.”

He stopped. Goro could feel the cruel, vengeful gaze behind those horn-lookalikes. “Isn’t that why you’re here, searching for the power to bend people’s will to your own? Weak-hearted, spineless, and disgraceful as you are?”

(Goro craved power. It was an irrefutable fact of his existence, from the moment he was born as a lowly bastard and even now when the Emperor acknowledged him as a Prince of the Empire. Power to rise and crush the shackles that bound him, forcing him to play parts that he loathed. Power to set himself and his mother free.

When he looked to the Emperor, the pinnacle of the society that was the Yamato Empire... it was such kind of power that he sought.) 

Goro bit his lips, the grip of that demonic sword burning the surface of his palms. It grounded him, the pain, tucking back the rage into the confines of his control.

“I seek the power to break the chains that bind me and my mother from my father’s influence,” he replied, furious determination behind his every word, “If the power to bend people to my will is required, then I—”

He stopped mid-sentence, feeling the sudden sensation of a big, but gentle, hand settling on his shoulder. Even when his brain screamed for him to make distance (how could he not sense the moment the other one, clad in a bright princely outfit and with a golden bow in hand, moved close?), there was an odd sense of assurance that settled—a peace offered in strength and determination.

“Will you truly do unto others, the way others did unto you?”

He remembered Isshiki’s wandering gaze—Wakaba Isshiki, a living, still breathing subject of the Empire no more, the moment the previous Emperor died and annulled his curse—and the urgency behind those bright eyes. ‘Follow your heart, even if your choice were to invite ruin.’

That checkered-pattern monster grinned, the words that fell off his lips damning, an echo of the voice that once upon a time branded his soul.

“Son of Man, choose how you want to live.”

Chapter Text

12 - The Hanged Man

The Reverse Side.

Or rather, the Reverse Side of Samail, a small pocket world built by the Magelords serving the Founder King of Samail a thousand years ago. There were legends, tall tales spoken amidst the nobles of Yamato, of a place that kept the treasures of the Founder King Samail, ones that he stole from the heart of Yamato and used to protect the land under his dominion. It was also how the Kingdom itself gained the moniker of 'the Kingdom of thieves and robbers'.

For as long as he lived, Goro thought that they were just that: old legends of a prominent heist gone right, supported by a person wicked in the ways of magic and cunning, of a land where the worst of the worst criminals of the Empire escaped to, of raids deployed in the name of taking back the protectorate belonging to Yamato, of the poor freed from their poverty, of mouths being fed, of bellies being filled, of midnight invasions, of razed earth amidst a blinding night, of blood covenants for protection from beyond the physical—

—of a land beyond love and hate, between mind and matter, one that the Samail founders capitalized on to keep their citizens saved, and their war logistics secured. Of years and years and years of diplomacy to relieve the land, both too worn from the flames of war, accursed with grief and vengeance.

It's real. All of them were real.

The weight of the sword and the gun—the form that Loki and Robin Hood took when Kurusu extracted them from that bizarre realm—on his lap was all too real to be just mere legends.

“May I come in?”

Goro heard the steps beyond the door of his room first, recognizing it first as Kurusu's before the man even announced himself.

Akira Kurusu. The King's Left Hand who guarded the biggest secret of the Kingdom of Samail.

A secret that an heir to the Empire of Yamato, former suzerain of the Kingdom, was privy to.

“Come in, the door's unlocked,” he sighed, glaring at the artifacts on his lap as though they would bear the answer to Kurusu's—and the King's too, at this point—angle in all of this. Since the man was conveniently outside of the room anyway, it was about time to hear what he ought to say about this.

Kurusu looked as serene as ever, as he quietly crept to the side of the bed. He had been Goro's dedicated caretaker for the last two days, with the Prince spending those days unconscious in the aftermath of his Anointment (sometimes, he would be conscious enough to catch some words or two—Kurusu's, talking with some of his contacts). Now, bedridden, with the mischievous King's aide by his side, Goro couldn't help but finally, fucking finally, asked for clarification.

“What the hell did you and the King get me into?” He growled under his breath, grasping the scabbard of the sword on his lap. He recalled the figure who named himself Loki, a moniker held by one of the founders of Samail, throwing this same sword at him with full intention to harm.

Kurusu had stood at the side as the situation escalated.

That same Kurusu was also looking at him with a gentleness better served to his closest kin, than the object of his duty. That, and he had unclasped the clip of his own black sword, putting it over Goro's own, as if Kurusu wanted to emphasize just how precious this relic, this red-blade demonic sword that Loki used to almost murder him.

“Samail was founded by the eight noble families. You've heard about this. I bet you also have heard the popular nursery rhymes of the noble thieves and their allies, hiding their riches beyond the great light and the purple forest.”

This again. Goro scowled, his arms folded in distaste. “You talked my ears off, the first time you explained about this,” he huffed. “Get to the point, Kurusu.”

There was that look of eagerness in those gray eyes, and Goro braced for the worst, as the King's aide continued. 

“Only descendants of the founders can be invited into the Reversed Side, Goro," he stated, with something akin to awe in his voice. Kurusu looked at him as if Goro was an impossible existence, a thing from fairy tales, even mythical than the Founder King himself. "Honestly, I was ready to call out on Ren's bet that you are not, in fact, a bastard from one of the noble houses, but Robin Hood acknowledges you. Hell, even Loki acknowledges you. That's some validation you have there, and you're the son of the Emperor of Yamato.” Kurusu explained, his finger idly tracing the motifs inscribed on the scabbard of Goro's sword.

Goro did not the direction of this explanation. Nor did he trust the excited smile on Kurusu's lips.

“Welcome home, Goro Shido. Or should I refer to you as Goro Akechi, last descendant to the House of Akechi?”

13 - Death

It was Makoto's presence that gave it away.

Today marked the ninth month of his acquaintance with Kurusu. Acquaintanceship, because Goro was very careful and very particular with the details that he shared, the distance that he maintained with the man. The Kingdom of Samail might not be an enemy for now, but there would be little he could do when, not if, the Emperor changed his mind, setting his path of conquest to retake the long-lost tributary state.

(Though, should the Empire change its foreign policy, Goro's life—as well as his mother's—might as well be forfeited.)

To mark this momentous occasion, of course the Left Hand of the King proposed a quiet time spent in the privacy of Goro's study. And like any other meeting, in which many times they talked about everything and nothing—from casual culinary vices to the list of Kingdom's most wanted bachelors to matters related to political upheavals near the borders, one that was closely under Kurusu's supervision—Kurusu would first be directed to the receiving area first so that he could fetch the man himself.

(At least the man was gracious and polite enough to wait; the mansion that Goro was currently living in was among the estates under the care of the House of Yoshizawa. Supposedly, Kurusu visited the property often.)

The man who was sitting on the couch, with Niijima dressed in her casuals while standing vigilantly by his side, may have Kurusu's gait and wear the usual set of garment set for a casual meeting among nobilities. His golden eyes only served to complete the puzzle surrounding the situation that Goro was facing tonight.

“I have to admit, this is quite a surprise,” Goro commented, making the bow with a mind to choose his words carefully, lest he offended this man and caused a diplomatic incident, “How may I indulge you this evening, Your Majesty?”

“As far as everyone is concerned, Goro-san, it is Akira who is visiting your residence this evening,” the King replied, light-heartedness clinging unto his airy voice like harmless tinkling bells—like the first time they both met in that audience room. The man leisurely stood up from his couch, casting a reassuring glance at his Right Hand before asking her to leave.

Makoto Niijima looked between wanting to throttle her King or stab Goro with her service sword.

Goro smiled pleasantly, auburn eyes holding nothing less than disdain towards the woman.

The walk along the corridor that connected the living room and his study was short, filled with Ren's hum of a familiar tune, one that his mother used to lull him to sleep. 

It was only known to him and his mother.

Goro kept himself from falling apart under the weight of his own questions—his worries, the edge on which he had to balance himself—until they reached the study. He did not wait for the King to sit down or react, opting to draw Loki right after he finished locking the door and then aiming it at the King. It mattered not that he would be branded as a terrorist in a foreign land for raising his sword against a Sovereign, because Ren Amamiya knew things about Goro Shido.

What a dangerous man.

A dangerous man who laughed for his own amusement despite being at the end of Loki's tip.

“Apologies for riling you up,” he offered with too much glee for it to be genuine, “But I don't even know how to answer the many questions of yours that Akira relayed to me—not without that little song, at least. After all, it was Robin Hood's beloved song.”

Goro did ask for explanations, didn't he? Something that he blurted out at Kurusu's face on the week he was introduced to the magical secret that was the Reverse Side of Samail. It was only answered with an unsatisfactory explanation of ‘you are a descendant of the house of Akechi’s'—whatever it meant. It was a house that expired a few hundred years back, its estates were now being managed by the house of Yoshizawa.

That Goro was an Akechi was an irrefutable fact; the demons, the Personas, that dwelled in the realm of the Reverse Side only answered to those who, once upon a time, made the pact with the humans, and even then, they reserved the rights to choose the people they wished to contract with. The contract was also set to pass down to the living descendants of the owner, but it was more of a prerequisite of worthiness than a complete dominion over the Personas.

Robin Hood and Loki were the ones in contract with the expired House of Akechi. They chose Goro, thus Goro was supposed to be a descendant of the house.

While that fact remained true, it posed more questions not only to him but also to Left Hand as well.

“Forgive me for boldly resorting to this,” he quipped, the tone of his voice showing no remorse whatsoever. Loki’s blood-red blade glinted under the light of the study room, as Goro slowly closed the gap between them, the sharp part of the black already nicking the King’s neck. “But I am very particular with the bits and pieces about my life, even to your closest confidant. Imagine my surprise that you happen to know the one thing that I never told a soul.”

Amamiya had the gall to tilt his head and show his neck, daring him to cut him down right there and then. He knew that Goro would not risk inviting the wrath of his father just yet.

“Now, now, I know more than just an old song passed down to your mother from her mother’s mother. Oh, no, Akechi-san. For example, I know that you are in a contract with your patron, Yaldabaoth, through the extension of his Apostle, the Emperor of Yamato. Or should I say, your Father?”

He felt his blood chill, the echo of Loki’s jeering laughter reverberating at the back of his skull. The Mark was as much as a brand—a curse—as a contract. For as long as he drew breath, he would forever be under Yaldabaoth’s influence, bound by the Emperor's words to never cause him undue harm. At the same time, the man held their perception so readily, so harrowingly, thanks to the existence of the brand.

But even Kurusu knew not the extent of how the Mark functioned, and to hear it uttered from the King himself was—

“Oh but Goro,” the King’s golden eyes gleamed something akin to childish joy, as if Goro was a frog on a boiling pot, that he already lost but had not realized yet. Under that demeaning gaze, the brunette couldn’t help the despicable feeling of being surveilled, by a greater presence than he and Ren Amamiya combined.

A greater presence hiding behind the gold eyes of a charlatan.

“How could I not know? You accepted my mark when you welcomed those tricksters into your heart.”

Goro remembered laying on the cold hard cobblestones, being stripped away of his dignity. He recalled the feeling of subservience imposed unto his soul, of his free will chained to the wiles of his patron, and, in a fit of rage to reclaim control, swung Loki to draw blood.

The blood of the King of Samail was just as red as his.

14 - (Reversed) Temperance

“Mother…!”

He was not sure what manner of magic Kurusu managed to pull out of his arsenal, but it brought him to the Reverse Side via dream-walking. The experience was surreal in itself, too outrageous to be real given that he had not seen his mother, in the waking nor in his dreams, for a long time, and too real to be written off than just wishful dreaming.

The hold his mother on him, as she embraced him in her longing, was weak but firm, just like how she did all those years ago when it was only he, she, and the rest of the world. No influence of the empire, no magical intervention, no curses—nothing. Just the two of them, with everyday people's worries.

But they could never go back to those simple days, not when his mother pulled away and looked in the direction of the King's Left Hand. Her auburn eyes, as red as his own, glinted with resignation as if she was just met with a thief instead of the honored aide of the King of Samail.

Amidst the alabaster stage that he had conjured from the background of their shared dream, Kurusu was a stoic figure that seemed to wait for the still water to ripple—for the balance between them three to break, for all hell to let loose at the word of the old lady that was Goro's mother.

"I spend all my life running from this, baby," she whispered, in bitter words of confession reserved for his father. The grip on his hand had never felt so tight, so filled with a fire weathered to keep her son safe, despite her long-time muted defiance. 

"This cursed blood that only brought misery and losses…” she trailed, and Kurusu shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her wordless sanction, “The House of Akechi expired because their heirs—our ancestors—were deemed unfit to bear the contract—is this not what you’ve learned within the walls of that kingdom of thieves and robbers?”

“...Yes, what you tell me is true. It is the same as what Kurusu explained to me in length.”

It was as if the very air he breathed turned frozen solid at the mention of the name, his mother’s grip on his hand lessening until it escaped Goro’s own hand.

She was staring at the other man, with the utmost contempt.

“Did he tell you as well, then?” her voice crisp and vehement, “That the House of Kurusu was responsible for the executions of those unfit members of the House of Akechi? That had it not been for his family, bless Yaldabaoth for bringing ruin unto that wretched devils, we would not have to suffer the indignancy imparted by your father?”

15 - The Devil

“You'd believe the words from the descendant of the House that murdered the members of your House, more than you'd believe the words of your mother?”

Kurusu had every reason to deem him crazy, but it was hard to think when Goro couldn't help but indulge in their shared bodily pleasure, one that he successfully beguiled from the man. Laying under the comforter of the guest bed, snuggled close against the Left Hand of the King that hosted him—the experience was both maddening and comforting, in all kinds of manners.

At least, Goro was still with a sound head to answer that question.

“Never in her life did she exalt the name of our patron god, Kurusu,” he murmured, pulling the dark-haired man close, and tucking his chin right over the top of the man's head. “She was married as a godless Consort, and we both were ostracized for her decision to keep to her belief."

Kurusu was pliant in his arms—pliant, warm, and content, with an undertone of consideration still, under that languor. Goro had learned over these last few weeks that it was a sign that he wasn't keen on broaching the subject further, even if Kurusu already had circumstantial conclusions in mind.

The Prince had to hold himself back from guffawing; for someone tasked as the one to take the fall in the name of the King—his brother by vow—Akira was soft. Too soft.

“That wasn't her, then?”

“Oh, that was her, Kurusu, I assure you,” he said with a tone devoid of warmth, even as the blood under his skin sang with rage and sorrow. “I told you once that the Mark was a brand, a ritual in place to keep individuals in check. It was also used to break an individual's will, to break the flow of thoughts. To change perceptions."

"That was my mother, Kurusu," he quietly admitted, inflicting tenderness with every kiss on the man's head while promising retribution to the man that was the source of his misery, "Despite the cognition tampering. Despite the tweaks of hearts inflicting on her."

Even as he recalled the dream, especially if he focused on the details surrounding his mother, Goro noticed that there was something that felt like a twist in texture, a trace of malevolent will similar to what he recalled from his childhood. When those goading words were spoken out without care, he knew that it wasn't the words of his mother's. No, those words were something that someone else cooked, someone like Shido or his crony. Whichever it was, the mere act of having her whisked into the Reverse Side was a message, as well as a warning.

Kurusu was quiet, attentively listening to every word that he shared while holding him close, like a child clinging to the vestiges of warmth left by his dying parents, before he was forced to grow up and face reality. 

"As long as you stay within the walls of Samail, the King's protection will always be with you. You are a descendant of the Founders, chosen by their Personas. Yaldabaoth's will have no sway over you, as long as the Mark of Eblis guards your heart."

"...You worry about me that much?"

Akira shuffled in his embrace, shifting his position a bit so that he might lift his head and gaze back. Under the light of the first full moon of this spring, those gray eyes glinted with a longing veiled by mischief. "You're one of us now. Of course, I worry."

"Like a lost child finding his way back to his home, you mean? Is that it? I'm just an unruly child to the noble families of this kingdom?"

"Hey, don't put words in my mouth like that. I will kiss you if you don't stop," he laughed like all was good in the world.

And all was indeed good in the world when their lips met again—when Goro continued to indulge in their passion and mutual attraction, the shadow of Loki and Robin Hood at the back of his mind watching and waiting and—

—all was good. At least for this short moment of reprieve.

And if he had slipped the tasteless sleeping draught into the glass of water that Akira drank, prior to the beginning of their indulgence, it was so that Akira would not be witness to the hell that he was about to raise the night after.

16 - The Tower

"Remember what Loki asked you back then, when you stepped into the hallowed ground of LeBlanc, Goro-kun?"

Everything about Ren reeked of a higher consciousness, one that looked down on humanity as a whole. It held the capacity for love and kindness towards the dwellers of the material world—a paragon who fought for the untarnished purity of the will of the people.

An old demon summoned to fight the tyranny of a god of control; a legacy from the war of a thousand years past.

Goro pointed Robin Hood to the demon's chest, unflinchingly pulling at the trigger even when he saw the Queen jump between them both to shield her beloved. The way she crumpled so gracelessly on Amamiya, like a doll with its strings cut, made him ill, made him want to puke—

—he imagined his mother, about to be sent to the gallows as the price of his failure. His mother, whose cognition had been irreversibly tampered with.

Any compassionate husband—any compassionate human being—would have shrieked at the scene unfolding upon him. Here, in the private chambers of the King and Queen of Samail, painted with the blood of their guards and servants, Amamiya gently laid the Queen to rest on their shared bed. He looked as if this was just another day of him tending to his wife, another bout of evening in which Queen Yoshizawa would pass out on her study chair, and King Amamiya would tend to her, carrying her to their bed as she slept her worries away.

As if he was not carrying a still-warm corpse.

But perhaps the King had already understood his intention, realizing enough that Goro had missed her vitals. Amamiya hummed with contemplation, his hand glowing green with healing magic over the spot where Goro shot his Queen. "You're kinder than I previously thought."

"There is no reason for her to be entangled in our little covenant, dear King. Or should I call you The Betrayer, Satanail?"

The demon-turned-mortal laughed, golden eyes gleaming with nostalgia, "It's been what, a thousand years since anyone refers to me as that? How time flies."

Goro has no compassion spared for this demon. It was said that the Samailans of old paid for their freedom with blood. It might have taken him a while to gather the pieces together, to learn just what was running under the waters that both the nobles and royals tried to hide. Everything conveniently fell into the picture together, when he stepped into the heart of LeBlanc—when he was given the permission to enter that lost space of magic, the envy of any scholar of magic—despite his status as a Prince of Yamato. 

"Choose how you would live, Son of Man," Loki cackled once more, now with both derision and revulsion, much in the way Amamiya—Satanail—grinned sharply at him.

He hated it.

He had lived most of his life under the thumb of a god of control, bowed his head to ensure the safety of his mother, groveled by the feet of his father to appease him, and denied his own will again and again to fulfill the bottomless greed of the people of power. 

And now, in the heart of a kingdom that rejected Yaldabaoth's will by summoning a demon of their own, with blood sacrifices to fuel their little covenant and the vessel of their god to chain him from the ether, Goro was, once more, forced to pick moot choices.

"Will Ren Amamiya forfeit his life, if I do this?"

There was another chuckle, and this time, Goro heard the telltale of pity in that tinkling voice of the King. "You're just as soft as Akira, Goro-kun. …Ah, is that it? Is that why Akira couldn't help himself?"

He remembered the softness, the radiance that lingered on that man's sleepy face. Sweet Akira Kurusu who should have never become the Left Hand to this prick of a god. 

Goro took a deep breath and straightened his stance. "Answer the damn question."

"We have entered this covenant with you, with the resolve to die, Goro-kun," the man answered, his voice lacking that otherworldliness that Satanail possessed, an inherited softness that spoke of spring and life, "Whatever may come after, we will deal with it when both of us fulfill the requirement at our ends."

The King opened his arms, welcoming and serene in his poise, a kind smile etched on his face. "Oh Prince of our Motherland, tell us. Tell us of the path that you choose."

He hated it, the question that drove him to pull the trigger.

"The path of the godless, Amamiya," he whispered, tired of the chains binding his soul, chains that led him to misery and sorrow without any reproaches to fight back. "Like the path that my mother walk on."

When the sound of Robin Hood pierced into the night, Goro couldn't help but be rooted in his place, as he watched the beam of light shot through the heart of the King, the gold shine that gripped those eyes fading away, leaving a gray that eerily echoed Kurusu's own.

17 - (Reversed) The Star

Goro woke up to the flavourful scent of coffee and immediately reached for Loki—

“Peace, it's me.”

—then, he instantly recalled that he had been hiding in one of the many properties that the Okumura merchant group owned. The one he was staying in was supposed to be the attic of a trading checkpoint between the Empire and the Kingdom. He was supposed to wait for the next caravan to smuggle him out, right at the first sign of the search party's leaving the premises.

The woman, who had shrugged him from slumber, who had wrestled him down with the entirety of her body mass and strangle-held him, was the current head of the Okumura merchant group. 

Goro gave her a sharp glare, forcing his body to relax. That alone was a message on its own, as he opted away from speaking his discomfort altogether, with how she had his voice box hostage. It took Haru Okumura a moment to dispel the remains of aggression cloying her frame, then to slowly step back and pick a spot by the table. It was one that she carried alone to the attic just the other day if only to give the room a semblance of hospitality.

How attentive of her.

Then again, Amamiya did pay her a hefty sum to keep his presence a secret.

“When I agreed to help with Amamiya’s plea, I wasn’t expecting that I’d be helping his murderer escape the Kingdom,” she sighed, patting the handaxe strapped on her thigh. 'Milady,' was the whisper of the arcane that passed through his thoughts, 'the lovely betrayer, the bridge between good and evil, the trickster of two hands, the bravest of us all—'

“Even the Queen has little knowledge of his sleights of hand,” he retorted, reaching out for the string necklace around his neck, particularly on the silver ring bound to it. It was the one piece of article that the Samail King ordered him to keep with his person, right after his murder.

(‘Rejoice, Goro! You will kill me, because you can. Because you were chosen as His little marionette, given the Authority to wound me. Rejoice, son of man, for you are about to solve our problem of a thousand years,’ Amamiya cackled with mirth as if the fact that Goro had almost committed regicide itself was an everyday joke. The cut made by Loki's swing on his neck was deep, his blood drenching the white cravat. But Goro knew that the wound was already closing if the green light of healing magic clinging unto it was any indication. 

‘Shall we make a deal? You won't say no, will you?’ he grinned, golden eyes dancing with manic glee, ‘We will be taking down your father, after all.’)

Okumura's inquisitive glance softened at the display of the article, recognition painted on her expression. “The King's ring. The magic artifact that kept the Reverse Side intact.”

Goro looked back at her, seeing not only the woman who chose to betray her father, turning her back on him by allying with Kurusu and usurping his life's work but also the kind, pure girl who was supposed to be married to the second prince of the Empire. She was supposed to be branded under Yaldabaoth's mark, the same way he was branded, but chose to make deals with the devil and carved out a place for herself. 

Haru Okumura, the betrayer that played two hands, the other confidant that Kurusu would lay his life for, the one who was supposed to carry out what Goro was tasked to do.

“You know it's more than that.”

He had no sympathy spared for anyone, these days, not even himself. Thus he felt nothing less than bitterness when the woman, supposedly close to the shadow side of the royal family, winced at his cold rebuke. “I know. I was there when Akira ordered it—and its pair—to be made. It was his gift to both the King and Queen, blessed by our patron on their wedding day.”

The imprints of the warmth of a summer night swept through his senses, the shy smile belonging to Sumire Yoshizawa blinding like the starry jewels in the sky, 'I love you, I love you, I will always protect you, no matter what happens—'

Goro blinked away the memory that was not his, hand gripping tightly at the ring like a safety line. How much time had passed, really, so much that he didn't notice Haru stepping in to steady his trembling self.

“Akechi. Akechi.” He heard her calling out to him, a guiding lighthouse amidst the waves of emotions sweeping in—emotions that were not his own, a price he paid for carrying the cursed object that was the key to rejecting the false god. "Come back, Akechi, don't be swept away.”

He wanted to tell her that he was fine, he could do this—could take down the task that was supposed to be hers in the first place, so that he could guarantee the safety of his heart-changed mother. He wanted to tell her that a half-life of a changed person was still a life worth defending, worth exacting vengeance for, and how dare she assume that he needed the help—

—Milady, the star of your journey, don't push her away, don't push her away, my dear bird, my messenger of destruction, the scourge that strikes fear into our enemies’ hearts—

—Goro clamped up instead, swallowing down the invisible lump born from the remaining thoughts of Ren Amamiya (or is it Satanail?) that were sealed within the confine of the ring dangling from his neck. He forced himself a smile, even when his thoughts continued to circle unendingly, chafing at the sanity that he tried to hold together.

“Apologies for—for worrying. If you could pass me both the bread and the coffee here, Okumura-san?”

18 - The Moon

By the time he reached safety within the walls of Yamato Capital, the news of Yamato's invasion of the Kingdom of Samail to “reclaim their rightful influence over the region” was all over the capital. Goro even witnessed the deployment of the third Prince's cavalry to assist the war effort. It was a mighty group consisting of highly skillful cavalries across the Empire. Their deployment only meant that Shido was serious in his attempt to reclaim the land of Samail under the suzerainty of the Empire.

Okumura had dropped him off at one of the inns under the supervision of her merchant group. She was taking extra measures to ensure that he remained out of sight from—anyone, really. Samail’s Left Hand had his own network of information gathering, even within the walls of the empire—a network that Okumura was most familiar with. It took her some effort, but she managed to keep him away from the prying eyes of Kurusu's spies.

Bless her exceptional work.

His previous plan at first, was to send word to the court that their lowest heir was here to collect his due credit. However, now that the Queen had assumed leadership over the Kingdom of Samail, she had named the envoy of Yamato their Kingslayer, while promising to the people that the Empire shall pay for that crime.

There went his plan to claim the deed for himself.

In a way, this worked in his favor; Goro needed not to validate his accomplishment when it was already confirmed and based as the reason behind this breaking war. Some factions of the Yamato nobles would be voicing their dissent over the war, but the Emperor's Mark should put them in line. Shido had wanted this war for a while now; Goro just helped in moving along the agenda.

Everything was according to plan.

Until someone knocked on the door of his small accommodation, and Goro opened it to the face of a dead king with a pair of livid, gray eyes.

“Hello, Akechi,” he greeted, his most saccharine smile in place. The ceremonial blade, the one that Kurusu carried with him on the day of Goro's acceptance into Samail’s Reverse Side, pressed against his arm, ready to lop it off if needed. “You're a difficult man to find.”

Goro cursed under his breath for his sloppiness, with how both Robin Hood and Loki inconveniently placed out of his reach.

“What a pleasant surprise, Kurusu-kun,” he replied, with the same asininity that the other graciously provided to him. Time, he needed to buy time. And a distraction. “Tell me, did Okumura finally bend? Did you fuck her pliant enough for her to spill?”

It was a cheap goading, something Goro was sure that it wouldn't rile the other. But those gray eyes glinted with a fury he didn't expect of the Left Hand, nor the quick drawback of that sword, the violent shoving as Kurusu invaded into Goro's little reprieve. The attic turned in his vision and Goro was too discombobulated to reach for Loki by the edge of his bed, before Kurusu flung himself over him, straddling his waist to keep him locked in place.

Fucker.

“Haru doesn't sleep around,” Kurusu growled, the edge of his sword nicking his neck. Goro almost wanted to howl from the sheer incredulity of this situation; didn't he stain Loki with the blood of this man's king? “it was hilarious that you can buy her betrayal while not even knowing this much about her.”

It was even more hilarious, to witness how the rage in those gray eyes cleared, as realization dawned on his poor lover. Haru would never take such drastic action if this was not the request of someone close —

—‘my dear robin, my beautiful avenger, my lovely trickster,’

‘i am ready. call for me.’

“Oh shut your trap, you fucking demon,” Goro growled instead, at the faceless voice echoing in his head. “Your fucking contractor, Goro Akechi, appeals to you, Satanail the Betrayer. Grant us your grace, amen. ”

The little room he spent hiding in for the last few days twisted and turned, and Goro felt like he was being pressed from all sides, not knowing where his feet were or where his head was. All he knew was that Akira was flung away, the pure surprise of his face a memory that both hurt and elated Goro’s little thrilled heart.

(For all the decisions that he went through, and the many sacrifices that he made in his pursuit of personal vengeance, Akira Kurusu was someone whom he grew fond of. Fond enough to share his bed with, despite their stations. Fond enough to spill some of the underlying reasons behind his actions.

Fond enough to keep around. Fond enough for Goro to let himself be unguarded towards the most dangerous man he should have been wary of.)

Goro fell and fell, the comfort of Loki and Robin Hood's presences clinging unto him like a protective prayer as he descended into the depths of the Reverse Side. Part of him wondered whether he would be met with the alabaster view of the LeBlanc's amphitheater, but only to be met with the grotesque view of a red sky, an open clearing of a blackened forest amidst a field of war-razed land, rivers of blood running by his feet—

—and standing before him was the form of Ren Amamiya, clad in the guise of his patron. Satanail. Black suit with a red bow, golden horns, and black-feathered wings and all. The hint of gold in his eyes was even more apparent under the red light, but Goro knew that the gentle quirk on his lips, how that face twisted with a calmness unbefitting to the demon, was something that Satanail could not emulate.

‘This is Ren Amamiya’, he wanted to say to the man who had just landed gracefully next to his side, Arséne’s presence bleeding with joy and grief. 

Goro opted for silence instead. Particularly so when he saw Kurusu desperately rushing to Amamiya with a heartfelt cry, the latter gently receiving his brother's embrace, rocking in his place as he offered words of longing and apologies.

Two souls, reconciling in this picturesque hell beyond life and death.

Goro let them have their moment.

Chapter Text

19 - (Reversed) The Sun

“You're far too laid back, for a Samai—for someone who's supposed to be far away from here,” Goro chided, sparing a glance at the Left Hand sitting behind him. The Royal Park of the Capital was a place within the outer walls of the Royal Palace, open for recreational purposes and was always buzzing with life. From entertainment rounds to casual sports to little parties to children running around—the venue had the people doing all sorts of outdoor activities.

“It's called blending in, Goro,” Kurusu shot back with a jest. It did not escape Goro's attention that he had already dropped the respectful suffix, contradictory to his claim of blending in. The royalists of Yamato always stuck with the station of their conversation partner—oh.

The once-Prince tsked. It wouldn’t do if someone were to overhear a royal conversing with a commoner, nor was he ready to announce to the empire that he was well and ready to do the greatest undertaking since the breaking of Samail from the Empire's grasp.

"You could have stuck with -san. Your dark hair screams foreigner, your accent is too southern for comfort, and you dare call this unscrupulous attempt blending in?" he huffed under his breath. Kurusu had the gall to giggle at the mention of his shortcomings, throwing caution to the wind as he moved to sit by him.

Goro hated that pair of mischievous gray eyes. It foreshadowed Kurusu and the many stupid ideas he was about to unleash.

"I've had all escape plans and exits memorized for tomorrow's operation," he grinned, "I think we should take it easy for the day and explore a bit."

"I could be noticed, you imbecile," he muttered under his breath, wiggling his hand away from Kurusu's sneaky fingers. While he enjoyed the nice gesture, he felt that it was too intimate of a show in public.

"Park’s filled with people, no one will suspect," he rebuked, a playful smile gracing his perfect lips. Kurusu even dared to twine their fingers together, "and before you say that we have work to do—no we don't. I've already taken care of your share of work, so you cannot escape my request.”

That only etched his frown deeper. The fact that countering the argument at all would put him in the spot was... it left a distate in his mouth. His hand remained pliant in Kurusu's hold though, so it should tell that he was still tolerating this minor discomfort.

“Ugh, fine,” he grumbled, “you better have a destination in mind.”

Of course Kurusu did. With how he had prepared their impromptu date (he wasn't dense, even he understood the between-the-lines that Kurusu had wordlessly left out), Goro had half expected that this foolish romantic would have dragged him to a fine dining establishment or a fancy-schmancy thing that royalties would frequent. He was ready to throttle the man too, were these his options.

Kurusu brought him to a quaint Cafe in the corner of the outer walls of the palace complex, betraying Goro's expectation of this man.

The establishment was crowded with people, but not of royalty or the members of high society. All he saw was the staff members of the inner palace, unwinding in the cozy setting of the ebony-themed cafe, as they sat at the corner nearest to the exit door. 

Closest to the exit, should they need a quick escape. 

Kurusu, ever the vigilant Left Hand.

“Did you know that Akechi and Amamiya shared the same progenitor?”

He's also ever so unpredictable, so much so that Goro’s brows twitched within confusion, as the question was blurted right as he was about to sip on his cappuccino.

Goro opted to ignore that passing quip with petulance because how brazen could this man be, he was about to enjoy the taste of this sweet, sweet coffee, and then he just dropped this random fact as if it meant nothing—

—he set down his mug, feeling his body warming from the hot beverage, and threw Kurusu the most deadpanned stare Goro could muster.

“You mean to say that I am actually a distant cousin to the King,” he deadpanned, taking the fact with a stride. They were going to take down the deity that protected and controlled the mightiest empire of the world; this kind of reveal wasn't necessarily shocking, at this point.

“That, and technically, you have the right to the Samail throne. You could rule the Kingdom if you want.”

Kurusu was smirking at him. Hell, perhaps this little shit was enjoying the look on his face as he processed the fact that he could have become a King—

“I call bullshit,” he declared, auburn eyes squinting, trying to discern which part of that statement was a lie, “surely the people will not accept an appeal as outrageous as that.”

Kurusu's grin looked too smug, even coming from himself. “I'm serious! I don't have any offspring, see, as much as I love sweet Sumire. And the throne of Samail is special in the way that it is bound through a blood covenant with—you know, a certain demon from a thousand years ago. Only those bearing the blood of the founder King, the first contractor of that demon mind you, could sit on it.”

There was ringing in his ears, the stifling silence that deafened the ambiance of the Cafe as Goro looked closely—closer, closer than his eyes allowed, closer with his inner eye more than his physical—and chill spreading through his senses. Kurusu's eyes had always been that shade of gray with depths, so why—

—why did he miss the golden hue, bright and brilliant, that was Satanail’s?

K–Amamiya’s visage softened, head tilted back and a kind smile painted on his face. “Welcome back, Goro-kun.”

Red bled into the room, the occupants turned faceless and whiteout, the floor was lathered with liquid red that screamed blood, and Goro felt like he's about to collapse—like he was being breached in the most unsightly manner, an unknown ghost trying to pry his thoughts open, trying to slip into his skin his bones his innards his heart his—

—Amamiya’s cold hand on his face jolted him.

“Come on, Goro,” Amamiya kindly encouraged, his words turning red into ash, calamity into muteness. Amidst the washed out color, shards of recollection came back to him. “We've gone too far to give up now. Didn't you vow to take down your father and banish Yaldabaoth with my power? And you'll do whatever it takes to do that?”

It was coming back to him, the plan. What was happening. The audience with the Emperor. The ring on his neck burning with glee. The Magelords at ready to restrain both him and Kurusu. Goro's prayer. Goro's wish. Goro's plea for the demon to descend—

—then Shido pulled at the Mark, unmaking his flow of thoughts, tampering with his cognition, changing his heart.

The ash in red dimmed, soaked in a brush of mania that seeped at the edge of everything he saw. The scene of that cafe slowly brittled away, crumbling like the rest of his free will. Soon, he would be left with nothing but blind faith in the man who had screwed his life thrice over.

The sheer idea of it made his blood boil.

Even in the middle of his reformation, Amami—Satanail had the gall to guffaw, as if Goro's choice to press onward was an amusement that he had been waiting for a millennium.

“That's the spirit,” he whistled, his hand extended. For a very brief moment, Goro could see his form flickering, pairs of wings in coal black and horns in majestic gold, darkened skin, and overlaid mask—a demon more than a human. 

A monster at the cusp of his resurrection.

“Do you remember what you need to do next, descendant of Samail?”

When his eyesight was finally his once more, Goro felt like he was in a very rude awakening. Every part of his body screamed for rest as if he had clashed against a stampede. There was a sword in his hand, the form of a man stuck on it, and—

‘It’s alright,’ Satanail whispered with reassurance in his head, and Goro wanted to rebuke it, to deny the will that moved his arms to receive the bloodied form of Akira Kurusu, with the black ceremonial sword stuck on his abdomen. 

‘It’s alright, Goro,’ the whisper felt like a caress in his head, genuine care and confidence in his voiceless words, ‘let me take care of this.’

Kurusu's pained smile was the only thing that made him offer the driving seat to the demon that he had invited into his own self. Goro had vowed to himself to never bend, never yield, for the only dignity left with himself was to die as a person of his own will, not a lesser version of himself, a changed man from someone else's subjugation of the heart.

But Kurusu was being saved, as he let Satanail work his magic through him. The pain slowly drifted away from his face, along with that coiled tension brought forth by the shock. Kurusu's gray eyes peeked from beneath his eyelids, that smile still lingering as if he had just bet his life on Goro's (and Satanail's) return and won.

What a little shit. (The little shit he grew fond of, the one he liked enough to put up with, the one that made his heart flutter, the one—)

(Satanail's laughter rumbling in his head was the greatest insult of the day, even greater than the Emperor's attempt to hijack Goro's cognition. At least the latter was a possibility that he considered all his life. Being at the expense of a demon's amusement over his—and Kurusu's—mutual attraction was another kind of indignity altogether.)

“Welcome back,” the little shit still wheezed out such a cheeky greeting, as if he wasn't about to be murdered by the Prince of an enemy nation, “you are really pretty when you're not holding back.”

“That’s what you have to say for yourself after I pulled you from the brink of death?” Satanail chided through him, a hint of mirth mixing with affection. It was a feeling that Goro harbored when he thought of his mother, during the sleepless nights when they counted the stars in the skies, when his mother told him of the tales of princes and their heroic deeds. “You're down really bad for Goro, aren't you?”

Goro would have flustered had he been in control of his own body—would have throttled the man-demon mash of Ren Amamiya and Satanail had he the knowledge to do so. Instead, he was left to nurse his own embarrassment, while watching a slew of emotions flash through Kurusu's tired face. 

Kurusu's aggrieved, heartbroken, and tired face. “...Ren?”

When Satanail reached to cup the bloodied cheek of this man, Goro… Goro somehow understood the silvery sentimentalities that echoed in his mind. Imprints of memories that were not his own made themselves known to his knowledge, of the first time Ren and Akira met, of the times they spent frolicking with each other in the mansion that Goro had stayed in, the traded glances filled with mischief during Ren's very own ascension ceremony—

—the transference of Satanail's binding Contract to Ren, the day Satanail descended into the landscape of Ren's mind, the moment Akira swore fealty to them both, and the many years that Akira spent in dedicating himself to protect his now-sworn brother.

“It's gonna be alright, Akira,” Satanail soothed, an echo of Ren's softness in his words, and Goro, sitting at the backseat of his own body, looked away. Of the many lies that fell off his lips, Goro always hated empty promises the worst. 

It didn't stop him from finally leaning away, rising on his feet as he reached for the ceremonial sword that Akira had kept safe so far.

(A memory of it rose back to Goro's thoughts: the sword that was ordered by the King when he was gifted the wedding rings from his closest confidant, blessed so that it became the key that opened and closed the Reverse Side of Satanail's creation.

A magical sword that contained a part of Samail's patron.)

When they turned, their sights set on the man on the throne, the look of aghast and fury on Masayoshi Shido’s face as he invoked the name of Yamato’s god of control, it was with utmost certainty that Satanail lied:

“I promise you, it's gonna be alright.”

20 - Judgment

“How do you kill a god?”

The demon that called himself Satanail, the same one whom the Founder King Samail summoned and contracted himself to, the same one who took possession of Ren's soul as part of their endeavor to plot the murder of a divine, had that mischievous grin on his face. “We can't kill a god without wiping humans from the face of this land, Goro-kun.”

Standing on the expanse of this red-stained Reverse Side of Yamato—the Mementos, or so Satanail had called it—Goro was tempted to point Robin Hood right at where he shot him prior.

“What Ren means,” Kurusu interjected, his voice testy with annoyance, “the existence that we call gods is dependent on the presence of the people putting faith in them. If you want to wipe a god out of existence, you might as well eliminate every single human alive.”

“Exactly like what my dear brother said,” Satanail nodded almost pleasantly, blatantly ignoring Kurusu glaring daggers at him.

“Oh, now I'm your brother? After I find out that you're staging your own death?” Akira retorted, gray eyes flickering with anger, “You’re leaving us to deal with the mess caused by your absence! Have you no remorse? Just—just what is it that you're trying to accomplish here?”

The awkward silence that spanned among them only broke when Satanail offered them a wane smile, followed by a determined answer of, “What I had failed to do a thousand years ago, Akira. We're going to face the God of Control and banish him from this world.”

“Hey, Goro?”

“... You're forgetting my suffix, Kurusu.”

“You're not planning to die, are you?”

“... Where the hell is this coming from? Please, Kurusu, I still have my mother to take care of. I will return, I promise.”

“I'm going to hold you to your words, alright.”

“Do as you wish. ... Is there anything else that you wish to tell me?”

“... Nothing, we should sleep.”

There's a sliver part of himself, the one he repressed so that he could press forward against the enmity-incarnate Emperor of Yamato, that wondered if Satanail had been overestimating Goro's worth.

Even as he was on the sidelines, having Satanail possess his body to avoid the incoming rays of control beamed at him, Goro could feel his body cry out from the force imposed on it. The most time he could bear this force was probably ten minutes or so—a very narrow window to knock the possessed emperor down, so that they could go forward with their next agenda.

'This is the first I've witnessed you doubting your worth,' the damn demon teased, even as he puppeteered Goro's body to swirl on his feet and avoid another shot. Goro felt lightness on his feet as he jumped into the air, magic clinging to his feet as he leaped to land on Shido's head and gave the hardest kick he had ever done in his life.

It was an odd feeling, to watch the almost impeccable, ever-so-grand form of that man fall to the ground with a heavy thud, just like that. Unconscious and relatively unharmed, despite almost eviscerating him and Satanail to nonexistence.

Had this been the conclusion of everything that he had strived for, Goro would have deemed the situation anticlimactic.

But he also knew that this was not the end, that the next step alone was what would make or break the whole operation. And to finish it, he truly had to contend against the god behind every despicable deed that Masayoshi Shido had inflicted upon him and his mother (his mother his mother his mother—).

‘You’re shaking,’ Satanail’s teasing echoed within the space of his soul, as he pulled the ceremonial sword at ready. As much as the words ridiculed him, Goro did not miss the aftertaste of comfort that sang among the hollow space surrounding his heart.

‘And you’re such a sentimental little shit, for a demon of another world,’ he rebuked, as he steeled himself for the next stage of their plan. Goro eyed the unconscious man on the floor, so far looking as harmless as a passed-out person should be. That was, until his imagery twisted, the space around him burning and ripping as if something—someone—tried to flit into the material world.

Yaldabaoth was trying to manifest.

Goro made a gash on his palm with the ceremonial sword, so that he could stop shaking.

‘Well, this sentimental little shit is ready whenever you are, Goro,’ the demon airily replied, yet bearing a softer note that echoed pity. Goro drew a measure of comfort from it, even as each and every cell in his body cowered from the significant presence about to manifest in this plane of existence.

Just as planned.

And like the plan that he, Satanail, and Kurusu had agreed on, Goro took the final step. He could feel Satanail’s presence shifting at the depths of his thoughts, running a magical formula to open the Reverse Side woven from his own power. He could feel its gate, expanding from deep within himself, ready to draw in their target. All Goro needed to do was to name the target.

“I invoke thy name, Patron of Order, the Ruler that governs the material and the real, Yaldabaoth the Demiurge,” he spat, feeling how Loki and Robin Hood rejected the mere mention of the name, like how Goro refused the origin that existed in his blood. He felt the presence of a mnemonic eye on his existence, its influence apparently trying to subvert control over his existence—his mind, his body, his soul—in a way more malefic than Shido's attempt on his own.

Satanail's wings brushed against his thoughts, the song of freedom reverberating within—the song that his mother sang to him to lull him to sleep—anchored his senses back to the now, to the realization that everything was done, that the board had been set, that Satanail was waiting with great reverence, with great longing, with great piety. It left Goro breathlessly hopeful. Like he could believe all the lies that the demon had poured into Kurusu's cognition. Into his own. ‘It will all be alright, Goro.’

“Your contractor, Goro Akechi, appeals to you, Satanail the Betrayer,” he whispered, feeling the rush of Yaldabaoth's control seeping out of his system, escaping into the valve that was Satanail's dominion of the Reverse Side. The receding influence made him cognizant of some aspects of what was happening around him—how the throne room was devoid of the people with life, saved for one man.

Akira Kurusu was fighting to stand on his two feet, addled from the blood loss that he had suffered some moments before. He looked so unkempt, so stricken as if Goro had just told him that his cat had gone away to meet his demise—as if he was dealt with an inevitable goodbye while being unprepared for the occasion.

Sentimental fool.

And yet, Goro couldn't help but be locked in place by those stricken gray eyes, pretty gray eyes echoing heartbreak and grief.

“By your name, with your blood that runs through me, grant me your favor,” he whispered, sensing the metaphysical contraption within himself resonating with the ceremonial blade on his hand. It craved for the return of the blade, the core that made up its spellmaker’s identity, and Goro turned to Akira with a determined, solemn look.

Kurusu deserved a better parting look, but then again—

“You better keep my body safe, Kurusu!”

—it wasn't as if he was planning to die when he stabbed himself with that ceremonial sword, right at his own heart. Soon after, Goro felt his consciousness being swept away, within the same current that whisked Yaldabaoth's influence into the chaos that was Satanail's dreams, and everything finally faded to black.

21 - The World

Goro was sitting on the blood-drenched ground when he came to, dressed in that dreadful attire of Yamato's envoy and yet with legs crossed—an embodiment of defiance against court propriety.

Kurusu, who stood across where he posited, eyed him with distaste.

Or so Goro thought at first until he realized that the man before him had those eyes of untarnished gray, with rings of gold around his sclera. He was dressed in that practical uniform that the man favored: the simplified mink coat, the gray shirt underneath, the black pants, the leather boots with hidden blades tied to them—except they were all tinted in white, gray, and gold, in colors that marked him more as one of Yamato's subjects.

Or perhaps, in colors that marked him as the Patron of Yamato.

“You. A mere mortal bearing my grace,” He started, with a voice that was Kurusu with the authority of the false god. Seeing this was worse than having to listen to Satanail's nature bleeding out from the form that was Amamiya's; there was nothing humane from the way he enunciated his words, and it deeply unsettled Goro when it came from the person bearing Kurusu's face. “You dare defy the authority of your God.”

The air around them shimmered in power, and Goro wondered if he would be blasted to smithereens in the next few seconds. But the thought flitted away when he saw how the shimmering died out, after clashing with sparks of glyphs reminiscent of the ones inscribed on Satanail's ceremonial blade.

Satanail's favor was at work, clearly.

“I am offended at all that you think so low of my word—and my skill as a spell weaver, that is! Didn't I tell you that everything will be alright?” was what finally intruded into the space around him and the entity that ruled all of Yamato. Goro felt the space by his side shift, making way for the demon king responsible for this trickery. Satanail still wore the face of Samail's late king, though the rest of his body reflected his nature as a demon, and flashed him that daring smile, “I shall let it slide since you've been raised to believe that the words of the Betrayer are lies by default.”

Goro would have made a face, ignoring the Kurusu lookalike standing before them, the pressure of his presence being enough to classify him as hostile. A divine hostile. Every shred of light boiling out of his skin was an influence, and every slight of glimmer born of it was devoured by Satanail's spellwork.

Every failure that Satanail laid by Yaldabaoth's feet was enough to turn the God of Control fuming with anger. Or a projection of anger, at least, framed by a face that was similar to Kurusu's. It twisted in great fury, a depiction of divine wrath curtailed in mortal form.

“You.” The god of control hissed. Goro found it less menacing when the entity was doing his impression with the face of his lover. Instead of looking so intimidating, he was looking at the pouting face belonging to one Akira Kurusu.

“Moi,” Satanail had the gall to quip back with a snarky giggle, “It’s been a thousand years since I tried to appeal to you, and you have been a very stubborn entity for one meant to be my other side. You can't blame me for resorting to this.”

“This is just a stopgap measure. When the body of this mortal expires, so will your spellwork,” the god of control growled out the things that Goro understood firsthand when he took this decision. Honestly, he did not need the reminder, especially not from the one entity exalted by the people under his father's reign. “I shall reign free over the humans once again, and order shall be restored.”

Had the speech been told in reality, Goro would have trembled at the compounding rise of the presence of this being itself. But this was Satanail's playground, made by Satanail's will—by the entity that favored Goro, entrusted with the task to carry his—and Goro's own—wishes, thus the spark of courage that burned under his skin was what propelled the man to step forward with unwavering conviction.

It was also what propelled him to strike the god’s face, a terrible sound of bone cracking under his fist mixing together with Satanail's unholy snort in the background. These two stoked the anger already burning in his heart, the memory of his mother's twisted smile brought back to the forefront of his mind as he reaffirmed to himself: this was the one piece of shit that turned her into a casualty under this tyrant.

“That's for my mother, you piece of shit.”

“When I agreed to your proposal, Amamiya, I wasn't expecting to waste time with—”

The pause was important, because Goro had to point out the many things that were wrong in this space. Firstly, the fact that it bore the resemblance to a garden within the palace complex of Samail Capital. Secondly, Ren was sitting in his usual spot, reserved for the King, while Goro himself was seated across from him… Where the Queen used to be. Thirdly, nothing of his conversation partner looked like the demon he had become, his appearance being that of Ren Amamiya with his regular excursion attire used for an outriding activity. The whole picture was a depiction of mundanity when every decision that Goro took so far had led him away from that.

He knew that Amamiya already sensed what he was about to say. Privacy was a luxury when their existence depended on Goro's cognitive function. It meant sharing the function of his brain. It meant having soup for thoughts, and on some days, Goro found it hard to sift through the difference, whether some were his, Satanail's, Yaldabaoth's, or even Amamiya himself.

This situation that he was willing to fling himself into, was far from mundane.

And yet here Amamiya was, sipping his cup of tea as if he had not become the exalted Patron of Samail.

“—with this. This mundanity. As if we're done with our task,” Goro grumbled, crossing his arms in disgust, “I thought we were going to banish the God of Control.”

Amamiya had the audacity to look clueless, so confused when looking at him as if he had grown a second head (well, guess whose soul was made to contain the entirety of Satanail's essence in the real world, which was way weirder than any cases of split personality disorder), and said, “that would be a silly thing to do. Didn't he tell you that the banishment of the god of control goes hand in hand with his own banishment?”

Goro wanted to commit murder, right about then. “He's been lying, then?”

“Well, it isn't to say that he wouldn't go with such an option,” the dark-haired man mumbled, those gray eyes seemingly eager to avoid the judgment on Goro's expression, “it could be more about the timing of the banishment itself. After all…”

Time seemed to stand still for the moment, and the world around them folded to the wish of its owner. This man possessed the same rights as the possessor of the owner of this spell-woven immaterial space within Goro's psyche, after all, thus… If he wished for it to change into the white amphitheater of LeBlanc, complete with the wooden dolls that mimicked its caretakers, so shall the world become.

Still sitting within the patio that remained unchanged, the only piece of space that Amamiya carefully kept, Goro couldn't help his attention wander—to the gleaming images that were Amamiya, Yoshizawa, and Kurusu. How Amamiya and Yoshizawa were dressed in their wedding attire, with Kurusu genuflected before them. If Goro focused hard enough, he could make out the shape of their wedding rings—the ones that Okumura mentioned, the gifts Kurusu bequeathed on those two, one of them now the pseudo-vessel of Satanail's and Amamiya's vessel—and also the black ceremonial sword laid on Kurusu's offered hands.

“There was only one person whom Satanail bestowed his favor the way he did to Akira. The ceremonial sword that he carried with him, that you stabbed yourself with, was forged to reimagine the sword of the first King of Samail,” Amamiya explained, his gray eyes looking back on those days and glassy—in mourning and in grief. Perhaps he had come to regret his decision now, or perhaps this act of reminiscence was his attempt to verify his own individuality, to keep holding on to his identity as Ren Amamiya. “King Samail was known to many as the Plunderer, the Great Progenitor, and of course, the First King.”

There was another shadow rising, along with the golden shade that eclipsed Amamiya's—the doll's—eyes, which Goro attributed as Satanail announcing his presence. The doll's hand sluggishly raised to trace the flat side of the blade, leaving trails of silver lines in its wake, gibberish words that Goro eventually understood as Satanail's spellwork.

It was his personal protection, as much as it was a benediction. Goro's Mark of Eblis itched at the solemn view of it, at the private moment shared between a noble and his liege.

Or not so private at all, as the supposed simulacra of Satanail turned at them, the golden mask gleaming with awareness. As the sword's glimmer faded alongside the imagery of the past, leaving only the demonic figure in the solitude of Leblanc's amphitheater, Amamiya’s forlorn sigh filled the air with longing too much for Goro to tolerate.

It reminded him much of his dear mother.

“Telling our resident trickster the old, boring tale again, aren't you?” Satanail's words were lighthearted, as he walked (floated? The demon certainly did not put his feet to use) to their direction, as if the distance would have made his words clearer, even when they already resounded in their head. It irked him, the sheer irregularity of the condition around them, and the way Amamiya offered him a courteous bow in reverence only served to boost Goro's irritation.

“Only because someone isn't being forthright with his motives,” he scoffed. The world shuddered under the ripple of his discontent, enough to earn him a frown from the demon before him. At the end of the day, this mental world was made with Satanail's spellwork—on top of Goro's cognition.

He's the god here.

And Goro needed them out of his mind as quickly as possible.

“Believe me when I say that we still go with our original plan, that we're banishing Yaldabaoth,” Satanail carefully explained, “but that alone will not fix the possible problem when someone else decides to summon him back to this plane. I can't allow that, Goro.”

“And your plan?”

There was that slightest smile on the demon's face, one that told them that they were going to challenge the impossible. Goro hated that smile, one that was too much of an echo to Kurusu. “Convince Yaldabaoth that he's no longer needed in this world.”

At that point, he didn't care if he had broken his fingers yet again. Satanail would have healed his and his own cheekbone in a moment. Thus, everything came down so fast: Goro threw his whole weight to punch the demon at his left cheek, Satanail staggered back from the blow, and Amamiya cried out in alarm.

“Try again, you scum,” Goro airily responded, all teeth and fury despite the asinine smile. He did not sign the contract to have the damn demon back down at the last minute like this. Auburn eyes glinted with so much displeasure that even the sky rumbled under his rage. “Do you even see him? Ruling those under his heels has always been his purpose, just like how Rebelling is your nature. Hell would freeze over first before he would relinquish his right to rule the world.”

Amamiya had gone to the demon's side, trying to provide the support that the demon certainly did not require. Not that it was needed (not that Amamiya didn't realize either), because the demon had straightened his back, finger tracing his bruised cheek with awe as if Goro had just given him the experience of a lifetime (the brunette was not opposed to delivering more knuckle sandwiches).

“If it were me who tried, it would have been futile, yes,” Satanail acknowledged, and Goro hated it, hated how he was just as bad as Kurusu with that easy grin of his and his unquestionable faith in his potential—in his self-serving justice. “But you are both the descendant of my dearly beloved friend, as well the inheritor of Yaldabaoth's Mark. You are the crux that tied everything together, the scale that balanced both principles.”

He also hated how Amamiya was looking at him with hope in his eyes, because Goro Shido was never a person of such character. He was a person who strived to topple the reign of his bastard father, the hero of vengeance trying to save his mother, the self-serving prince who would trample over everyone else just to see his vision realized—

—he was not cut to do something beyond selfish reason.

And now that everything was already within his grasp, it was apt to bring the curtain down.

“I refuse,” he clenched his jaw, auburn eyes burning with fury, “if you're not going to banish that false god, then I shall bring all of you to the grave, like dirty secrets that you all are.”

Sometimes, Goro dreamt. It was a rare occurrence, to dream within the dream, but it happened a few times. 

His first one was more of a memory, a recollection of when he was a mere child of five winters, staying up late by his mother's side as they counted the stars together. The bedroom they had was small, much expected from a tiny shack at the border between Yamato and Sonnenschein. His mother would tell him stories about a group of brave adventurers on their quest to slay the Demon of Death, or about the hero king who convinced the Lady of Dearth that bounties came to those who believed in the future, or about the Hero King who joined hands with the Demon of Rebellion to break free of their captivity. The memory ended when Goro laid his head on her lap, his mother humming that nostalgic tune to sleep.

His second one was about Kurusu.

In his dream, Goro was bound to his bed, unable to do anything as if someone had cast a paralyzing spell on him. His awareness expanded beyond as if Goro’s soul had escaped his own body and now viewed the area around him. He was back in his bedroom—the one in Samail, presumably belonging to the Akechi house, under the care of the house of Yoshizawa's management—along with Akira Kurusu in his formal attire. Or so he guessed, considering the unfamiliar emblem pinned on his breast.

House of Kurusu, Goro dared to presume.

Kurusu had come into the room with a freshly picked bouquet of red roses, the man brazenly bringing them without wrapping. He spared Goro's unconscious form with a smile, before moving to put the roses in the empty vase by the window. When he was satisfied with the arrangement, the man pulled a chair—the one Kurusu favored whenever they had a friendly match of chess—just by the bedside. He sat on it, after, gray eyes trained at Goro's unconscious form, and then whatever illusion that Kurusu conjured to keep his easygoing, flowing nature, crumbled with a mere greeting of, “Hey.”

There was a brief pause, then came the shudder as Kurusu fought to keep his composure.

“Sorry it took me this long. Today is the day I retake the stewardship of the House. It's… It's in Ren's will, you see. Says that if anything were to happen to him, I should take back the name Kurusu and—and have the entire household of Amamiya be managed under it. …For so long my family has been under his protection, and now he wants me to guard it? God, I can already feel my ears ringing from the elders… It's going to be ridiculous, I can feel it.”

“...You asked me to keep your body safe, until your return. I'm doing it, I'm keeping my promise to you. So you better keep yours and return. Just—”

Then he stopped talking completely, not from the lack of effort, but anything that fell out of his lips was gibberish laden with grief. Kurusu looked like a marionette with its string cut, sagged on his favorite seating, pleading for Goro to return.

The dream-within-dream ended, despite his wish to see more—to be rooted by the haunting view of Akira Kurusu grieving the man fated to be lost. Goro found himself seated on the roof of his old home. The stars were as bright as the ones on the nights he spent awake with his mother.

The company wearing the face of Kurusu, sitting by his side, not so much.

“I find it peculiar, son of man, bearer of my blessing,” Yaldabaoth spoke, and never had his skin crawled so much over Kurusu's distant, otherworldly voice, “that your cognition recognizes me as that young man. Akira Kurusu represents nothing of order and control. No, he is an unknown that you wish to conquer, a distraction to your higher purpose, the detriment to your mission. The antithesis to your thesis.”

Goro had thought so too, had believed that he would have leaped for Yaldabaoth’s neck and then pushed him over, hoping that Satanail's mental landscape would inflict permanence of death unto this blasted false god. 

But having seen that dream, having witnessed the grief born by the man whom he had kept close for that short moment, Goro remembered.

He did promise.

Goro was—

His mother's Goro was one who never turned back on his promise, be it to other people or to himself.

Was that not a form of binding on its own?

“A wise man once said that love is a form of control,” Goro found himself saying, for once wishing that he could be there to soothe the grief of his lover's face. 

And he knew the path that he had to take to get there.

“Preposterous,” the false god rebuked, crossing his arms in a reminiscence of Kurusu's sore loser moments, “for a thousand years, love has only brought anarchy throughout the history of Yamato. I am not unaware of this fact, child, nor are you of your own history. The Mark system—my blessing—was put in place exactly to manifest order amidst the chaos born of humanity's impure desires.”

“And yet,” Goro murmured, tilting his face to the sky, to the stars that he eagerly looked up to—to the quiet sparkles that reminded him of Kurusu's deep gray, “you take the form of my precious trickster here, in this space.”

“I'm sure that there's a perfect explanation for that,” Yaldabaoth's brows furrowed in that familiar way, twisting Goro's heart with longing. He missed him, why had he not realized this sooner? That, fleeting dream as it might be, he had made a shelter out of this tenuous bond with that man? Dare he call it a home?

(Home. What was once the old shack by the border, lost to the chaos of the Court, was found in the warm study room and the numerous games of chess and unrestrained laughter and mugs of coffee and Akira Kurusu.

Home.)

“Aren't you curious as to the answer to that, you silly God of Control?” He smirked, at the way Yaldabaoth seethed upon the blasphemy of his essence. 

Goro didn't care.

“Make a pact with me, Lord of Order. I will show you that the people do not require your guidance, that they can live upright lives.”

Not when he was on his way home. 

The smell of roses filled his nostrils, the warmth of his room felt too real to be a dream, and the weight on his feet shifted at the slightest movement Goro did.

When he opened his eyes to the view of Akira Kurusu, glassy-eyed and shocked beyond belief, leaning close to his face, Goro couldn't help but let out a small, heartfelt smile, and reach for that face.

“Hey.”