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Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the Green Prince had been given his freedom from his cell along the sinner’s road, six days since he made his way to the citadel, and four days since he had carried the brass facsimile of his partner to Greymoor.

Verdania had not fared any better than its rulers. The only remnant of its existence being a dry, narrow cavern on the eastern edge of Greymoor, its roof held up by crumbling pillars. Verdania’s vibrant plant life had been swept away along with the bugs that called it home. All that remained was bare stone and a few hardy weeds.

The prince now sat before a makeshift monument built of the brass shell of his partner, remembering the glory of his home and how he had failed to protect it. The longer he continued to ruminate on the past, the more it began to crush him. He bore the weight of his entire kingdom’s memory. He was the last bug alive who knew the songs of the Verdanians, their language, their rites of passage, their way of life. It would be so easy to let himself wither away on the cavern floor, but he couldn’t. The Citadel had gone through great effort to erase Verdania from memory. To take his memories to the grave would be to finish what they started.

The Green Prince looked over his surroundings again. The ancient stone columns still stood strong, even after many years of abandonment. Even if he were gone, wanderers could still look upon them and know that something great once stood there. If he could preserve the rest of memories in a similar fashion, he could pass unburdened into peaceful death. He could finally join his beloved once again.

The Green Prince made up his mind then. It would be a crime in and of itself to allow the story of his home to be washed away in the flow of time. He needed to do more than keep Verdania’s legacy alive. He needed to record it, preserve it. The glory of his home and the tragedy of its fate deserved to be remembered. Only by knowing the atrocities of the past could the bugs of Pharloom prevent them from happening again.

Of the many customs of the Citadel, the prince had respect only for one. The way they preserved knowledge in scrolls and books he considered worthy of his admiration. Even in the midst of the haunting, the many writings stored in their whispering vaults had stayed remarkably intact. Unfortunately, their methods were beyond his replication. Even if he were in possession of paper and ink, the written language of Verdania was completely unreadable to anyone but himself, and he could write in no other. Besides, his claws were far too cumbersome to properly wield a quill. It was still the best option he had, but he would need to seek assistance.

He got to his feet and took one last look at the remains of his lover. He knew he would return soon enough. He turned and made his way to the cavern’s exit without looking back again.

When he last passed through Greymoor, it had been entwined in baleful void tendrils and caught in the midst of brutal earthquakes. At the time, he had accepted that the end was near, fully prepared to die. Now, the quakes had stopped, and the void had been excised from Pharloom.

The prince had only the vaguest destination in mind. The town of Bellhart, he remembered, was one of only a few places left untouched by the haunting. It would probably be a good place to start. Making his way in its direction, he could see the furtive shapes of desperate pilgrims passing through the quake-damaged buildings. No matter the destruction wrought by the quakes, it was light in comparison to what happened to Verdania. Unlike the prince, even the most desperate pilgrims still had a homeland.

               It didn’t take long for the Green Prince to see something of interest. A small tavern stood in between the destruction, looking mostly unscathed. He could see light through the windows, and he could hear snippets of conversations from within. After some internal debate, it was decided that there would be no harm in investigating.

The interior was sparsely lit with a few lumafly lanterns, and the wooden poles holding up the roof seemed on the verge of collapse. Despite all that, it was far more welcoming than even the most opulent dwelling in the Citadel.               Only a few bugs occupied the building, but they all seemed to be in a jubilant mood. The prince had barely crossed the threshold when he heard a cheerful voice call out from inside. “Welcome in, traveler! Are you lookin for a drink, a rest, or both?” The voice belonged to a large, squat bug behind the bar counter.

 “I am merely passing through.” The prince replied. A stout but cheerful warrior bug chimed in “Why not stay awhile? Today is a time for celebration!” The Green Prince took a seat next to him

“And why would that be?”.

 “The great evil that clutches this land has been cut away! The haunting is no more, and the wicked black sickness has been defeated! At long last, our quest is over”.

The warrior then gestured to his companion, a short crawling bug with a sturdy looking shell.

“Ah, you two are warriors then?” the prince asked.

“That we are. We fought all the way up to the citadel and back.” The warrior then took on a more somber tone, “All in the name of retribution for our dear village, of which we are all that remain.”

“You have my sympathies then, warrior. It seems there is no end to the atrocities committed by that hateful place.”

The warrior stayed silent for a moment, then spoke “Aye. Wherever that ghastly citadel casts its gaze, destruction will follow...”

After a lengthy moment of silence between the two, the prince asked “You know well of these lands, yes? I am looking for… a scribe, a historian who owes no allegiance to the citadel’s vaultkeepers.”

“A historian you say? I know of a relic seeker in Bellhart, if that would be sufficient. I’ve never spoken to them personally though.”

“A relic seeker… Very well. I appreciate your help, warrior.”

Chapter Text

Finally, at long last, Scrounge’s relic collection was back in order. She had spent days on the arduous task of rearranging her library after it had been knocked down by the great black quakes.  It had grown significantly in the weeks after Bellhart had been freed of its curse. Now, her hoard was threatening to take over what little space Scrounge had set aside for herself. Organizing the overloaded shelves had become difficult enough without the constant threat of her entire bellhome shaking itself asunder. No matter the situation, the collection must grow.

It was her duty, her calling, to know everything there was to know about the many dead kingdoms in and around Pharloom. If she didn’t, nobody else would. The way the others treated the past sickened her. Relics carried by the average traveler were often in appalling condition. Water damage and mold were the most frequent ailments affecting items given to her, but other kinds of decay were all too common. Degradation was an unavoidable problem for Scrounge. Relics were limited, fallible, and fragile. It was up to her to tune out the distortions.

It would be so much better to speak to the dead themselves. To hear their stories in her own ears, and to have the opportunity to inquire about details. It was her biggest fantasy, but she had accepted that it was an impossibility. She was more than content with her current situation.

Scrounge flipped through her collection, double-checking that everything was still in order.  She pulled back for a moment, admiring her work before removing a set of old newspapers that had caught her fancy. It was part of her routine that after her morning reorganization, she would pick a random item from her collection and read over it again. These particular newspapers were printed during the rule of the conductors, only a few years before the haunting took hold. The paper itself was intended to be sold in Bone Bottom to freshly arrived pilgrims, and the articles reflected that. Scrounge gingerly turned the pages, until she reached her favorite part of these papers: the obituaries. Scrounge didn’t take pleasure in the deaths themselves, but instead in being the last to remember these fallen pilgrims.

She picked a random name on the list and whispered it to herself. “Grestin.” When had this bug’s name last been spoken? Years ago, decades? Does he have any living descendants? Does anyone else but her remember him at all? She looked back down at the paper and began to choose another name, until being interrupted.

“Clang, clang, clang!”

Scrounge placed the paper back onto the shelf, twisted around to face her door, and called out. “Come in!” Who could this visitor be? Another careless traveler looking to pawn off old trash onto her, or a fellow antiquarian seeking knowledge in her collection?

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The Green Prince stepped through the bellhome’s entry. It was a single dark, cramped room that was almost entirely taken up by several rows of bookcases, nearly overflowing with books, scrolls, clay tablets, and several other bizarre etched objects. The only space that wasn’t covered in artifacts was a tiny desk, a seat across from it, and a piece of furniture that might have been a bed. There was a single other bug in the building, the one who had invited him in. She was a peculiar looking specimen whose elongated body had no visible starting point.

She retreated back from one of her shelves to face the prince before addressing him in her strange, whispery voice. “What is it? Who is it? What do you want?”. He was starting to seriously have second thoughts about entrusting his history to this creature, but it was too late to back out now.

“You are a relic seeker, yes?” the prince asked.

“Yes, yes, it is my calling, it is, to gather up relics of the past and keep them safe. Do you have one for me?”

“Not a relic, no, but I have something else to offer. Do you know of Verdania?”

The relic seeker turned away and whispered the word under her breath. “Verdania” before repeating herself while appearing lost in thought. She turned back to her guest, and said “Yes, Verdania, one of the old nations beyond the citadel. I know the name, and I know it no longer exists. Do you have something to tell me about it?”

“Indeed, I do. I was a ruler once, and Verdania was my charge. Of that fair land, I am the last.”

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               Scrounge could barely contain her excitement. For years, Verdania had been an irritating absence in her collection, and one of her biggest curiosities. She had only seen it briefly mentioned in a few documents. This tall green bug could be a source of great knowledge, but at what cost?

“Please, allow me to give to regale you the stories of my home, my people, and their wicked fate. I ask only that you put it in writing. Let the world know the tragedy of Verdania.”

Perfect! Fallen kingdoms were one of Scrounge’s most fervent fascinations, and it would be an honor to learn and record the history of one.

“That I can do, that I can do for sure! Sit if you like while I retrieve my tools.” She replied, showing a little too much enthusiasm. She slithered her way up to the top shelf where she stored her blank scrolls and ink.

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               While the relic seeker was busy trying to find something to write with, the Green Prince took an awkward seat on the comically small chair across from her desk. When she returned from her search, she brought with her a sheaf of fresh paper, a blank scroll, an ink pot, and a quill, which she laid out across the desk.  She then unfurled the scroll and quickly jotted down a list of potential queries for her guest.

               Meanwhile, the prince looked over at the cramped shelves and the artifacts that occupied them. Despite the overcrowding, they all seemed well organized and properly cared for. In spite of how tactless this historian seemed, she obviously cared a lot for her work.

The prince considered what kinds of questions he was in for, and how best to respond. Some memories were more painful to recall than others, and many were downright shameful. He still resolved to continue with the interview, no matter the torment it would cause him. The fate of his home was indelibly tied to his many failings, and he would have to face them if he wanted to truly document the history of Verdania.

“Now, are you ready to start?” asked the relic seeker.

The Green Prince nodded uncertainly.

“Good. Now give me your name.”

“No, bug. I would rather not.” Said the prince

The antiquarian was visibly displeased with his answer.

“Bug? Pah! Call me Scrounge. I don’t need your name anyway…” She scribbled something down onto her manuscript, then moved on to her next question. “So, Verdania… Where was it located?”

“East of here. Not far from where Greymoor was constructed.”

“What was it like in its prime?”

The prince leaned forward a bit while he articulated his answer. “It’s true beauty evades description. My home, our home, was glorious. Every wall, floor, and ceiling of those fair caverns were awash in lush greenery. Our land was one of abundance. Verdania provided all we needed, and in turn, we protected it with devotion unmatched.”

Scrounge’s quick handwriting had impressed the Green Prince. She had managed to keep pace with him for his entire speech. He watched her dip the quill into her inkpot and then continue querying him.

“Tell me more about the wildlife.”

“Fields of clovers dominated the cavern floors, and moss crept onto every other available surface. The clovers were essential to the delicate balance of the ecosystem, and they were a beloved symbol of our people. Every creature depended on them in some way. The most noble of which was the majestic cloverstag, a tall, dignified creature that grazed on clovers…”

               It was far more satisfying than the Green Prince expected to talk at length about the forgotten splendor of his home. He felt vindicated, now that he had someone who took interest in his every word. He could talk for hours about the elegance of the leaf-gliders, or the delicate art of stag hunting. He simply let the memories flow out, all while doing his best to stay on topic.

“Ah, and I could never forget the humble leaf-roller, a sleek, scurrying creature whose clever disguise could fool all but the most observant hunters…”

Chapter Text

When the prince decided he had said all he wanted to say about Verdanian wildlife, Scrounge had written a solid forty pages of notes.  had left almost nothing ambiguous, and all of his accounts were more than detailed enough to satisfy her curiosity. She looked up from her desk, and the prince met her gaze, expecting another question. She consulted her list of topics, then asked her guest the next one on her lineup.

“You mentioned you were once Verdania’s ruler. How did your governance work? Were you appointed, or born into your position?”

 The tall green bug nodded “I, as a prince, reigned over my home alongside a partner. Together, we ruled, but we were not merely born into our position. Together, we tracked the palestag, hunted her, and felled her. Proof it became, of our divine right, our-”

Scrounge interrupted him to ask “This ‘palestag’, what is it?”

The prince seemed put off by the interruption but still answered her query. “A fabled beast of old Verdanian legend. It was prophesized, many generations ago, that her arrival would herald great change, and the hunter who slew her would be the one to usher it in. I suppose there was truth to the myth, in a twisted sort of way.”

“Perfect, good, now start back where you left off.”

He gave her another nasty look before continuing. “Our slaying of the stag was proof enough to cement our reign. We were beloved by our people, whose loyalty was earned by grace and blade. All bowed we princes green.”

“Your partner, tell me about him.” Scrounge said.

The prince needed a moment to steel himself before dredging up his most sacred memories. He let his guard down for a moment, letting a tear fall down his face. Scrounge didn’t seem to notice.

“My partner… We were destined to be together from the very beginning. Born on the same night, him and I… Entwined, but apart...” Scrounge assumed that he meant they were born to different families. “He was my better half… He was kind, gentle, and loving… He always saw the best in people… We shared everything among ourselves, every moment, every thought.”

Scrounge’s guest turned his gaze to the floor.

“He was braver than I… gentler… more thoughtful… more forgiving… Every moment spent with him was a privilege, an honor.” His voice began to shake. “He is dead now, lost forever to the Citadel’s ambition. Those baleful spires, those hateful halls, those wicked choristers, they tore him apart. All while I sat idle… I’ve proven myself a coward many times over. I let him down when he needed me the most.”

Ever since the prince had left his squalid confinement in the sinner’s road, he had been in a constant state of near mental collapse, inching ever closer to breakdown but never quite reaching it. Until now. Scrounge’s questioning had dislodged what little was left holding him together.

The prince’s next words were caught in his throat as he tried and failed to pull himself together. “I… I can’t keep doing this…” He covered his face with his arms and turned away in his seat before Scrounge could see him cry.

Scrounge could clearly tell he was breaking down, but she was at a loss as to what to do about it.  She had never interviewed someone like this, much less consoled a grieving widower. Even though she had just met the bug, it was still distressing to see him in such a  miserable state. She anxiously debated whether to try to comfort him. If she acted, she might say something wrong and make things worse, but if she didn’t, she could forever lose the opportunity to document his knowledge.

The prince had turned his back to Scrounge and didn’t seem to notice her slithering up behind him. When she was close enough, she patted him on the back awkwardly and said the most reassuring thing she could think of. “It’s ok to cry. I don’t mind. If I were you, I would probably cry more.”

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The Green Prince was surprised by Scrounge’s attempt to console him. She didn’t seem the type to care about anything other than her precious old baubles, but, mixed in with irritation at losing her primary source, her eyes held genuine concern. He was still frustrated at his inability to hold himself together and ashamed of his sudden vulnerability, but there was comfort in knowing that Scrounge wouldn’t hold it against him. While he worked to regain his composure, Scrounge stayed at his side, with her hand on his shoulder. When he had sufficiently calmed down, she said “Do you feel alright? Are you still willing to speak?”

No, no he wasn’t. He shook his head, stood up from the comically small chair, and turned to the bellhome’s door. Scrounge called out to him with distress creeping into her voice “Wait, Wait! Why don’t you come back tomorrow? Won’t you feel better tomorrow?” That remained to be seen. The prince sighed as he held the door open. “Doubtful.”

Once again, the Green Prince made his way down to Greymoor and returned to his place of mourning. It was exactly as he had left it, aside from the verdigris starting to creep up his partner’s bronze corpse. Staring once again into the automaton’s lightless eyes, he realized something. Ever since he made his way out of the sinner’s road, he was constantly on the brink of completely melting down. Any push too rough could have unraveled him completely. Now, after his ordeal with Scrounge, his sorrow seemed just a little less likely to consume him entirely.

Chapter Text

An important part of haggling with travelers over relics is the management of expectations. When Scrounge was first starting to grow her collection, it was a great disappointment when an artifact didn’t meet her standards of intactness. Now, it was a pleasant surprise whenever she got something that didn’t require any extensive restoration. Thus, she had accepted that the Green Prince was probably never going to return. She placed the notes she had gathered from him in one of her back shelves, where they could be reviewed later.

This morning was busy for Scrounge. She had already turned away more than a few vagabonds looking to get easy rosaries for their rotten old books and water damaged junk. Aside from the duds, she had also made a few trades for more desirable items.

After the prince had left her home the night before, she had promised a respectable sum of rosaries to any wanderer that brought her documents pertaining to Verdania and its fate, so as to corroborate some of his accounts. When her request started to produce results, it was already mid-afternoon. Most of the documents she received only mentioned it in brief, vague terms. A few choral commandments had used Verdania as an example of the “untamed wilds” and “savage peoples” that it was choir’s destiny to “civilize”. Interestingly, there was also a specimen catalogue of Verdanian wildlife that had been brought to the Citadel’s memorium gardens.

The most important of her new relics were a set of dispatches sent between the Citadel’s architects and conductors which detailed the ultimate fate of Verdania’s second prince. The documents were in poor condition, but still legible. As Scrounge read through them, she started to take notes on the general timeline of events.

The first messages were internal communications sent among the architects, which discussed the upcoming construction of Greymoor. There were a great many concerns among them about the close vicinity of the planned construction and a minor kingdom just east of the planned construction site: Verdania. The architects requested to the conductors that something be done about it. They made no suggestion as to what should be done, but the implications were clear that they wanted the problem to be gone. The next message made mention of some kind of “cultural program” being directed at Verdania, and that its rulers were “compliant”. The final message was from the architects to the high conductor, a description of a pair of cogwork dancers. The process and history of their creation was fully documented, but heavily water damaged. Reading in between the most ruined parts, Scrounge began to piece together the whole bleak story.

 The second Prince of Verdania had made a sort of deal with the Citadel’s rulers, to trade himself away in exchange for the safety of his home. He was taken away, escorted to the Citadel, and confined to a “guest dwelling”. He was only let out when his captors had use for him. The architects had consulted him extensively while designing the cogwork dancers’ choreography, and he himself had helped develop the shape of their chassis. When the Citadel’s servants had learned all they could from their guest, they no longer had reason to keep him alive. Cowled soldiers stormed his cell in the night, shackling him before he could react. The second prince of Verdania was escorted to the cogwork foundry one last time. There, he was forced to his knees and slain; a gilded pin driven through the nape of his neck and into his nerve cord. His body was disposed of, but his soul wasn’t. Through unclear processes, he was split apart and placed within the freshly cast bronze shells. The proud ruler of Verdania had been forever condemned to serve as an ornament; a plaything of the degenerate despots that would go on to raze his home.

               Scrounge’s occupation had made her somewhat desensitized to all the atrocities committed in the past, but this one was different. She had personally witnessed part of the crime’s aftermath: the shattered, hopeless spirit of the last Verdanian. Seeing him break down in front of her made the event feel real in a way that no relic could.

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Why was he returning? What possibly could he gain from this? The Green Prince had died many little deaths already. Once when he saw his partner leave, once when he learned of his fate, and once when he finally witnessed the blundering bronze horrors that had once been his love. Baring his soul to a stranger and sobbing in front of her should have been another one, another crushing humiliation, but he didn’t feel any worse than before.

On the contrary, a bit of weight was lifted from him. He had given Scrounge some of his suffering, and she had taken it in willingly, recorded it, and treasured it. She had relieved a part of his burden and placed it safely within the pages of her notebook. When that burden was gone, he could depart the world in peace, but much work had yet to be done. He had to go further. He had to complete the record, to have everything written down. If Scrounge’s help was what it took, then he would seek her out again.

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When he once again entered Scrounge’s bellhome, she was intensely studying another one of her old relic scrolls. After finishing a paragraph, she looked over, presumably expecting someone else. When she saw him, surprise was evident in her eyes.

“It’s you! I thought you didn’t want to talk anymore.”

“I’ve had time to think, to clear my thoughts. I’m sorry you had to see me in such a sorry state. I will permit you to continue your questioning.” The prince said.

“What if I upset you again? Can you tell me what you don’t want me asking?” Scrounge replied

The Green Prince took a seat once again on the comically small chair before he responded

“I am calm, my mind is clear. I will impose upon you no limitations. Whatever you ask of me, I am ready.”

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               Scrounge contemplated how she should handle the second interview. Many of her remaining queries related to the darker parts of his life. She was anxious to say anything that might distress him, but he did say he was ready for it.

“Do you promise not to get mad at me?”

The prince sighed.

“Aye”

That was good enough for Scrounge. She returned to the question she had left off on.

“Can you finish telling me what your partner was like?”

“Of course, of course. Remembering what we had together, I believe we shared something more than love. We were inseparable from before I can recall. I saw in him the world, and he saw in me the same. Now that I am without him, I do not feel only grief. I feel broken, shattered. Like a part of myself had been taken along with him. Now, I can only try to remember the moments we shared together. I will never forget the hours spent in furtive trysts by the lake, basking in the gentle glow of the caverns, nor will I forget the days of celebration after our coronation…”

The Green Prince appeared to be in an almost nostalgic mood. When Scrounge had first met him, he seemed to radiate misery like heat from fire, but now it had died down a bit. This might be her only opportunity to fire off the most important (and stressful) question she had. She asked “I recently acquired some blueprints for a pair of cogwork dancers, and they looked just like you! Do you know anything about that?”

Her guest was visibly shocked. Clearly he hadn’t expected her to know about the dancers, but was he still willing to answer? Scrounge realized she had probably gone too far with that one, but she elected to keep silent while the prince formulated his response.

“I do; I do… It was not I they mimicked, but my partner. They were his final free act, and the reason for his death; he gave his whole in their creation. Their shell was molded from his, their mind from his soul. He offered himself to the Citadel, in the vain hope of sating its appetite. That wicked place consumed him in his entirety. For years, I didn’t dare visit. I was terrified to see what had been done to him. Instead, I hid myself away, cowering in a cage. Even as our home fell into ruin, I remained.”

Scrounge, careful not to reveal what she already knew, asked him “Did you ever see them yourself?”

“Indeed, I did. Only short weeks ago, I was made free again. I made my way to the citadel, in the hope of freeing him from his metal prison. I could never have been ready. They were terrible to behold, but still I persisted. I saw them destroyed by my own claw, but it granted me no solace. I had lost everything.”

The prince seemed a lot more composed this time. The sorrow was still there, but it no longer threatened to consume him. Scrounge felt comfortable continuing her interrogation.

“So, your partner made a deal with the Citadel? Is that correct?”

“Correct.” The prince replied

“Was it a verbal agreement, a treaty, or something else? What was the nature of it?”

“A treaty it was, signed in duress. The terms demanded “special assistance” from Verdanian royalty, but only one of us were needed. We were rightfully suspicious, but nothing in the document hinted at its true purpose. With the choir’s full might bearing down on our home, we saw no other way but to give in. I had hated the idea from the beginning, but my partner, ever the optimist, volunteered himself. His last words to me were reassurances that he would soon return to me, that everything would be ok...”

Scrounge was interrupted while asking her next question. “Did you see what hap-“

“I should have fought them… we should have fought them… Defeat was an inevitability, but We could have made them bleed for every step they took, for every clover they trampled. It would have been an honor to fight by his side one final time, to dance and die together. To lose I could accept, but to surrender?...”

The Green Prince started to have trouble speaking, and tears welled up in his eyes. Scrounge feared she had once again driven her visitor into a fit of despair, but he managed to succeed in keeping himself composed.

Scrounge  spoke next, “Fighting would have meant certain death, right?”

“Aye” said the prince

“Well, the only choices you had were Guaranteed doom or a chance at saving everything. Just because it didn’t pay off doesn’t mean it wasn’t the best chance you had.” Scrounge said in an attempt to comfort him, but it only seemed to stress him out further.

“Nonsense! Even the cruelest of deaths would not compare to the humiliation of surrender!”

Scrounge replied in a nervous, quiet tone “at least you’re still alive…”

“And what kind of life is this?! I am a remnant, a shadow of what once was. There is nothing left for me here. What worth is a prince without a kingdom? A sovereign with no sovereignty? Every second I persist is one spent in dishonor…”

“Well, why do you persist?” Scrounge asked while dipping her quill into an ink pot, unaware of how thoughtless she sounded.

The Green Prince just kind of stared at her for a moment.

“I persist because I must. The Citadel worked tirelessly to erase my home, my subjects, my culture. I am now the sole keeper of their memory. To die without passing it on would be to finish what they started.”

“So that’s why you’re giving me all this history?  So you can die comfortably?”

“I would not express it so bluntly, but yes…”

Scrounge considered that every word she had written down had nudged her guest slightly closer to death; she was unsure of how to feel about that. Throughout the course of her interview with the prince, she had started to think of him as a friend. Of course she couldn’t blame the prince for his disposition. Aside from documenting his history, there was just about no reason for him to persist. It would be a shame for him to die, but an honor to preserve his memory. He had chosen to spend his last days with Scrounge, sharing with her his most sacred memories.  Knowing this, she asked one of her last questions.

“How did you learn of what happened to your partner?”

“In the days following his departure, I was overcome with worry. I had dictated and sent a plethora of messages to be delivered to him, but nothing ever made it through. For weeks, my messengers returned to me empty-handed, having been turned away at the grand gate. Once I had all but given up, I was visited in our city by an envoy of the choir, bearing a correspondence from the conductors themselves. It was written in the language of the Citadel, so I had an aide to translate for me. It described a pair of glorious automatons bearing his likeness, and how we should be proud of having contributed to something so grand. After all the pointless drivel praising the glory of their creation, my translator told me, in a nervous tone, that my partner had been ‘lost to the task’. In that moment, I was inches away from murdering that envoy myself, but I had the thought that perhaps my translator had made a mistake. The envoy herself knew not of the letter’s contents any-”

Scrounge stopped writing for a moment to prod him a little “So what did you do then?”

“Be patient!” The Green Prince didn’t appreciate the interjection, but he continued nonetheless “What I did was make my way to the Citadel’s gate and demand an answer. For my trouble, I was forced into chains, taken to the sinner’s road, and abandoned to rot in a cell. Before my jailers left, they revealed to me the tragic extent of my lover’s suffering, mocking me all the while…”

Scrounge finished transcribing before meeting the prince’s gaze again. Aside from his outburst at being interrupted, he was admirably calm, all things considered. She asked him another one of her questions.

“And can you tell me what happened to Verdania to destroy it?”

“It occurred, for the most part, during my incarceration, but I do have a vague idea what happened. It started with the siege and razing of our capital. The choir and their ordered formations were adept at siege warfare, but they were unready for the ensuing skirmishes. My people continued the fighting throughout our wildlands, striking from the shadowy thickets. Unable to effectively counter our forces, the invaders simply burned away the vegetation and slaughtered anything that tried to escape the blaze. I could smell the smoke all the way from my cell… Whatever plant life was left over was slowly poisoned by toxic runoff trickling down from the Citadel’s underworks. Just like that, everything I loved was gone. Now it is but a cold, dry, narrow cavern. Not even the clovers remain…”

“Are there any… relics in there?” Scrounge asked

The prince  sighed. “I would assume so. When I last visited, I had not the presence of mind to search for them.”

Scrounge made a mental note to have someone search the place at some point. She dipped her quill into the ink pot and moved to her next inquiry.

“You seem to care a lot about Verdania’s people and culture. Tell me of them.”

The question was rather vague, but she could ask more specific ones further down the line. Scrounge prepared her writing hand for his response.

“The Verdanians were proud, fierce, and free. We were warriors all; able to defend our home even from the moment of hatching. It was sacred to us, and no cost was too great to protect it. We weren’t merely inhabitants of Verdania, we were Verdania. Knowing how to traverse the wilds of it was the first thing a young Verdanian would learn.”

Scrounge requested some elaboration “What was it like to grow up in Verdania?”

“Every Verdanian came from the same hatchery, a distance away from our greatest city. It was a ritual of ours to have hatchlings find their way from there to our capital and their parents. They were never allowed to come to harm of course, but they were given no guidance otherwise. It was a test of instinct and intuition, a chance to prove oneself a true child of Verdania! All of our offspring were taught to serve as stewards of the wildlands, but the strongest among them were taught the art of the battle-dance, an old and sacred technique of war unique to us. The final and most important rite of passage was the ‘first hunt’, in which a Verdanian nearing maturity would go alone into the deepest thickets. Only when they returned with the heart of a felled stag, would they be considered an adult.”

Scrounge continued to transcribe his answers, only stopping to dip her quill and to ask new questions.

Chapter Text

Scrounge was never really “good” with people. They were too complicated, too easy to upset. Them and their inscrutable formalities, Pah! They were all dullards anyway. No respect for history at all. The voices of the past were the only company she needed. The dead could not be offended, nor would they remember a bad first impression. It was strange for her then when she had started to view The Green Prince as a friend. He was dignified, (mostly) tolerant of her missteps, and deeply reverent of the past. He exposed his entire being to her and asked little in return.

So, when Scrounge reached the end of her list of queries, she felt a twinge of sadness. As the prince himself had said, when the memoir was complete, he would be free to seek death. But it would be a terrible shame to see him depart. He was a noble soul, and the closest thing she had to a friend. The world would be worse off without him, but what could she do? It wasn’t her choice to make, and he had made up his mind before she ever even met him. He had given her nearly everything he had, and she had recorded everything; there was nothing left to do. Scrounge dipped her quill for the last time and asked the Green Prince what was to be her final question.

“Your testimony makes a fine addition to my collection, but I must know, is there anything else you may have missed?”

“Nothing that bears telling.” Said the prince

“Everything bears telling! Holding back will do you no good.”

“Some things are not meant to be shared, not meant to be known. I will elaborate no further.”

Scrounge decided not to pry anymore. She had no interest in chronicling what she assumed to be his sex life. Besides, she didn’t want to irritate him in their last moments speaking together.

“So, is that it?” Scrounge asked

“I suppose so. I’d like to thank you for hearing me out, putting my memory in writing. You don’t know the weight you’ve lifted from me.”

Did this have to be the last conversation Scrounge would have with him? Unburdened, the prince would finally join his partner in death. But what if she could burden him once more? It seemed a cruel thought, but it didn’t matter anyway. Nothing she could say would change his mind. Once he left, she would finally have the chance to pull together her notes into a proper tome and keep it safe in memoriam of the fallen land of Verdania. Memoriam… Memoriam. Scrounge turned the word over in her mind. The word seemed significant, somehow.

It hit her then. Memorium, the Citadel’s gardens! Once they held a sizeable exhibition of Verdanian wildlife. Maybe some of it survived till today? That would certainly give the prince something to live for. It was worth a shot.

As her guest moved to exit her home for the last time, she grabbed the specimen list she traded for and called out to him. “Wait, wait! I have something for you, a relic!”

The Green Prince sighed and turned around. “I have no more need of relics, bug. Your gift would be wasted on me.”

“It’s not a gift! It’s important!”

Deciding to take a look, the Green Prince bent down to examine the document Scrounge was waving at him. She pointed to the title, which said ‘Exhibit: Verdania’. Underneath was a list of the flora and fauna that were once contained within the memorium gardens. She then spoke up. “See? Your homeland, preserved! Maybe something still remains?”

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The Green Prince took the old parchment and began to look over it for himself. As he read through the list Scrounge watched his antennae stiffen and the faintest spark of hope could be seen in his eyes. For the first time in years, there was the possibility of something that wasn’t totally and relentlessly bleak. Most likely, the exhibition would be long ruined by the ravages of time, but what if it wasn’t? If there was a chance, no matter how small, he had to see for himself. Before leaving to investigate, he made sure to show his gratitude. “Thank you, Scrounge. Whether or not we meet again, I’ll not forget your aid. Farewell.”  

               And so, the Green Prince started towards the Citadel of Song for one last time. On his first journey, he had dreaded what he would find in those hateful halls. The climb was much easier this time, knowing that some small hope may lie at its end. Passing through the grand gate, he noticed the eerie silence that had taken hold over the choral chambers. Where once there was the sound of the choir’s processions, there was now only a faint creaking and the patter of his footsteps.

               The place was in a truly terrible state. The quakes had collapsed large parts of the ceiling, and it was a miracle more of it didn’t cave in. The choir itself had been devastated by both the haunting and the voidquakes, and whatever was left of it was in no condition to fight. It was almost pleasant for the prince to see the Citadel in a similar state to Verdania. A well-deserved fate for the great gilded leech.

               Finding the gardens themselves was simple enough. The Green Prince recalled the entrance being somewhere near the grand elevator, where his partner was once entombed.  He dreaded walking through that chamber again, but he no longer let himself be ruled by fear. Even after the quakes, debris from the cogwork dancers could still be seen scattered along the floor. The salvaged memorial the prince had built in Verdania was made up of a combination of intact parts from both dancers. Whatever bits the Green Prince could not make use of were left behind. Most of the remnants were unrecognizable, but the battered, dented, disembodied head of the second dancer was easily identifiable, laying right where it had fallen. Its glass optics were completely shattered, and the spiked iron crown behind its head was severely warped.

When the prince first laid eyes on the two bronze dancers, he was in no state of mind to ponder their design, but now he noticed how much the spiked crown stood out. It was the only real deviation from what otherwise was a faithful recreation of his partner’s shell. The prince could tell it had not been a design decision made by his partner, who had always preferred softer angles, so what artistic purpose did it serve to the Citadel? It was a collar, a yoke, a symbol of control. The Citadel had preserved both his partner and Verdania as bastardized, docile husks. The idea was clear. They were only allowed to exist if they could be controlled. What could not be conquered was to be burned. That was the nature of the Citadel, an opulent yet terrible machine that took in and expended people like coal.

The Green Prince was lost in thought when he realized he had found what he was looking for. Up ahead was a set of shattered glass doors with all kinds of greenery spilling out. Above the door was a signpost, proclaiming:

Here is established, by holy consent of the conductors, the memorium of Pharloom.

What is remembered is never lost.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

This was the place; it had to be. Approaching the entrance, he examined the plants a little closer; He recognized none of them. If any remnant of Verdania still existed within these gardens, he would have to look a lot harder.

 Above the door was a signpost, proclaiming  “Here is established, by holy consent of the conductors, the Memorium of Pharloom. What is remembered is never lost.”

As he crossed the doorway, he was immediately aware of how much more humid it was inside. The first room of Memorium was a tall, vertical shaft whose true height was obscured by the platforms marking the way up. The quakes had left most of the place mercifully undamaged, but the stairways had long been collapsed. Much of it was obscured by the ceilings of some of the platforms where the stairs once were. As the prince peered upward, he could make out a bed of spiked plants with crimson tips. It was red spikeweed, it had to be! He never thought he’d be so happy to see such a bothersome plant. The rest of the Verdania preserve had to be contained further upward. It was going to be a long and awkward climb, but it was the clearest way forward.

               The floors were slick with water, and the walls were covered with easily dislodged moss, making it nearly impossible to get a handhold. In his prime, the Green Prince could have handled this ascent easily, but the years of imprisonment had atrophied his strength.

Before his claws slipped off the first platform, the Green Prince managed to raise his knee onto the ledge and use the leverage to pull the rest of himself up. From up there, there was no mistaking the spikeweed for anything else. Getting to the next floor was even harder than the first. He had to contend with not only the slippery metal floors, but also several mossmirs which were buzzing around. Nonetheless, he still managed to grip onto the next ledge. As he surmounted the second platform, massive patches of clovers revealed themselves. They covered the floors, walls, and ceiling.

The Green Prince felt true joy at the sight of them. They were exactly as he remembered, as if he had stepped into his own memory. He got to his knees and sat among the clovers for the first time in years. The gentle, threefold leaves were soft to the touch.

For so long, the Green Prince had resigned himself to the belief that everything he had ever known and ever loved was dead. To think any other way was naiveté that would only make the misery worse. Those hopeless years behind bars had worn away at him until he could feel nothing but absence. Sitting with the clovers had helped him recover a long-gone part of himself. Simply feeling the leaves on his shell was possibly the first pleasure he experienced ever since he was locked away. He had hope again.

               The Green Prince had to force himself to his feet. It was agony to withdraw from the soft bed of clovers, but he still had work to do, and he still had the resolve to do it. Deeper into the gardens, there was even more of old Verdania still left extant. Climbing up the last set of platforms, he could vaguely see the shapes of his home through the foggy glass.

               Finally, he spotted a massive hole in one of the windows and made his way inside. The chamber was a near perfect recreation of the environs of his homeland, but immediately, something was wrong. The first thing the Green Prince noticed was the shape of a leaf roller, dead. All around the small clover field was littered the bodies of what might have been the last leaf rollers in all of Pharloom. He rushed to the closest corpse and fell to his knees. The fallen roller laid before him, legs limp, eyes closed, and antennae drooping. More than anything, it looked exhausted, like it had struggled with all it could muster and had now reached the end of the trail.

               The Green Prince held the corpse in his arms and stared down at it in silent mourning. Leaf rollers were the most common bug in Verdania. They were simple, peaceful, and free. The recentness of its death renewed the tragedy of Verdania in his mind. Against all odds, these creatures had survived the haunting for years in the ruins of the Memorium. It was only a few days before his arrival that they had perished. Maybe if he had the strength to act sooner, he could have saved them.

The prince gingerly placed the fallen bug back into the clover patch. Although it saddened him greatly, he knew he needed to continue. The gardens were vast, and the remaining specimens still needed him.

The only accessible way forward was a down through a set of damp, dark maintenance shafts, presumably once used by the zookeepers. The walls were half collapsed due to the recent quakes, and spear like broken support poles were jutting outward from the caved in rock, threatening to poke anyone who got too close.

Once his eyes had adequately adjusted to the dark, the prince made his descent. Vent covers along the walls made for decent handholds, but the ever-present moisture still made it difficult to get a grip. Around halfway down the shaft, he wrapped his claws around a sturdy looking support bar and placed his entire weight on it as he swung himself toward a distant foothold. His poor night vision had blinded him to the corrosion that had taken over his new handhold, and just as he was nearing the end of his swing, the entire rod broke off and sent him plunging down to the metal floor below.

               The Green Prince landed on his back hard. The fall was brief, but it was still enough to knock the wind out of him. He stayed on his back for a few minutes, catching his breath and letting the panic of the fall subside. As the adrenaline cleared up, the sounds around him came into focus. Dripping water, creaking ductwork, and a persistent, familiar buzzing sound. He slowly pulled himself upright and looked over his surroundings to try and find a way forward.

Another series of tunnels connected to the bottom of this shaft, but they were much tighter than the ones previous. A light beckoned at their end, but crawling over to it was a daunting prospect for a bug as wide shouldered as the Green Prince. Slowly dying of starvation while trapped alone in a tiny, dark, damp tunnel would be a pathetic and miserable way to expire. For all that he had already gone through, the thought of it still frightened him. He would have liked to turn around, but the climb out of the shaft was even more treacherous than the descent. The tunnel was the only path forward; all he needed was the courage to follow it.

               It took another few minutes before the prince gathered the nerve to enter the tiny passage. There was just barely enough room for him to shimmy through, and he had to continuously assure himself that he wouldn’t get stuck. Although he tried to ignore the thought, he was keenly aware that the deeper he crawled, the further he became from the safe openness of the shaft behind him.

               After what felt like hours of squirming forward on his stomach, the Green Prince finally reached the source of the light. Through a drainage cover on the tunnel’s ceiling, a calm yellowish glow poured into the cramped passage. He rolled onto his back, gripped the cover’s metal bars, and, with great effort, moved the obstruction out of the way.

               When the prince finally escaped the confines of the tunnel, he found himself inside a massive chamber, overwhelmed by the familiar sights and sensations of home. Moss and clovers covered the walls and ceiling of the enclosure, and in its center was a grand lake, dotted with lily pads and encircled by calm reed like plants. Dozens of pendras hovered gracefully over the tranquil waters, alongside a group of leaf gliders that sat upon the numerous lily pads. The sound of flowing water and flying pendras filled the prince’s ears as he stepped toward the lake’s edge.

               In times past, the Green Prince would spend hours along the lakeshores in Verdania, taking respite from the burden of rule and basking in the company of his beloved partner. Back then, those moments of joyful tranquility seemed mundane, frivolous even. When it was all ripped away from him, they became his most treasured memories. For all those years spent in shameful confinement, he had longed to feel the comfort of home one last time.

               The Green Prince now sat before a near-perfect recreation of a Verdanian lake. It was exactly like he remembered; the plants, the bugs, even the stonework was reminiscent of the old Verdanian styles. Only one thing was missing. Him. In this place, his absence felt almost tangible to the prince. Staring out at the lake, he could feel the weight of his partner’s arm around his shoulder. It was a phantasm, it had to be, but he didn’t dare avert his gaze from the waters. There was nobody at his side, he knew that, but he still couldn’t bear to break the illusion.

               When the prince felt the weight lift, his mind started to wander toward the future. Could he use the specimens in this place to restore Verdania? Was it even possible? How badly had the soil there been poisoned? No, no, he needed to stay on track.

               The first order of business was to find a way out of the gardens. The intended exits were completely blocked by cave-ins, and the windows on the far side of the lake had their view obscured by more fallen rock. The prince might have been able to fit through the tunnel again, but it was far to tight for him to carry any specimens through. He decided to take his chances with the windowpanes. His sense of direction told him it led back to the Memorium’s entrance, and if the cave-in hadn’t been enough to shatter them, then there was probably a lot less material he would have to dig through. He picked up a weighty stone and hurled it at the closest window, shattering it.

               Loose rocks poured through the broken glass, but the small landslide stopped before the opening became traversable. The prince was going to have to excavate the rest by hand (claw?) if he wanted out. Having never been tutored in advanced digging techniques, he decided to move the larger chunks first, then move on to shoveling away the smaller bits of substrate. When the prince finished clearing the path, it had only been around 20 minutes, but his muscles still ached from the exertion. Gods, he had really let himself go.

               The opening the prince excavated led to the central room of the Memorium, just like he predicted. Now, he had a new task in mind; to take a few clovers from the exhibits and attempt to replant them in old Verdania. If they survived, good. If they died, then he would know the soil was still poisoned, and he could act accordingly. He planned to use some of the numerous bells scattered around the Citadel as makeshift pots. From there, all he needed to do was carry the clovers home.