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Zeno knows he’s betrayed them.
That’s the funny thing, really. He always knew this was going to happen, always knew just what was coming. He knew that he would make it happen himself. He twists and soars through the sky now, his shining dragon form a testament to that fact; he brought this about.
It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he can’t afford to care—can’t afford to linger too long on all the happy days and all the moments of closeness; he can’t think about the way their faces looked when he told them those things. Yona and Hak had looked more betrayed than anyone he’d seen in his life—and oh, he’s witnessed betrayals. The trouble is he’s witnessed death too—death that comes again and again to all around him while he remains pristine, trapping the dragons in its jaws.
Zeno’s not after anything, really, not anything grand or important. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t care about power or wisdom. What he wants is to be free. He wants to rid this world of this horrible curse and all the torture it’s entailed. They can afford to be betrayed, he thinks; they can afford it because they haven’t seen what he’s seen.
Do they know what it’s like—to wander? To wander and to want? To let your mind go, flutter amidst the clouds, go so long without speaking that you forget that you have a voice? And do they know what it’s like to witness death—first Hiryuu, that wonderful god-king that he was; then the dragons themselves, after having gone off to live their own lives; over and over again, the new generations of dragons, born in the captivity built by their forefathers; Kaya—
He hasn’t forgotten. He said that because he wanted them to let him go, leave him alone, ease their burdens a bit. But he hasn’t forgotten. His skin and bones may heal, his corporeal form—but his mind hasn’t. The wounds fester; they scab, they bleed; he picks at them because forgetting is the dangerous thing. It’s happened before. He’s felt it happen before—when grief becomes a hazy memory lingering in the back of his mind, like a fog on distant highlands. Then all of a sudden he’ll run into someone—something—a dragon, a person, who makes him remember.
He’s seen it too many times. No matter how much he tries to intervene, it gets worse—it keeps happening. They are subjected to too many abuses, the dragons—and to think they were once blessed by the gods! It’s pain, he thinks, to see Blue Dragons masked, to see White Dragons sheltered, to see Green Dragons shackled--and to know he can do nothing about it. And then to watch them die like that--to watch them die young, their spirits passing to some unfortunate child, having waited— so painfully waited— for a thing that would not come, for a god who would give their lives meaning.
He almost feels ready to curse the gods—yes—it’s easy now. He curses Hiryuu and he curses the dragons; he curses Yona and he curses the others; he curses the world and mostly curses himself, for ever drinking from Ouryuu’s chalice.
No—he’s never forgotten.
He’d planned, carefully, when he realized that Hiryuu had returned. That was his chance—to set everyone free, to free himself from the bonds of his torture. And by the gods, what torture! He loves them— that’s what it is, beneath everything, plain and simple. Zeno is a man who loves too much and too long and with too much of himself. He wonders if Ouryuu is laughing—somewhere beyond the sky, he wonders if the dragon god is happy at having bestowed this terrible gift on someone it would ruin.
He streaks and spirals through the sky, over dense woods, thick with greenery and smelling strong and sweet even from where he is. Places like these make him think of Kaya. Kaya—wonderful, sweet Kaya who died too young, just like the dragons—died before she’d ever really had a chance to live. Oh, Kaya.
I’m coming, he thinks. It won’t be very long now.
He descends, shooting downwards into the trees. He settles on his feet when he reaches the ground and assumes human form, the golden chalice in his hands, vibrating with a feeling of power. Stepping forward he surveys his surroundings—he remembers because he hasn’t let himself forget. Zeno’s recounted it to himself—just like he’s said his name over and over again.
Yes—he’s in the right place. He walks forward, evading thickets and brambles and clusters of trees that had sprung up in the past few hundred years. One tree stands out to him—thicker, older, marked with his sorrow. Kaya slumbers there beneath the earth, or perhaps above the sky. He had put her there himself, after he had sat numb for a year for love of her. Love paralyzed him then; it moves him forward now.
He lingers a moment by Kaya’s grave. It seems to call to him. If he closes his eyes and listens to the wind and feels it ruffle through his hair—maybe—maybe he’ll go back. Maybe he’ll go away, to a life where he didn’t have to live for so long, where she didn’t have to die, where there were no dragons and he didn’t have to betray the people dearest to him.
He opens his eyes. He is here, and he cannot regret it.
He moves past the grave and finds a foundation. Once a house stood above it—but the wood became old and rotten and sagged in on itself and was eaten away by the years. Nothing remains but the foundation of the house where Zeno met Kaya. Nothing remains but the stone—strong enough to withstand the years, smoothed out a little in places, covered with moss and lichen in others. It forms the square outline of the small place, and he steps into it, holding the chalice carefully. This place is his and not his; it is, beyond all else, the world.
He stands still, takes it in. Their faces flash before him—one after the other: Hiryuu, Abi, Shuten, Guen, Kaya, Yona, Hak, Kija, Jae-Ha, Shin-Ah, Yoon. Soo-Won, suffering from the Crimson Illness. Then finally he sees his own—just as he’s seen it before, reflected back from ponds and puddles and shards of glass. It wears a bitter smile. He is here.
Yes, he is here, and he is Ouryuu no longer. He is Zeno now, godless, powerful, free, and he is heading towards his goal—for better or for worse. And let them curse his name; he knows what he has done is mercy.
He sets the chalice down.
“Well,” he says, “time to begin.”