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Epilogue
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The Lost Heir
IT happened like this:
Heir Luciano returned to his kingdom, crowned King during a private coronation. He aided in the selection of successors replacing the Petrichorean Court. Newspapers spoke of Duke Orfeo's imprisonment, his trial and his subsequent ideology. Luciano hid nothing in his attempts to overthrow the regime of Otello and the parents who aided such barbarity.
General Osteria was removed from the Nyx Ippuroi and banished from Kolteo. A kill order was processed and, subsequently, publicized to both civilians and bounty hunters. But not a single flame nor ray of light could find the General as her aptitude kept her safe and concealed.
Lykalis Vasoraki was no longer an Heiress. Her title was stripped away; her kingdom lost to the scrupulous control King Moira possessed over the night which reigned forevermore. She remained at the border of Leutes and Oredra with Osteria, before entering the capital.
And Ilioszo?
Ilioszo was alone.
There was a solace in taking time for himself, existing solely for the reason to sustain himself, to become something more than the empty man he came to be.
But, and there was always a but, it was utter torment which sat with him the most, keeping him company by pronouncing his loneliness with his own deprecating thoughts. Uncertainties and decisions were placed upon his shoulders, burdening him alone. He struggled to comprehend the choices given and, when Lykalis lost the ability to visit, he wondered if there was no point in living at all. He wondered if he'd lost his purpose again; wondered if his existence was no longer pertinent.
And another cruel part of him questioned if she'd abandoned him for good.
But, when those thoughts started to accumulate and he found himself lost with no purpose, the letters would come. There was no special timing, no coincidental moment that coincided with his thoughts. When the hawk pecked at the window of his cottage in the woods, Ilioszo would halt all movements, placing freshly picked carrots on the counter as he allowed the hawk entry. The bird, well-tamed, would stretch out its foot and Ilioszo would unravel a tied letter from his ankle.
And the letters were always so enticing to read.
Lykalis, after all, was worlds away in a place he could not reach.
But, of course, Ilioszo was foolish to assume he was safe in the confines of his cottage, where cows mooed and chickens clucked, where winds sang and birds cooed. It was naive for him to believe he could ever be blessed with such peace, such utopia. Perhaps fate decided it was too domestic for a warrior of his nature; for a creature that was undeserving of a quiet, tranquil life.
No, Ilioszo was not privileged to such things.
It happened like this:
Ilioszo awoke from a deep slumber, rare dreamless sleep that held neither nightmares nor hopes. He dragged himself from bed, washed up with warm water, then went about his gardening duties.
He picked garlic scapes and queen anne's lace, red potatoes and yellow carrots. He greeted cows with wheat and tossed seeds to chickens. And he enjoyed it. Every morsel of dirt clinging to his trousers, every splash of slop covering his boots, was somehow peace-making; awe-inspiring.
It was this domesticity of life Ilioszo lacked. It was why his soul was in constant turmoil, heart racing with adrenaline and pure utter fear, fighting for his life, spilling the blood of innocents. Yes, Ilioszo preferred this, if he was allowed to have such preferences.
He patted the top of his rooster's head, helped a hen out of a bush, then went on his way across the yard. He walked inside the safety of his quaint kitchen, opposite of his dining table. He washed the dirt off the potatoes revealing bright crimson skin, violet speckled across its surface. Water rushed from the tap, ice cold as it splashed against herbs and plants he laboriously cleaned.
He was not used to it; cleaning things that did not include blood under his nails, unwillingly washed, scrubbed until his skin was red— until his own blood trickled from his hands.
He pulled back the drawer holding an array of kitchen knives and chose the one he sharpened the day prior. He placed a round potato on a wooden cutting board Lykalis had created for him. He lifted the knife, dug it half an inch into the starchy vegetable, then—
Stopped.
It happened like this.
Heir Luciano returned to his kingdom, crowned King during a private coronation.
General Osteria was removed from the Nyx Ippuroi and banished from Kolteo.
Lykalis Vasoraki was no longer an Heiress.
And Ilioszo?
Ilioszo wasn't alone.
He let his eyes drift to the window above the kitchen sink, pried open to let the gentle air of early autumn into his warm kitchen. Thus, he could not see his reflection, nor what stood behind him. But Ilioszo was conditioned to know when he was and wasn't alone; when he was strongest or weakest.
His fingers trembled around the blade in his hand.
He knew a million ways to dispatch species of all kinds, half-borns or not. If he so desired he could spin on his heel and throw the knife in his hand, impaling his uninvited guest. He could slit their throat with one clean sweep of his arm, the brute force of his hand giving enough edge to decapitate his to-be assailant.
But the presence, which loomed in his kitchen and, consequently, his dining room, was no stranger to Ilioszo.
He clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut.
He tightened his grip on the blade and pushed down against the potato on his cutting board. The knife made a loud thunk that reflected the bitterness in his throat. Silent vehemence followed the dexterity of his fingers as he quartered the potatoes, tossing them into a pot he'd prepared earlier.
"Dinner?" Ilioszo questioned quietly as he grasped another washed potato, chopping it in half, then again.
His one-worded question was met with an amused chuckle.
A deep, luscious rumble that reverberated from his throat.
"Are you offering?" Moira replied casually.
As if Ilioszo wasn't afraid of him.
As if Moira was afraid to hurt him.
"Begrudgingly." Ilioszo replied, though he was careful not to express his obvious vexation.
Moria hummed thoughtfully.
Ilioszo didn't know why he was here nor what he wanted, but he could assume. He could hypothesize. And that was enough to serve as an endless, harrowing nightmare, clinging to him with long, serrated claws.
"I will allow it." Moira decided.
Ilioszo resisted the urge to exhale obnoxiously. I will allow it. Oh, so pompous really, so sickeningly self righteous. Instead he picked up another potato, quartered it, then tossed it in the pot. He moved onto the carrots, the thunk, thunk, thunk of his knife the only notable sound.
Ilioszo lifted his head once he finished chopping them.
Moira's breath breezed past his ear.
He flinched but did nothing as the self-proclaimed King side-stepped him, lifting his hand in front of Ilioszo, before flicking a finger. Shadows dispersed over the sink, water shifting to the tendrils, guiding the liquid to the pot. Perhaps Moira was in the mood for stew, or perhaps Moira was being purposefully merciful.
Stew, after all, took time to make; longer than mashed potatoes and fried eggs.
Moira turned the stove on as Ilioszo grasped his sliced carrots. This time he didn't toss the roots in, cautious of the water heating. He really didn't want to scald his hands with Moira watching so eagerly. He delicately placed them inside, before grasping queen anne's lace and garlic scapes, breaking the ends. Salt and pepper came next, then fermented beans Ilioszo had made himself. Finally, he picked up the cast iron lid before placing it on the pot, a soft clink resounding.
He held his breath as Moira gazed at him, watching, observing, as if he was waiting for him to make some sort of mistake. Ilioszo was familiar with such gestures, but there was a grave difference between Duke Orfeo and Moira.
You see, Moira was unstoppable, powerful, deadly.
"Sit with me?" Moira spoke, his voice promising false comfort.
It was an order.
Not a choice.
Ilioszo turned then, finally gazing into Moira's bottomless eyes, endless like the deepest depths of Tartarus. The bane of his existence was currently dressed in a frustratingly beguiling black suit, undershirt sheer with patches of embroidered silver and onyx violet. His suit jacket itself was utterly glorious, crystalline jewels embedded into his collar and cascading across his shoulders, fading into a magnificent glimmer of monotonous black.
He was flaunting both his money and his status.
Ilisozo was infuriated by it.
Moira made himself comfortable at Ilioszo's dining table.
Ilioszo pulled back his own chair, eyes flicking across the papery mess covering the oak platform. He sat stiffly, back impeccably straight as he pressed his hands against his thighs, adam's apple bobbing with nerves. The papers, stamped with black wax, held a symbol of a single sleek feather. And printed next to it was Lykalis's name, signed effortlessly in silver ink. Each letter spoke of Lykalis's journeys across the land, her desires to draw closer to him and her theories attempting to explain Moira's barbaric decisions.
And Moira was transfixed on the documents.
Ilioszo would have acted posessively—would have scrambled to hide all those letters, keeping them close to his chest; his heart, until the one who pestered him forsook this place. But he could do nothing as Moira's wings tensed, feathers propping as he recognized his sister's handwriting, her name and her storytelling.
Moira's fingers moved to pick a particularly early letter detailing Moira's relationship with Lykalis's mother, an intimate tale that encouraged her sympathy and her denial, hoping, praying that the gods would explain his fate—his duties.
Ilioszo watched as Moira clenched his jaw, gripping the paper so hard the intricate obsidian guards over his nails ripped through, leaving punctured holes.
The stew started to boil.
"You seem quite close with my sister." Moira's words left the curl of his tongue, unnervingly calm.
He placed the torn letter on the dining table.
Ilioszo clenched his hands against his thighs.
"She has the same eyes as you. And she's not kind." Ilioszo found himself blurting. "But she's not like you."
Moira turned and his hell-like gaze landed on Ilioszo's juxtaposing one. It was nauseating, the cold yet heated rage glimmering between those eyes, like an onyx fire lit in an overwhelming sea, constantly burning, infinitely growing.
He couldn't bear to keep Moira's gaze, eyes falling to the side of his face.
The shadows roared along every crack and crevice, every rift and gap, fractures blooming tenebrous tendrils, writhing vengefully across the floor, the ceiling, the walls.
"She is not like me." Moira agreed, clenching his hand against the table. "Quiet, all of you."
The last sentence wasn't directed towards Ilioszo.
Instead, Moira's eyes had flicked to the side, as if he were speaking to someone Ilioszo could not see. He could not tell as the souls of Moira's nycrís remained along the walls, halfway retreating into the darkest of corners as Moira's mood shifted instantaneously, his expression bitter, like frostbite had unfurled across his skin and the pain had become an annoying nuisance.
Moira let his eyes dart back to Ilioszo.
His lips curled into a smile that promised mischief ending in blood spill.
"She clings to you." Moira noted as he pushed the letters aside, some fluttering onto the floor, others hovering over the edge. "As if you were worth anything."
Ilioszo twitched.
Those letters, those words; they were important to him, worth more than gold and silver, diamonds and pearls. They were worth everything to him, everything. And Moira had knocked them aside as if Ilioszo's very life didn't depend on it—on her.
But he could not scramble to his knees and hastily retrieve his letters of hidden obsession and his insignificant desire for love. He had a feeling that once he fell on his knees, Moira would keep him there, against the floor; condescending, patronizing, scornful.
"I was worth something when we were young." Ilioszo replied, keeping his voice steady.
Moira grinned, like a wolf stalking a sheep, watching as his prey shivered and panicked, frozen with fear and peril.
"Yes, before your father meddled with my soul," Moira leaned his elbows against the table, resting his chin against the palm of his hand. "You bring up the past with ease, yet you call yourself Ilioszo."
Moira hummed, amusement flashing between his eyes.
"I wonder, does Lykalis know we've met? That I've known you longer than she? That you were my enigma before you were hers?" His amusement dwindled, his eyes brimming with aggression.
Ilioszo knew Moira was right.
He had no right to bring up their shared history; their time in Agnacros.
It was simply not fair.
"Tell me, have you forsaken your identity, Icarus?" The name rolled off Moira's tongue like a curse.
And it was.
It was a curse.
A curse that presented itself as Ilioszo's past, as the name which his father called him; the name which Moira taught him with; the name which used the last of his mother's breath; the name that promised torment, anguish, hatred, despair; the name that Ilioszo could not bear to hear for an all-consuming fear which anticipated nothing more than a cool metal table, cuffs locking him against the insufferable surface, blades cutting into flesh to see how much you can handle, Icarus, you're my perfect son after all, aren't you?
Ilioszo flinched violently, ducking his head down and away.
Moira laughed.
A corporeal shadow shoved Ilioszo's chin upward and he gripped the edge of the table in alarm, his eyes blowing wide as he was forced to gaze into Moira's agate eyes.
"I am no longer sixteen," Moira smiled, "and you are no longer fourteen. We are adults, Icarus, and yet you have not changed."
Ilioszo's—because he was not Icarus, never Icarus—breath came out choked as the chair beneath him morphed into darkness, wood melting away as Moira's aggression, amusement and scorn amalgamated together in one mass of obstructive sentiments, burning like wildfire consuming the lives that screamed and begged for help, pleading with a higher being that simply didn't care.
The tendrils wrapped around his ankles and his knees, forcing him to kneel at Moira's feet. He had half the mind to even try and stand; panic consumed him from every angle, relentless in its pursuit of despair. His breath was breathless; his life was lifeless. The shadows whipped at his arms when he dared to move, phasing through his clothes and cutting his flesh.
So he dared not move.
Fingers curled around the base of his head, tugging at strands of short hair. It stung against his skin, more so than usual, and Ilioszo realized he had become complacent; he had become weak, unable to withstand pain so trivial, so inconsequential.
Lykalis begged and pleaded with him to understand his worth.
But she was not here to speak such words, and as Ilioszo was forced to gaze into the eyes of a man he once shared heaven and hell with, he was struck with those self-deprecating thoughts, those statements his mind clung to when they could neither be truth nor lies.
He could never be worth anything on his own.
He was just an empty canvas, waiting for anyone and everyone to paint him into existence, to give him a purpose.
"My sister," Moira started, his grip still tight, still familiar after all these years, "cares deeply for you. I do not understand why, nor do I intend to."
Ilioszo's eyes watered as he opened his mouth to speak.
Moira grasped his chin, gripping him tightly so Ilioszo could only shut his mouth. The pure glee in Moira's eyes made his heart shrivel inside, both guilt and self-loathing settling in his chest. His conditioning was faulty, his attitude existent, his words purposeful. He was stupid to speak when he wasn't told to, stupid to try and reason with Moira as if the King of Death could listen to such inquiries; such pleas.
"Seeing as my sister has told you many things about me, you would know that I've only ever tolerated her and her alone." Moira's eyes flitted to the side, before snapping back to Ilioszo.
His grip became unbearably painful, and Ilioszo let a whimper escape his lips.
"I am her elder brother, she is my youngest sister, and if I rid you of your pitiful existence, it is a declaration; that I am severing myself from her. But, I do not desire such things." Moira continued smoothly. "I know my sister despises what I do. I also know you will do anything she asks of you. She is intelligent; knows that you are powerful. Thus, I, the only one who can kill you, will neither give you such reprieve, nor allow you to return to my sister's side."
Ilioszo's heart plummeted six feet under.
He knew what Moira wanted and Ilioszo could not—
Moira released the base of his head, smoothing out Ilioszo's silvery hair with his fingers, soft and mockingly comforting.
"There is only one option I have. And though I have not missed your wit and your effervescence, I will enjoy the blood and anguish I draw out of you." Moira smiled.
Ilioszo swallowed hard.
His lips parted to speak.
He stopped himself before he could make such a stupid mistake.
"Hmm? What is it?" Moira sounded sympathetic; it was a lie.
Ilioszo's lips turned downward into a scowl.
"You have no binding vow, no soul pact, no dominance over me." Ilioszo listed, his voice no longer hiding his fury. "You have no hostage, no reason why I would follow you without a fight. So tell me, what makes you confident that I will trail after you, willingly?"
Moira tilted his head back and forth with a hum.
"It does seem like I have no leverage, isn't that right?" Moira chuckled to himself, as if this was all a joke; as if Ilioszo's life was a joke. "Oh, but Icarus, don't you know? Your father misses you dearly, Heir of Agnacros. He searches far and wide for your presence."
Ilioszo clamped his mouth shut, face going paler than the moon.
"Yes, I will not lay a hand on my sister, nor will I allow you too." Moira continued easily. "But, there are others which you fear, Icarus—"
"Ilioszo." Ilioszo bit back, his teeth gritting. "I am not—!"
Moira backhanded him across the face, shoving back his chair as he knelt in front of Ilioszo. He was taller, and stronger. The darkness curled around his wrists, keeping them locked against his knees as Moira wrapped his hand around the back of Ilioszo's neck, claws drawing blood.
Ilioszo bit his tongue to stop from crying as Moira forced his forehead against his.
They were close.
Too close.
And Ilioszo was afraid.
"You're not your father's precious Heir? You're not my cellmate of three months? No?" Moira murmured as the darkness rose and fell in their peripheral vision, thrilled as they absorbed such familiar blood. "Icarus, you are and will always be the bastard your mother created, just as I."
He suddenly released his neck, drawing his claws out with one vicious swipe. It left his flesh mangled and twisted, skin struggling to heal quickly over his bones.
Ilioszo gasped for breath, having held it the entire time Moira drew so horrible close to him.
The King grasped his chair and fell back into it, wings splaying outward as he crossed his leg over the other, adjusting the sleeves of his suit as the cloak-like garment shimmered under sunlight.
"Don't you understand?" Ilioszo spoke hoarsely, still shackled by chains of shadows. "That hurting me will only hurt Lykalis?"
Moira crossed his arms over his chest.
"Do not mistake the kind of mercy I hold towards my sister." He replied frigidly. "I have vowed never to hurt her, to take care of her, to keep her safe. You are dangerous, you are undeserving of her, you are not enough. I desire the best for my sister, I desire the best for us."
He uncrossed his legs, leaning forward to shove Ilioszo's head downward, forcing him to gaze at the floor.
"You are nothing but a thorn in our side." Moira snarled. "My sister has a heart of gold, yet it was you who painted her hands with the blood of innocents. It was you who unlocked the nycrís I so desperately protected her from, you—"
He faltered, having spoken too much.
Ilioszo's eyes widened with realization.
"Why?" He whispered. "Why would you do that?"
Silence greeted him.
The darkness curled around Ilioszo dispersed. He found himself able to stand, though he did not dare move. He was familiar to the tricks played by both Moira and his prior Duke. He would not fall for them with such stupidity.
"Rise." Moira finally stated, the anger in his voice lost. "Take a seat."
Ilioszo rose.
He took a seat.
Moira pinched the bridge of his nose, gazing up at the ceiling.
"This is what I will do; we will have dinner, for I will be merciful." He said slowly. "You will leave this place with me. We will return to Kolteo and we will reside in Koltem. In the palace, you will be confined to the dungeons. If you prove to behave, I will allow you access to rooms fit for royalty."
That was—
That didn't sound terrible but Ilioszo didn't belong to anyone else but Lykalis, just as she belonged to him, both perfect puzzles pieced together by yarns of fate.
"However," there it was, that harrowing word, "you will feed my nycrís when I desire it, and you will never write to my sister, nor will she write to you. Do you understand?"
Ilioszo clamped his mouth shut.
Moira stared at him.
"I do not need to be merciful," he started again, "I can drag you by your throat, muzzle you, force you to remain in the form of a dragon until you are only animal and nothing else. So I will ask you again, do you understand?"
A pause.
Ilioszo was afraid.
And fear made him do impulsive things.
Forgive me, Lykalis, for I am weak.
"I understand." He whispered, self-loathing rising against his throat.
It happened like this:
Heir Luciano returned to his kingdom, crowned King during a private coronation.
General Osteria was removed from the Nyx Ippuroi and banished from Kolteo.
Lykalis Vasoraki was no longer an Heiress.
And Ilioszo?
Ilioszo ate dinner with King Moira of Kolteo in the cottage he once shared with Lykalis and her General. He exited his home with the clothes on his back and nothing else. Moira stood beside him as he went from cow to cow, chicken to chicken, speaking his farewells as he released the animals into the wild.
He turned away from his cottage one last time and faced his nightmare instead. Moira placed a hand on the nape of his neck and a thin sliver of weaved tendrils embedded themselves into the wound he had caused. Ilioszo nearly collapsed from the pain, but was held upright by the hand on his neck and nothing else.
Moira was pleased.
Ilioszo felt stifled with the collar now adorning his throat, a ring of chains that could neither be seen nor touched. He dragged his feet upon gravel as the path to his home molded into grass and ferns, the forest taunting him with open arms, caressing him; barring him from the freedom he tasted.
If he was anyone else, he would've wished for death.
But, something fundamental about Ilioszo's life had changed when Lykalis graced him with her presence.
Lykalis, who loved to spin stories, told Ilioszo of a boy who fell from the sky, wings of wax melting away for he flew too close to the burning embers of the sun. It spoke of his death and his father's woe, his sorrows and his mournings.
What the tale doesn't tell you, however, was that the sun had a name.
Icarus would let his wings melt away; he would fall towards an endless sea, only for one.
Lykalis Vasoraki.
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