Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"To my dearest Fluxion,

I'm the only one who mourned you, my dear. To the others, you were nothing but the killer of their great leaders. Your funeral was held secretly at my house, the house you helped to build. I can't imagine they would give you a proper funeral.

I wish I could've told you what you were to me. I wish I could've changed what happen. Maybe if I gave you a proper confession, we would've run away together, away from the island. Maybe we'd find shelter at some cabin in woods, a nice cozy place to live out our last years...

I remember when you burnt your tongue with hot, boiling tea and complained all day about it to me. I remember when we first found diamonds together, and you laughed with a certain happiness that still makes me smile. I wish I could go back.

I don't want to live out the rest of my years without you, my dear. Please come back.

Your one and only, Saparata"

Saps wrote with a trembling hand before walking to the fireplace. His breathing was uneven, his white hair was a mess, the pale hands that indicated that he hadn't went out to see the sun for a long time were holding the letter tightly, as if fearing it would disappear.

Saparata was never good with words, but if Flux ever got the chance to see those letters he would immediately understand. The tears that stained the paper, the wrinkles that came from Saps holding the paper so tight...

He sat at the couch and tried to open a fire. His trembling hands couldn't get the lighter to work, all the while the firewood was still wet from the rain, as he had chopped them about 45 minutes ago.

A friend from island 1 once said, in an attempt to comfort Saps that: "One day, you are going to wake up, brush your teeth, and make your breakfast. You are going to get ready for the day and then you'll suddenly realize you haven't thought about him all morning."

Saps didn't want that. He didn't want to forget about Flux, he wanted the last thought he's going to have on his death bed to be about him. He wanted to taste his name on his final breath.

Chapter Text

"To my dearest Fluixon,

I would give everything if it meant I could see you again, I would sell my soul to the devil if it meant I could hold your hand, feel your body heat, smell your hair for one last time.

I wish I hadn't killed you, and yet I know there was no other way. I wish i could've been able to change your mind. I punish myself everyday, because my uselessness and inability to put some sense in your head resulted in your death.

You always were such a stubborn boy. I was never able to convince you to give up your position as second-in-command and come and and live at my vacation home, the vacation home you so generously helped create.

But there's no point in going on about regrets, is there? You'd wish for me to forget about you. And yet I can't. I won't. I mustn't. I cannot simply accept your death, my dear. Please, come back.

Your one and only, Saparata"

This one he managed to burn easily. He always was an atheist, and yet what brought him the slightest bit of comfort was the chance that his darling was watching from afar, was reading his letters. The chance that maybe, in some afterlife, his dearest had forgiven him.

5 months had passed. 5 months. 3 letters a day. 456 letters. The ink on his hands had become a permanent feature of his. It would be impossible to try to clean the ink out now. He didn't want to, either.

During their duel, Flux had left some marks on Saps' body. A big scar that stretched from his temple to the to the side of his lip. A scar on his ribs. And a scar on his back. He had tattooed the scars on his back and ribs, and despite the advice of many people, he had also tattooed the one in his face.

It was a desperate attempt to leave a part of his dearest's on his own body forever. A part of Flux would remain with him, to the grave.

The sun was rising. The amber, red glow made the scenery visable from his vacation home look like something straight out of Van Gogh painting. Beautiful, yet with a touch of melancholy that seemed to be ever-present in his life ever since the death of his friend. The sunrise that once looked so ethereal, so heavenly, had lost its colours. The once bright colours were becoming more and more grey-toned, for he was forgetting the the joys of life. The smell of the flowers, the chirping of the morning birds, all seemed to be another torturous sensation for him.

Life, it seemed, had grown dull and numb. Grey and listless. Apathetic and passive. All he wanted, no, he needed was one last touch from his friend, one last word or one last laugh. But life is too cruel, death even crueler. So the one wish he wanted was deemed impossible.

Was he stuck living life in a black-and-white filter? To achieve happiness, did Saparata need to forget about his one and only, his best friend, his dearest, his lov-, his Fluixon?

Chapter Text

"To my dearest Fluixon,

I've started to forget the details of your face. I think I'm forgetting the sound of your voice too. I never had a photograph of you, my memory of you will just keep getting fuzzier, until one day, like my friend told me, I'll go along with my day and realize I haven't thought about you at all.

I don't want that. The mere thought of that happening scares me. I don't want to forget you. Maybe that's why I keep writing letters to you. I force myself to think about you everyday, just so that the hands of time don't rip you away from me.

I wrote your name on the walls today. A hundred times. Maybe more. My hand started cramping halfway through, but I kept going anyway. I wanted the ink to bleed through to the wall, so maybe this house would remember you if I ever stopped.

There are moments I wake up and forget you're gone. I’ll reach for your side of the bed, cold and untouched, and I swear I see your silhouette in the doorframe. But then I blink and it’s just the coat rack again.

I tried making your tea today. Burned my tongue. It made me laugh, the stupid kind of laugh that sounds more like choking. You would’ve teased me. You would’ve said I’m hopeless without you. You would’ve been right.

The vacation home is falling apart. I should fix the roof before the next rain, but I haven’t found the will to climb up there again. I sometimes think, I'd be happier if the house collapsed on me. I'd die by the thing you helped to create. There's some sick irony in it, you'd get your revenge. I'd be at peace amongst the rubble.

My friend, he has stopped checking in. I think he’s tired of seeing me like this. Can’t blame him. He says I need to let go. Why can't he understand that if I let you go it would be as if I was betraying you?

Sometimes I whisper your name just to hear it aloud. Fluixon. Flux. Flux.

It is starting to sound foreign.

Come back. It's only you and Death that can save me from my miserable existence. Please, come back.

Your one and only, Saparata"

He folded the letter neatly and tucked it inside the floorboard, alongside the others. The box was nearly full now. Paper, ink, and sorrow. All slowly decaying together. He had stopped burning the letters. Thinking it would be better if he had a physical copy of his emotions towards Flux.

Saparata sat back in the same armchair, where the cushion had sunken to match the shape of his lonely frame. He stared out the window, watching the rain.

In a week or so, it was the anniversary of the battle of Interfus. Fluixon's death anniversary. One year since that terrible, terrible day.

He wondered if anyone else remembered.

They spoke of Fluixon as a traitor now, when they spoke of him at all. The man who had betrayed their great cause, the one who had raised a sword, or more accurately, a drip stone, against the island's leaders. They forgot the nuance, the pain, the impossible choices that led to that day.

No monuments were built. No songs were sung.

He didn’t know why he kept writing those letters. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was grief. Maybe, deep down, he didn’t want to heal. Healing would mean moving on, and moving on would mean forgetting.

And forgetting was worse than death.

Chapter Text

The tea went cold before he could take a sip.

Saparata had meant to drink it. He remembered placing the kettle on the stove. He remembered watching it whistle. He remembered pouring it carefully into the mug Flux had once called ridiculously cute. It had tiny, pink skulls painted on the sides, some scratched off from years of use.

But now the cup sat silently on the table besides the armchair Saps was sitting on. He hadn't touched it. He hadn't even taken a single sip.

Instead, his attention was on the window.

There was a bird. A small, black crow with one bent wing. It's brunette eyes staring straight into the room like it was watching him.

It had returned.

It first came two weeks ago, and every day since, some minutes after dawn, just before the wind picked up, it would come again. Saparata told himself it meant nothing. Just a bird, looking for food, shelter and heat. And yet, evertime, he found himself frozen in place, too afraid to move, too afraid it would leave.

He had stopped setting fire in his τζάκι. He didn’t want the smoke to drive it away.

He began leaving little offerings. Seeds, old crumbs, a bite from the cake Flux used to adore. The bird immediately started eating it. That had made Saparata smile, with a genuine smile, a smile he hadn't shown for almost a year.

He whispered:
“Flux?”

The bird moved its head.

He almost laughed at himself. Mad. Utterly mad. Maybe he had always been mad. Maybe his madness was the reason he was unable to deal with grief like a normal person.

Saps walked toward the window slowly, careful not to disturb the small feathered visitor. The crow blinked once. Then hopped closer, its wing was dragging slightly behind it, broken but not entirely useless.

There was something about it, its persistence to come at the vacation home everyday. That felt wrong. Or right. Or something in between.

He opened the window.

The bird did not move.

“Come in,” he said softly. “I'll make you tea, if you want. But you’d probably burn your tongue.”

He laughed. The bird remained still.
____________________________________________

He hadn't written anything that night, too afraid that if he made a move for his writing table the crow would fly away.

And so, there he was. Slowly drifting into sleep on an armchair while a crow was silently watching him. As he was drifting off, a sudden memory came into mind.

They were in the vacation home, before the ceiling was built. Saps was watering the plants outside in the garden. Flux was reading a book. He can't remember what book- oh, oh wait- it was Edgar Allan Poe's collected works.

Why would that memory suddenly flash in his mind? It's not like he saw something that would make him remember that moment?

A crow. Edgar Allan Poe.

He suddenly woke up again, and almost punched himself in the face for thinking that. Yes, sure, he was a delusional idiot who was still in denial even after almost an entire year had passed from Flux's death.

But thinking that a crow was related to his Fluixon in any way, simply because Flux enjoyed reading Edgar Allan Poe? That was stupid, so, so stupid and idiotic. It was just a bird, right?

He was a logical man, and yet desperation and grief had let him into thinking stuff that he wouldn't otherwise have thought of.

The bird was gone, and so, he slowly drifted back into sleep.

That night, he dreamed of hands, gloves Hands in particular. Hands that touched his face gently, kissed his sweaty forehead, then pushed him off a cliff.

In a week it would be the anniversary of the battle of Infernus. He was expected to show up at one of the memorials, to pay his respects to the fallen who had granted him his freedom.

But how could he show up to a memorial of the fallen, when he was still grieving the person who caused them to fall?

He woke up in a heavy sweat.

Chapter Text

He woke up in a heavy sweat.

The crow did not return that morning.

Saparata sat on the armchair, unmoving. He was almost like a statue. A very sad statue at that. The sculpturer, or the god who created this miserable creature, must've had one hell of a plan. One hell of a plan, indeed.

All he wanted in his life was to live in his vacation home. Away from politics. Away from everything. Away from the chaos that being part of a society brought. He held one person dear in his heart, one. And that very same person betrayed him and framed him for political murder. After many, many endeavours he was able to prove his innocence. And after that, he had to kill that very same friend. And now, he was stuck in a cycle of misery and grief over that very, very same person.

O God, O Lord, be afraid. Because when he comes to the pearly gates, he'll make you beg for forgiveness.

The teacup was still full. The tea inside now being room temperature, and covered by a layer of dust. He hadn’t moved from the armchair in hours. His spine hurt. He didn’t care. What was physical pain to the man who had barred witness to the manifestation of humanity's cruelness? (Battle of Infernus) To the man who remains in a stage of grief even after all this time?

The roof had started leaking again, and the bucket he placed beneath the dripping spot was nearly full. He hadn't emptied it in days. Moss was crawling up the corner of the kitchen walls. The mirror in the hallway had cracked. He couldn't remember how or when it happened. And now he saw his pathetic face a million times in all the shards of glass. He believed the most beautiful part on his body were the scars Flux gave him. The scars he had so lovingly tattooed.

He had stopped writing letters.

There was nothing more to say. Or maybe, everything had already been said. Almost a year had passed, 3 letters a day.

The crow didn’t come.

The silence that day was unbearable. No birds were chirping. The wind had disappeared. Life seemed so unbearably still. Was life always like this? Maybe he was unable to notice it before, too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay attention?

So when the knock came at the door, it sounded like thunder.

He flinched. The cup fell. Tea spilled onto the wooden floor.

Another knock.

He slowly stood up. Who would knock? There were no friends left. No family. The postman left mail on the gate, when there was mail, other than bills and spam letters.

Another knock. Firmer.

He opened the door

The brown-haired, brown-eyed man with a love for fancy crowns and an unbearable smirk on his face invited himself in, without any concerns for the host's wishes.

He was a little shorter than Saps, but for the lack he had in height he made up for it in his unbelievably massive ego.

"Schpood? What are you doing here?" Said Saparata with a raspy voice. It had to be the first time in a few days he heard his own voice. Other than grunts and whimpers, his vocal chords had proven to be quite useless in his life.

Saparata was surprised to see Schpood here, since he had stopped visiting him months ego. Who could've blamed him? It must've been depressing to see a dear friend be so sad for someone who has only brought them pain.

"Eh? I can't visit my dear friend who helped me annoy the commonwealth?" Said Schpood before sitting on the dusty couch, besides Saps' armchair. "Ugh, have you forgotten how to take care of a house? You were always such a clean freak, what the hell happened? I remember when you were under my custody, I had to lay off my maids since I had no use for them anymore. Everything was spotless."

Schpood looked around for a bit, before seeing the countless "Fluixon"s written on the wall. "What am I asking? I know what happened... But really, it's been almost a year, can't you just... Move on?" He didn't want to be insensitive to Saps' grief, but he was right. It's been so long, why can't he leave it behind him?

Saparata was silent for a little while. He had forgotten how to interact normally with other human beings. He spoke up:

"Why are you here?"

"I just wanted to check up on you, Y'know..." Schpood ran a hand through his brunette hair, carefully so to not move his gold, laurel wreath, a crown-like circlet made to impersonate the commonly associated with victory and divinity crown in ancient Rome, (but also helped to conceal his growing baldness).

"Plus-" Schpood spoke up again. "I wanted to see if you're in a state to give a speech at the memorials, since, Y'know, you and your little friend kind of started the entire war..." He usually concealed any level of seriousness and vulnerability by relentless jokes. But now, his voice had a level of honesty which was unusual for the egoistic, glory-loving emperor.

"A speech? No way." He said calmly.

"Why not?" Said the Emperor with a pouty look.

"You seriously expect me to go up there and blasphemy my dead lov-, friend's name?"

"You do understand that what he did was wrong, right? Out of all people, you, who suffered the most from the consequences of his actions, must understand, right?"

Saps remained silent.

"Yes, what Flux did was inherently wrong, but, he didn't do it out of some evil agenda? No, no, no, he just wanted peace... Maybe peace isn't the right word... He wanted for the people on Island 2 to not be slaughtered like animals. Who can blame him? The propaganda of Island 1 could've driven anyone to paranoia. They do not understand the impossible choices he had to make, the dilemma that was going on in Fluixon's head when he did what he did..." Thought Saparata.

"...But I didn't understand them until it was too late either. If I had just understood that Flux wouldn't have gone down without a fight, I might've been able to put some sense into him." The look Saps had on his face said it all. The frown, the tense eyebrows, the way he couldn't look into Schpood's eyes...

Schpood himself wasn't an idiot, despite how he seemed. He immediately picked up on it.

"Oh, you're making excuses for him, aren't you?" He remained silent for a few seconds before speaking up again.

"The others on the island weren't paranoid, out of all the leaders no one but him and Seraphim actually believed the propaganda. And again, even if my island was actually planning to do attack, does that justify the cold-blooded murder of numerous leaders, simply because they didn't want to start an all-out war?"

The way Schpood confidently said "My island", as if other nations and leaders played such a minor role in the island's trajectory they weren't even worthy of getting mentioned, reminded him that he was speaking to... Schpood, Emperor Schpood. And no matter how sympathetic the Emperor was, he couldn't grasp the deep level of his grief.

The room was silent, before Schpood started speaking again, unaware of the tension and the thoughts going through Saparata's head. Thoughts that were, most probably insulting him for saying such stuff about his Flux.

"Does that justify him betraying his very best friend?"

Before Saparata was able to make an objection, he continued running his mouth.

"I mean, if you ask me, that must mean you weren't all that important to him. If he was willing to give you up for some 'grand cause' so easily-"

He suddenly shut up when he looked at Saps' face. Clenched, already hiding tears.

Chapter Text

Schpood was speechless. Should he apologize? But Saps needed to hear the truth, he thought. It was about time he dealt with his grief. And again, he wasn't wrong. Sure, those words were harsh but they were the truth... Right?

"Saps, I-" He was sure that if Saparata had a choice in the matter he wouldn't want Schpood to treat him like a 9-year-old child. But then again, there was something he was holding back

"You have to let him go." He said, with a surprising maturity and calmness. Then he reached for his back pocket.

"I lied. I don't think Flux didn't care about you. In actuality, I know for a fact he cared a lot." The hand he put in his back pocket was now holding something reminiscent of a letter.

"I requested a report from everyone who fought in the tower where Cynikka and Flux were. Most of them described the chaos and violence going on. But I found this one was..." Schpood didn't dare look into Saps' tearful eyes. As much of an egotistical maniac that he was, he still hated seeing people in pain.

"I kept it away from you this whole time because I thought you needed to let go of him, but since you're so hell-bent into making sure that you don't..." He looked at Saparata's face.

"I have no choice but to show this to you."

Saparata looked at the report with a confused expression. Wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, he grabbed it and started immediately started reading.

He skipped over the introduction that was dickriding Schpood, probably in hopes of getting a promotion, because he couldn't care less about that part.

He finally reached the section he cared about.

"When we reached the tower were Cynikka and Fluixon were, they had lost all hope. I swear I could've seen the despair in their eyes. And I'm sure, I saw tears."

«He was crying? Of course he was crying. He thought he was about to die. That's so unlike him. I've known him for the better part of a decade, and yet once I haven't seen him cry, except for that time, maybe...» Thought Saparata.

"I was among the first to reach that tower, that was overlooking everything. Cynikka sat in the corner, she looked so miserable. She was staring at her polished crown, probably thinking that it meant nothing now, at her death.

Fluixon was staring out, into the battle. He had caused all of this, that was what he was probably thinking about. When we entered the uppermost part of the tower they both immediately looked at us in terror. That was it. That was their end.

As we soon found out Flux had an escape plan, but there was slight probability that he would be able to reach it safely. He did, after all, almost due countless times."

«God, that's true... When we were fighting, he was probably already severely injured and burned from the lava. It wasn't a fair match, I should've- I should've waited, I should've-...» Saps' thoughts consisted of only regrets.

"Cynikka looked away immediately, realising her impending doom, she probably had better things to think about other than her killer. We charged at them. Cynikka was soon forced out of a window. We all heard her scream as she fell to her death.

Fluixon's eyes widened, he let out a pained groan as one of our men stabbed him with a diamond sword in his stomach.

The blade punctured the left side of his intestines. It was not a clean slice of cinematic violence,but a sloppy, agonizing tear through skin, muscle, and gut. His eyes had shot open, his mouth stretched opened, but he didn't have the strength to scream.

The sword twisted.

Warm, disgusting wetness gushed out of the wound, thick and meaty, reeking like shit and blood. (I'm sorry for using such language in a professional report, but that's the correct way to describe it)

His intestines, a glistening, ropy mess, slid forward, escaping from his body. He collapsed onto his knees, fingers clawing uselessly at the mess spilling from him, trying to shove back what no longer belonged inside. His breath came in short, painful gasps, each one seemingly dragging sharp pain through his belly."

Saparata put a hand over his mouth, trying not to have a mental breakdown. Reading about the agony that his dear experienced hurt him. «How is this supposed to help me-? Is this some sick joke Schpood is pulling on me?»

"I was close enough to hear his whispers. From the moment we entered, he had been whispering. He was doing that even before we entered, but Cynikka was probably too involved in her own thoughts to notice.

I don't think those whispers were meant for anyone else but him. The most common one was: "I'm sorry", "I'm so sorry", "Please, I'm sorry". He kept saying that, over and over. Everyone just assumed he saw the bloodshed happening because of his actions and was horrified. Another one he commonly said was "Will you ever forgive me?"

When we entered I remember distinctly him saying: "I didn't want this, no, no, please, I don't want you to hate me." It stuck out as weird to me. I assumed it to be him saying he didn't want to be remembered as a bad person, he didn't want to be hated by the future generations."

Saparata smiled. Not because what he was reading made him happy, but because a certain memory came into mind. When he and Flux were young, they had countless talks about glory.

Flux was always going on and on about how much he wanted to be remembered as a hero, and how he'd save as many people as possible to make that happen. Saps, even back then, thought it was a little stupid. Why wish for something that usually only comes when you're dead? It was such a selfish reason to want to became a selfless person.

"As he got stabbed he said in an almost silent voice: "I wish I could've told you what you were to me. N-no, what you are to me..." He kept on rumbling but the grunts from the pain and the chaos happening in the room made it impossible for me to distinguish his words. I brushed it off as him thinking of a past-lover at his last moments.

Just as he had collapsed onto his knees, he got up. His hand was desperately putting pressure on the area where the blood and the meatly ropes were coming out from. He didn't have stamina, he was limping. He left a trail of blood and intestines while he ran.

But I think we were too shocked from the fact that he had gotten up to chase after him right away. When we eventually caught up, he was right there where he wanted to be.

As he placed the boat out, he looked back at us and finally, in a louder voice than the whispers of before he said: "Tell him I'm sorry."

Chapter Text

Saparata couldn't continue reading. What did this mean? Was Flux speaking about him with all his whispering? He let the document fall onto his dinner table.

Schpood didn't speak. He couldn't understand Saps' grief, but he could understand that this wasn't a moment for his blunt jokes.

After a few moments of silence, Schpood speaks up again. "So will you do it?"

"Do what?"

"The speech, idiot."

"..."

Saparata threw a hand over his white hair. The summer heat was exhausting. The cicadas were making lots of noise, noise that should've been calming but just helped annoy Saps even more. He was sweating so much, one could've collected the sweat to fill out a pool. His pale face was red from the heat. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Hours feeling like weeks. Days like years. The fan was useless in providing an escape from the heat, it broke down within 2 minutes of use. Then again, the whole house was breaking down.

The only thing that Saparata had the energy to clean was Flux's grave. The heat seemed to paralyzed him. Speaking felt like too much of an effort. Walking seemed pointless. Where would he walk to? He had nowhere to go. Insects begun taking refuge in the vacation home. Every corner was filled with spiders. The bathroom had become unusable due to the cockroach infection.

The house would soon collapse, probably. He felt so useless, he didn't have the power nor the energy to prevent that. To prevent the collapse of a building that Flux had helped build.

Who cares, anyway? Fluixon's physical body has probably been reduced to his bones by now. Time inevitably passes. The grave itself will decay. The house that Flux helped build will disappear, not a single human being remembering it's existence.

Eventually, humanity will forget that a person named Fluixon lived at all, and that another person named Saparata loved him.

It will be as if those two beings never existed at all.

"I-I..." All these thoughts were going through Saps' head. He was unable to stop them. To stop them from making him feel terrible. Speaking felt too tiring to do right now.

All the while, Schpood was looking at him expectantly. He knew he was watching a man lose his mind. Saparata wasn't hiding it either. The dilating pupils, the seemingly constant zoning out. The entire state of his house, and his body, told the story of a man who was drifting into madness.

"Sure, I'll- I'll do it." That caught Schpood off guard. He expected Saps to remain silent, maybe give him a negative answer at best, but it was worth the try.

After the battle of Infernus, the entirety of island 1 was ravaged. Citizens became homeless, as their homes had been burnt in the lava. Many of Island Oners regret their participation in the war, since nothing good has came out of it. Island 2, the richest island from the begging was completely fine, while Island 1 who had faces so many hardships, and finally got some resemblance of hope, was destroyed.

Schpood hoped that by bringing Saparata and making him tell his story to the regretful masses, that maybe, just maybe, they would see that the war helped this poor man prove his innocence, that it's wasn't so... Useless and damaging after all.

That, of course, wasn't even the truth. Saparata would have been happier if he died in the coliseum. He would've been happier if he had jumped off in that tundra. Life, for him, just seem to pass now. He was just an observer, a bystander to his own life.

"...You'll do it?" He asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I will. Why not?"

"Well, uh, let's get you in Westhelm, then..." Said the emperor.

"Oh, no, no there's no need, I'll just, boat there on the day of the speech."

Schpood was concerned that he was going to mess up during the speech, and he wanted him to go to Westhelm now so that he could be prepared.

Saparata, on the other hand, dreaded the thought of leaving Flux's grave. He visited it multiple times, every day, since the day he died, almost a year ago.

"Oh, c'mon, you have to, get to... Socialize, the only person you've spoken to in this past year is me and the mailman."

"No, I think I'm fine." He wasn't.

"Oh no. You're gonna come to Westhelm one way or another, my dear Saps."

"Nuh uh."

"Look man, I just don't want you to make a food out of yourself on the day of the speech. And I don't trust that you'll prepare when you're alone, when you don't even have the energy the make a good meal. You need some pear-pressure to help you prepare. And, why the hell are you so hell-bent on not leaving this hellhole?"

"Look man, I just don't want to..." Said Saps, not wanting to elaborate any further.

Schpood remained silent for a little while, trying to understand the reasons behind Saparata's stubbornness. That when he noticed how clean the grave was at the bottom of the hill compared to the vacation home.

"Oh... If it's for... Flux... I'll just send one of my goons to clean up his resting place-"

Saparata already was shaking his head. That wouldn't be enough.

Schpood continued "Daily, I'll make sure they clean it daily-"

Saparata wasn't satisfied. He looked away, as if he had interest in what Schpood was going to tell him.

"I'll, I'll make them take a photo of it everyday and print it out and send it to you in Westhelm by mail. Did you know, Westhelm has the quickest postal service in the entire-"

"No, no! Look, I'm doing you a favour by appearing to give a speech at the first place. I've went insane, not stupid, I understand why you want me to do that. And I'm going to do it out of gratitude for all the kindness you've shown me, but don't, don't be mistaken, I wouldn't betray him for-"

"YOU'RE NOT BETRAYING HIM, GODDMNIT! He's dead! D - E - A - D. For him it doesn't make a difference if you show up every day of completely forget about him."

"..." He stayed silent, taking all the words that Schpood was spilling carelessly in.

Schpood believed Saparata needed a reality check, he would never get better if he did not move on.

"No." Said Saps. "By the way, do you know what crows like to eat?"

"Crows? Why would you ask about crows? There are no crows in Island 2. Especially in this area, the area in which your vacation home is in has no birds at all."

"Huh..." Just as Saparata was letting what he said soak in, and weighting the implications, Schpood hit him in the head with a shovel. He passed out.

Well, he was getting him to Westhelm one way or another.

Chapter Text

When Saparata woke, the first thing he felt was the absence of the hill. That hill where his vacation home was build. That green mound where Flux lay beneath stone and soil, that was the only thing that had tethered him to this miserable earth. Preserving that grave was the only thing keeping him alive. Now it was gone.

The second thing he felt was the rope. Tied loosely, almost mockingly, around his wrists. Not enough to restrain him, just enough to humiliate him.

The third was the smell. Westhelm always smelled like oil and polished metal. Of iron gates and horses, of coins that had passed through too many filthy hands. He hated it. He hated the noise too. Wheels turning on cobblestone, the hollow, theatrical laughter of passer-bys,

And Schpood.
God, Schpood was singing.
He had a god awful voice that made Ice Spice sound good.

The Emperor was seated in the corner of the carriage, legs crossed, humming some ballad. Presumably the ballad of Emperor Schpood, since he was such a narcissist. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone who had just committed a minor act of kidnapping.

"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes." Schpood said with a grin. "Enjoy your nap?"

Saparata stared at him. Not a word.

"You’ll thank me when you’re up there, in front of everyone, with all eyes on you," Schpood continued. "They’ll eat it up- the broken hero, the tragic survivor, the man who-"

"-killed his best friend?" Saparata’s voice was raw, low, and incredibly tired.

Schpood paused, tapping a finger on the side of his golden laurel crown. "I was going to say ‘the man who endured.’ But if you want to market yourself as a murderer, be my guest."

The rope around Saparata’s wrists felt heavier than it should. He flexed his hands and thought about Flux’s. Long fingers, calloused palms, the way they used to press lightly against the rim of a teacup before he drank. The rope cut into his skin, and he welcomed the pain. At least it kept him in the present. It kept him from thinking too long.

Outside, Westhelm rolled past. Bronze statues of dead men pretending they were gods. Many statues of Schpood. Flags fluttering in the damp wind. Even more Statues of Schpood. Towers and buildings that were visibly still destroyed from the war. Even more statues of Schpood. Seriously, how many statues does this dude have?

The next few hours passed as if they were a fever dream. Saparata wasn't... There. He doesn't remember much. Only Schpood's horrible singing and his darling's soft hands.

A splitting headache suddenly appeared, making Saparata seek aid from Schpood.

Schpood gave him some Vicodin he kept on him. Wait, he kept on him Vicodin!? Well, that explains his personality.

But as the Xanax High faded, Saps seemed to be falling ill. Headaches, coughing, runny nose, vomit and a fever. Maybe his body was reacting negatively to being away from that vacation home.

He found himself waking up in a unfamiliar room. It had to be one of the rooms dedicated for guests in the castle. He walked up to the door and tried to open it, only to find out it was locked. Of course it was, Schpood would obviously lock him in here.

He looked around and saw a yellow lamp, his bed, a small bookcase, a closet and a desk with paper, envelopes and pens...

"To my dear Fluixon,

I don't think I'll be able to visit your grave on the day of your death anniversary. Schpood literally hit me in the back of my head with a shovel. I think I have a concussion.

Please, forgive me. I'm sorry I won't be able to be at your grave. I hope the fact that it wasn't my choice will help you forgive me. I've gotten ill.

I think it's because I'm far away from your resting place. Then again, what difference does it make? All the places on earth are the same distance away from heaven.

And I know you're in heaven. I know you are. As you know, I don't believe in god. But I'll believe in anything that promises that we will meet again.

Do you remember when we kissed? Accidentally, of course. But your face was so red, redder than when you were drunk. I didn't sleep that night. Too busy daydreaming about you.

It was beautiful. The red on your face matched the afternoon sun that was shining down on us. The purple of your eyes seemed more vibrant than ever. I love the way you smile.

I wish I could see your smile again. Maybe I can. Who knows. There's nothing holding me to this wretched place.

There hasn't been an hour since the day you died were I did not think of you. Even in my sleep, I dream of you every day. Truly, I am the happiest when asleep. I can hold your face and feel flesh gripping my hands.

Maybe I should stay asleep. I think I'd be happier. I'd throw myself in a coma if it meant I could dream about you constantly.

Your one and only, Saparata."

Saps had told Schpood if he could get one of his goons to mail his letter to his vacation home. Schpood, being who he is, was curious to see why the hell would Saparata sent a letter to his own house.

And so, not caring about Saps' privacy, he opened the letter.

...

"Oh."

Chapter Text

…

“Oh.”

He should've known. All the signs were there. No matter how many times Schpood tried to thrust Saparata back into reality, no matter how many times he tried to make him forget. He couldn't. Saparata believed he mustn't move on. He mustn't heal. He mustn't forget.

Because forgetting would be a betrayal.

“Oh good Lord, what am I to do with this lovestruck idiot?”

He realized after reading the letter that Flux’s and Saparata’s relationship wasn't one of friends. Or lovers for that matter. It seemed complicated. Maybe a situationship? Who knows? Who cares? It doesn't matter anymore. The only thing left of Fluixon are his decomposing bones.

If Saparata wanted to live a normal life in the years he has left, he needed to let Flux go. That's what Schpood believed.

Schpood was arrogant, sure, but he did feel the slightest bit of hurt when he saw his friend still deeply hurting. After all, Saparata killed Flux in the coliseum, the coliseum he ordered to be built. But he was too logical and egotistical to actually take even a slither of blame for this.

“What am I to do? Ugh, I can't stand this. Why must I worry over such trivial matters? I should just assign him a psychotherapist who will give him drugs or something.”

And yet he couldn't do it. He couldn't just let Saparata slowly rot away his soul in some white-padded room.

The once so passionate, lively boy who boasted on and on about peace and neutrality, was now slowly rotting away thinking about a quite literally rotten man.

That boy, that man that would create countless friends in every nation, that would be trusted by everyone to host meetings and resolve tensions. The very same man that got blamed for terrorism, that had every bounty on his head, every country searching for him, every hitman, every pirate and yet somehow still managed to come on top.

The very same man that was now writing letters to a dead person.

“Good Lord, help this idiot. And leave me out of it, I want nothing to do with his road to insanity.”

Schpood thought that, and it matched his personality. It made sense. Of course, the almighty narcissistic emperor would want nothing to do with a mentally dying man. Of course, he'd want himself out of whatever hellhole Saparata is dragging himself in. Or maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to think that he didn't do enough.

Maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to have any responsibility in Saparata’s condition. And in believing that he has every right to let him be, he could be free of the consequences. Maybe, just maybe, he did feel guilty of not doing enough to help him

I mean, he did ditch him and stopped visiting him for so many months, simply because he was tired of seeing him go into the deepest layer of depressing, find there is a deeper layer and go there over and over. A good friend wouldn't have abandoned him! Right?

Saparata was let out of the room, on the Emperor’s order to “Go touch some grass”. Imagine being so isolated you get a royal order to go out.

And he did, eventually, with some threatening of the royal knights. He saw the wonderful city of Westhelm! (Which was half buried and half destroyed by the battle of Infernus.)

But, he must admit, Schpood did a good job of rebuilding the city. Some parts were left to rot, he had realized that they weren't worth the manpower to fix them. But the other places he deemed worthy of rebuilding (first and foremost his castle and coliseum) were rebuilt within a week.

Saparata walked through Westhelm like a ghost pretending to have a body. People passed him by, farmers barking about fresh grain, children tugging at their mothers’ dresses, guards polishing their breastplates in the sun. But none of it felt real to him. The voices came muffled, the colors dulled. All he could see was the faint outline of where Flux might have stood, might have laughed, might have dragged him by the wrist toward some new trouble.

And then there was the coliseum. The cursed thing in the distance. He tightened the cloak around himself, as though it could muffle the memory. It couldn’t.

This was where Flux’s eyelids shut for the last time. This was where his spirit ascended upwards towards the heavens, to finally rest and take a nap or two. Or downwards, to hell. This was where, if you believe in spiritology, his ghost would be hanging around. This, this was where Flux died.

This was where he had killed Flux.

Schpood, of course, watched from a balcony with a wine glass in hand, amused at the pitiful display. He claimed to be busy with matters of state, taxes, treaties, punishments, but in truth, he couldn’t peel his eyes away from Saparata. There was something intoxicating (and saddening) about watching a man unravel, especially one who had once been so unshakable.

“Look at him,” Schpood muttered to no one in particular, “wandering around like a widow in some cheap tragedy. He really is committed to this performance, isn’t he?”

And yet… there was a certain bite in his chest he refused to acknowledge. Because if Saparata was truly broken, then perhaps it wasn’t just Flux who had died in that arena. Perhaps Saparata himself had been buried there too, beneath the cheers and jeers, beneath Schpood’s own cheers and congratulations.

Saparata reached the coliseum’s shadow. He stopped. For a long moment, he simply stared. His hands trembled at his sides, itching to write another letter, itching to scratch Flux's name into the coliseum walls. How dare the coliseum move on after what it did? How dare it have a future history of where Fluixon's name is simply a footnote, and not a title?

Some guard nearby came up to him and told him: “Those are some pretty nasty scars you have there.” But he didn't respond. He barely even heard the guard addressing him. The guard left.

Those were some pretty nasty scars indeed.

He said something, something about his own death.

And then. He laughed.

It was not the laugh of a man healed. It was the laugh of a man that spent the entirety of the last year making tea with the abyss. Becoming one with it.

Schpood leaned forward on his balcony.

“Oh no,” he whispered, grinning despite himself, “he’s cracking.”

And in that moment, Schpood had to decide: pull him back, or watch him fall?

Chapter Text

"Y’know, the memorial will be held in the coliseum. I found it poetic.” Said Schpood, while addressing the dead man sitting beside him in the royal carriage.

“The… coliseum?” Said Saparata, his voice was sluggish and monotone. He was so tired keeping his eyes open was almost more work than it was worth. His words came out sluggish.

“Of course, the coliseum,” Schpood said, swirling his wine. He was the only one who'd drink wine even when in a carriage. “Where else? What better stage than the one soaked in the sweat and blood of thousands? I've always been a fan of spectacles.”

Saparata shifted in his seat, his white cloak wasn't enough to warm the cold, rotting feeling in his chest as they passed the coliseum. His eyes did not meet Schpood’s. They never did anymore. He stared at his palms, where stains from writing letters constantly over a year laid.

“Poetic, you say. But Flux’s bones, and all the other people's for that matter, are already dust. What does poetry matter to the dead? What can memorials do for beings who have no sense of time, or existence?”

“You really think all of this grandeur is for the dead?" Schpood countered, smiling slightly.

“It’s a performance for the living. Simply a publicity stunt. To get them to feel grateful for their great country, to raise productivity. Maybe even, citizens from other countries will see how great we treat our people here, and consider ditching whatever hellhole they're originally from to join paradise.” Said Schpood with a slightly unnerving smile.

“It's a performance. You’ll attend. You’ll play your role. Won’t you, Saparata?” Schpood took a big sip from his wine.

A vintage wine, that was prepared and created before the battle of Infernus. It was a collaboration between Remy The Rat and the Linguini mafia, back when they both were alive.

“Hm, those Italians created some fine wine, too bad I authorized their mass massacre” Thought Schpood with a slight smirk as he was enjoying the wine of people lost in his wars.

Saparata laughed again, the same hollow laugh that had made Schpood lean forward on his balcony. “An audience, yes, an audience for a performance. Flux always loved an audience. Even when he was dying, he knew how to make everyone’s eyes direct at him.”

His eyes weren't looking at Schpood, weren't looking at anything in particular. He was… reminiscing in a way.

“I mean, “Can't say no to a friend, can I?” How much more theatrical can you get?”

He laughed, a bittersweet laugh with a slight cough.

“He was always a fan of the rhetorical way. Words were his art, his canvas. I remember, in those mines when I first met him, the first thing I noticed, other than his… gorgeous violet eyes…”

His lips had a slight frown, before he continued talking about Fluixon.

“Was his absolutely sensational way of speaking. He- he had such a dazzling vocabulary. He could come up with a plethora of words to describe any situation-”

Schpood was staring at the awe-filled eyes of Saparata. Saparata was smiling. He was… smiling. He hadn't smiled in so, so long, Schpood had almost forgotten he had the ability to do so.

His face muscles seemed out of place when he smiled. He continued talking about Flux, his Flux, the way he remembered him. Not a terrorist, not a murderer. As his friend. His partner in crime, his associate, his ally, his buddy, his mate, his pal, his companion, his partner, his lov-...

“He should've picked up cinematography. He'd be such a great script-writer. He loved movies…”

“The first movie we watched together was the classic film “It's a wonderful life” from 1946. He spent the remainder of the day going on and on about philosophical implications and such. I didn't know who “Camus” was, or what he meant by “One should imagine Sisyphus happy”, I just liked listening to him talk about his passions.”

Saparata’s body language was more comfortable now. His arms playing with his white hair, his leg impatiently going up and down.

“He loved those ancient old philosophers. I swear, a day couldn't pass by without him quoting Nietzsche.”

He laughs. A actual laugh. Not a hollow one. Not one with an aftertaste of blood and coughs.

“I remember, we were making tea and I burnt my hand, he looked me, dead in the eyes, and said; “He who was a why to live can beat almost any how.”

He laughed again. “He said that so seriously, as if I had lost a limb in a battle, not burnt my hand while making tea. I remember I said; “So, the why to live in this scenario is the making of the tea, and the how I must beat is the burning of my hand? He looked at me with a smirk, and then he smiled and said; “Damn straight”

“His smile was… so beautiful. He usually had that arrogant smirk on his face, but when he smiled… it was ethereal, every time he smiled I felt as if an angel came down from the heavens and kissed me.”

Schpood didn't know whether to interrupt Saps’ only period of happiness in his, quite forwardly, depressing life. Reminiscing about Fluixon wasn't going to bring him back, nor was it going to help Saparata move on. But even he, couldn't help but smile a little when he saw Saps finally having a slither of happiness.

“He always kept his stash of books in my vacation home. It was full of rhetoric and philosophy and old, pretentious people going on and on about some “grand meaning of life” and “free will” and God.”

“That's why… it must've hurt when the others at the Island 2 meeting did not listen to his plan. He studied the rhetorical way for years, and yet he couldn't get some petty leaders to follow him? It must've felt like hell, he was screaming what he believed to be the answer and yet the other ones just… ignored the solution.”

He was silent for a second before speaking up again.

“You must have enjoyed it, seeing someone with as much of a taste for the dramatic and theatrical as you.”

“You enjoyed watching him perform dramatically on a stage, even when dying, didn't you?”

The Emperor did not flinch, though for a moment his jaw tightened. “I enjoy many things. But a corpse is a boring conversation starter.”

“Not to me,” Saparata murmured. His gaze turned upward, past Schpood, to some figure who wasn’t there, seated just beside him, on the velvet cushion of the royal carriage. “He speaks louder dead than you ever did alive. Sometimes I think you’re jealous of him.”

That stung. Schpood turned his head toward the window, hiding his teeth. “Jealous? Of a pile of bone dust? Please. I am Emperor. I have nations kneeling, cities rebuilt in days, armies trained in weeks. What has your Fluixon got? Worms.”

But Saparata smiled faintly. “That may be true. But he's a legend. If you didn't exist someone would've been crowned the leader of Westhelm eventually. If he didn't exist, the battle of Infernus would've never happened, Jophiel, AlkalineAlke, Seraphim and so many more would've been alive.”

He takes a breath before continuing.

“The Commonwealth might've had a chance of existing even now, since I would've never needed to escape from their trial, which was the event which shamed them and led them down the road of destruction. Cynikka, his sister, would still be alive. You wouldn't have had to rebuild the entirety of Island 1…”

Schpood then spoke up. “Notice how everything you're saying is a good thing. If he, didn't exist, so many people would've been spared from death.”

Saparata didn't frown. He didn't smile. It was almost as if, he didn't care. Oh, what has become of the humanitarian neutralist with a strong sense of peace?

He gave away his morals the moment he raised his sword against his Fluixon.

For the rest of the ride, Saparata said nothing. The carriage wheels and the running of the horses made a clattering sound on the cobblestones of Westhelm.

Chapter Text

The coliseum had never been quieter.

Once, its walls trembled with roars, of beasts, of men, of a crowd drunk on blood. Now, only the wind dared to make noise.

The memorial had begun.

Rows upon rows of citizens filled the stands, all dressed in ceremonial gray, the color of mourning and obedience. The priests sang hymns that nobody listened to.

And there stood Saparata, in the center of the arena.

He looked less like a man and more like an old, lifeless statue. His grandeur long gone. Like watching a sculpture by Michelangelo rot as time passes. His coat, white and heavy. He lifted his head toward the Emperor’s balcony.

Schpood, dressed in gold, stood above him. His clothes screamed royalty. He held the emperor’s sceptre. Gold, symbolic of his reign and his greatness. The sun hit him in such a way which made him look god-sent. Emperors were chosen from divine hands, after all. His expression was unreadable, a mask that had grown too comfortable.

The speech was supposed to be short.

Schpood’s advisor had written it: a few phrases about “sacrifice,” “unity,” “reconstruction.” Words that meant nothing to anyone, least of all Saparata. But Saparata didn’t read the speech. He didn’t even look at it. It sat in front of him, collecting dust as he started to speak, ignoring its shallow words.

“Do you hear them?” he said. His voice echoed throughout the stadium.

“The crying?” He raised a shaking hand. “They’re all crying, screaming out in pain. Because what has become of their names, their passions, their sacrifices? Hymns to be sung once a year as the world moves on, forgetting their existence.”

A silence rippled through the crowd. The guards exchanged looks. Schpood’s goblet paused halfway to his lips.

Saparata took a step forward. His eyes were wild, feverish, but there was a softness beneath the madness, the kind that only comes from loving something that’s already gone.

“You build monuments to the dead,” he continued, “But you don't remember them. You don’t even remember their names! You only remember who ordered it!” He turned his gaze upward, directly at Schpood. “You remember him.”

Schpood’s smile didn’t falter, but his knuckles tightened around the cup. Gosh, he would need to fix the mess Saparata was creating later.

“And Flux?” Saparata said, voice trembling. “You remember him as what, a villain? A traitor? A heretic? You called him a terrorist, didn’t you?” He laughed, a low, broken sound. “He was human, Schpood. Human. Far more than you ever were.”

Gasps. Whispers. The guards began to move.

“How scandalous!” Said one of the people in the audience, “Why is he refering to that, that terrorist by a nickname?”

Some looked confused. Who was Flux? The world was already moving on. Something that Saparata feared. Some people there didn't even know of him! Of Him! Him!

But Saparata wasn’t done. He took another step, his eyes bright with tears or madness, it was impossible to tell.

“He told me once,” he murmured, “that heroes and villains are just the same story told by different mouths. You should’ve listened to him, Schpood. Maybe then this coliseum wouldn’t have needed rebuilding.”

He turned away. His coat picking up sand particles from the floor.

And for a fleeting instant, just a trick of light, perhaps, there was someone beside him. A figure, faint, violet-eyed, smiling that arrogant, beautiful smile.

Flux.

Saparata reached out his hand, trembling, and whispered something the crowd could not hear.

Then he collapsed to his knees.

The silence that followed was unbearable. Even Schpood, for once, couldn’t summon a smirk. He could only watch as his old friend knelt, speaking softly sweet nothings to a ghost that no one else could see.

“Flux,” Saparata whispered again, “you always loved an audience.”

The silence after Saparata’s collapse was brief. Too brief.

Because Schpood, Emperor, orator, god of his own creation, stepped forward.

He didn’t descend to the arena. No, he stood above, a golden halo of dying sunlight at his back. The crowd turned their eyes upward, breath caught between fear and devotion.

He stood above, since his place was there, always.

When he spoke, it was soft, almost tender.

But it was fake. He had chosen this spot yesterday, he knew the sun would suit him wonderfully. Every hand he would raise with emotion was practised in the mirror.

”Citizens of Westhelm!”

The sound echoed. Even the wind seemed to stop and listen.

“My people, you have wept enough for the fallen. You have carried their ghosts upon your shoulders, and yet-”

He spread his arms, his golden cloak unfurling like wings.

“And yet you still stand!”

“You stand upon the ashes of the old world, and from those ashes, you have built paradise! The world tried to crush us beneath its envy, its weakness, its cowardice! But we-”

He struck his chest, voice rising.

“We refused to die quietly! We refused to bend! Their blood watered the roots of our empire, and look what has bloomed!”

The audience roared. Flags shook. Some of the widows cried out.

Schpood’s voice shifted, soft again, intimate.

“You think this memorial is for the dead? No. It is for the living, for you. For those who still breathe, who still work, who still dream under my sun.”

The golden fabric over his shoulder that fell to his feet like an Ancient Roman tunic. The shine of the golden crown.

“Nations tremble when they hear our name. The Westhelm march springs fear even within the mightiest, most hardened of veterans and soldiers.”

It all looked so… perfect. He was the picture perfect monarch. Everything was staged.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let us take a moment to celebrate something truly magnificent, our incredible Westhelm! Yes, that’s right! In just one week, we’ve shown the world what resilience looks like. We’ve risen from the ashes, and our glory reaches from the sky to the sea! And you know who drives this unstoppable nation forward? It’s you!”

Says the monarch with dictatorial tendancies.

“You are the heart and soul of Westhelm! You fought bravely in the battle of Infernus, and your courage is a beacon of hope that shines brightly for all to see. It’s your hands that have built our epic monuments, and it’s your unwavering spirit that sends shivers down the spines of sovereign nations around us!”

“Remember this: You are the architects of our future! Each one of you holds the power to shape not just our destiny, but the destiny of generations to come. So let’s harness that power, let’s channel that fierce energy, and let’s charge forward together!”

“Stand tall, Westhelm! Embrace the challenges ahead with pride! Together, we will carve our names into the books of history and show the world what we’re made of! Let’s keep striving, keep building, and keep dreaming! The future is bright, and it belongs to us! Let’s go out there and seize it!”

He looked down at Saparata, still kneeling.

“And for those who would lose themselves in sorrow, I say: do not worship the grave. Worship life! Worship continuance! For every man who has fallen, ten shall rise in his place! For every broken heart, the Empire shall beat 10 times stronger!”

The crowd screamed, half-mad with fervor.

He raised his hand, commanding silence, and delivered the final blow, the kind of closing line that would echo in statues and songs for generations.

“Let the world know, we are eternal! The world tried to crush us, and yet we remained tall! Within the realms of kingdoms and nations, who's the mightiest of all? One name stands out. Westhelm!”

“Because no matter what they try, no matter what scheme they try to pull, we will remain. Eternal!”

“Hymns will be made in our honour, generations upon generations of foreign leaders will fear our name! Our grandkids’ grandkids will remember our stories, will remember us as legends!”

“Because, from the blood of the fallen springs our glory! From their silence, our thunder! From their death…”

He paused, and smiled the smile of a god.

“…our immortality.”

The coliseum erupted.

Mothers wept. Soldiers saluted. Even the marble trembled, as though the stones themselves bent the knee to his words. And for that brief, infernal moment, Schpood wasn’t a man at all. He was History incarnate.

And beneath it all, in the dust, forgotten by the roaring masses. Saparata looked up at him, eyes wide and trembling.

He saw not a ruler, not a savior, but the devil wearing golden clothes and upon his head a crown made of lies.