Niklas tilted his head to the skies, to the somber clouds that were beginning to engulf the sun. The night of the Blood Moon approached, and he wondered, how that silly friend of his had spent the past years.
Alone in his room again, but without the forceful company of Noah's warmth? Without the teasing of his friends, the noisiness that faded his aching loneliness?
He was growing more desperate for answers in the vast sea of all his mistakes. That night, another had been made.
The faerie, gently and fearfully, had stared inside the closed house. "...this is unexpected," she'd said hesitantly. "I'm certain, I called for the spirits he wanted to see most. Why are his emotions spiraling—"
"That's normal. That woman, even though she won't harm him, will make him chaotic. But if she has the chance to speak with him—"
"It isn't her that's found him," said the faerie slowly. "She is not the one he wanted to see. It's all the others, all the lives he's reaped. I'm afraid, dear human, receiving comfort is not what he wanted."
Niklas dropped to a squat, exhaling shakily into his hands. He cursed under his breath. How did he not know? "Of course," he muttered bitterly. "That bastard wants to be punished. That's why. I miscalculated."
Nicola crouched down beside him, her voice soothing. "You're not omnipotent, Niklas, much as you'd like to be. Even I couldn't be aware of the extent of his self-loathing."
"I made a mistake."
"Yes, however, Noah has entered there with him. They'll be alright."
Niklas didn't want to make any more mistakes, drawing further from his foolish friend rather than bringing that man closer.
How much more did he have to do?
How much was he capable of?
A man dressed in a suit walked behind him, smiling softly. Raymond's curious but gentle voice simmered in the light breeze. "Are you thinking about him, Mr. Astors?"
Niklas' gaze dropped, flickering to his old professor as he shrugged helplessly. "Yeah. I have been for the past three years."
"Forgive me for prying, ah, but I am curious—but of course, you can refuse to answer whatever you please—oh I'm rambling again."
Niklas smiled, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned. The old, creaking house they'd vacationed in once stood proudly behind him. The garden hadn't been tended to, mossy green creeping over the planes of wood.
He yawned into his hands, looking up at the dusted windows. "What is it? I'll probably answer. Why not?"
Raymond smoothened the creases of his vest, a journal held in his hand. It was similar to the worn leather that Holly always carried around, their expanse of endless thoughts scribbled on paper. His was a little thicker, stuffed with papers.
"I keep updated with my students, past and present, and gossip runs rampant even in my old age. I heard that you succeeded in the investigator exam and immediately took on several cases. Violent, terrible cases."
The other's lips curled mischievously, reaching the glint of his cerulean eyes. "You're wondering why," he remarked. "What's your theory, Prof?"
"Were you looking for ties to Kaden Chauvet?"
Niklas laughed airily, moving towards the creaking stairs that led to the door, his feet brushing past a twisted cobweb that hung underneath a step. "I was, yeah. I was certain that the influx of deaths had to be related to him in some way. I just didn't know how."
"Not knowing," started Raymond, following closely behind. "Leaves possibilities open."
Niklas twisted the handle, jiggling it before wedging his food to force it open. He fumbled for the lights, flicking them on. "But for a while, I'd gone knowing far too much, so it was a little jarring. Not knowing, that is."
Raymond mused over his words, but couldn't draw a conclusion. He chalked it up to their generation differences and followed Niklas as the man calmly strode up the steps. Holly had requested for help and Alexander had an important seminar to attend, so Raymond volunteered alone.
The older man looked around through his lenses, capturing the scene perfectly within his gaze. Written in the grooves were memories of a smiling husband and wife, ghosting through the archways in the narrow hall.
They'd all been young once; and while he still had many years to go, or so he hoped but really anything was possible, many had already left to places they could not be reached. Immense sorrow tightened Raymond's chest.
He slowed, foot hovering in the air. There, he recognized the marks engraved along the wooden frame of the door to a room, gradually building higher but never high enough. Not as high as they should've gone; not as high as they could've.
The corners of his eyes prickled and he shut them, breathing slowly as he readjusted his glasses, turning his head away.
The pair ventured into the study room, dust kicking with their movements. Raymond coughed into his arm, scrunching his nose. It'd been a while since the house received maintenance—both Alexander and Raymond had been buried in work the past years.
There were piles and piles of books that were wedged with papers, scattered in an unorganized mess that in some obscure way, was organized at the same time.
Neither he nor Alexander entered the room often. Here, where their old friend obsessively spent days researching a means to cure his lover, a room marked by failure and despair.
Niklas walked over to the large window, drawing the curtains wide. A dull light streamed inside.
It overlooked a garden, once thriving and now wilted.
Raymond thought if he listened carefully, he could still hear the ringing of laughter from both mother and child and the fond smile that would creep over his friend's gentle expression.
"Careful," warned Niklas not unkindly. "Don't get lost in your old memories, Professor."
Raymond's shoulders slumped and he nodded. "Of course. Do you know what you're looking for specifically, I'm afraid I don't know how much help I can be—we've avoided this room for years."
Niklas crouched down, brushing off dust from a book that had been leaning against the desk. He glanced up. "Hey, Professor. I'm sorry if this is an insensitive question, but how did it feel? That your friend had died."
Raymond's eyes widened and then eased. "You're asking because of Mr. Chauvet, correct?" He looked around the room, sighing. "I felt the reminder of his presence for years after. I grieved. I wished that it were false; wondered what I could've done to save him."
The Professor carefully walked to the desk, picking up a journal crammed with papers. "When Kaden Chauvet was executed, neither Alex nor I were present. We'd only heard of the punishment after it occurred."
"...did you grieve? For your student you didn't know?"
"I grieved because I didn't know him. I'm certain I could not possibly understand the depths of what you felt, Mr. Astors. But death has a certain air, and it suffocates those around it. I'd taken a break from teaching for a year."
Niklas placed down the book, dust scattering around. "I see. So that's why I only saw Professor Alexander in my second year."
Raymond nodded, tension lining his forehead. "Alex went to the school directors and demanded an explanation."
"What?"
"He told them it was barbaric and inhumane. That he wouldn't sit still. But," Raymond sighed bitterly. "We are limited in what we can do. They threatened to harm me, and his family."
Niklas scowled, aghast. "They can't do that."
"They can. We, the Blessed, are monitored by the Academy. They have access to all your records. He was silenced, and then forced to remain within the Academy walls for that year before they decreased their supervision."
The papers tapped against the desk, and Raymond turned his head longingly at the outside garden once more. "Do you wonder? If you've made the wrong decision in believing in him when everybody else didn't?"
Niklas' eyes were downcast as he stood, walking over to examine the rows of multi-coloured books on the shelves. "Impossible. Not after I spent so long determining if he was worth saving."
Raymond looked at him curiously in the shadows of the dim room. "And was he? Worth it?"
"Without a doubt." Niklas fiddled with his long fingers, brushing against the necklace that draped from his neck. Confidence faded from the bright blues of his gaze, mixing into doubt. "I'd been confident that I could save him. That was conceited of me."
The professor knew what guilt and blame manifested as—he saw himself in Niklas' image. A minor mistake to entirely ruin another's life. A larger mistake to ruin multiples.
He placed down the papers on the desk, speaking softly. "We are all bound to make mistakes, over and over again. There is little time to be guilty in this life woven by our undoings, Mr. Astors."
Niklas nodded but said nothing in response. Then, as his fingers ran along the worn leather spines of the books, he frowned and pulled one out. Flipping to the first page, a date was printed in messy scribble near the top.
It was an entry, a transcript of the day. He flipped through the pages skipping over one another.
The day that Adrianna's condition worsened. The day he found a clue in the way to save her. The day he began his experiments, and despite their failure, he found a spark of hope.
In between, there would be lines of how his newborn child had giggled and murmured a sound that was similar to his name.
Lines of how beautiful his wife was, even in her dying light. And for all her destruction, he could never fear the gentle touch of her hands that promised ruination.
Niklas read through one book, and then another, endless journals. Deep engravings of madness, of fear, and distress.
Then, he recognized an abnormality.
The writer had been obsessively consistent with his journals, sometimes missing a day or two, but even that was rare.
He flipped the pages of two books again, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he frowned deeply. The dates. They were too far apart—at least two or three journals were missing.
"Professor," called Niklas with deep confusion, and the older man walked over, crouching down.
"Ah, my back." He rubbed his hips as he bent down, flipping through the scattered journals lying spread around Niklas. His reading speed was fast, and the abnormality soon became clear. "This...!"
"Where are these journals, Professor?"
"I don't know." He opened a book, skimming the contents as confusion creased his forehead. "Neither Alex nor I ventured in here often, maybe once or twice. We've lent it out as a vacation home to various groups—Adrianna always said she hoped it would never be silent."
Niklas read through the journals again, dissecting every word, every swooping letter. "If you lend it out, do you have a record of who has come before?"
Raymond's eyes widened. "Yes, Alex should have one."
"Then, if we find out the whereabouts of these records, I think we'll have an important clue. Who stole your friend's journals, littered with records of his experiments?"
The book closed with a light sound, and Niklas stared up at Raymond. "I think the missing year would be the peak of his research."
———+++———
A slender man leaned against the closed door, shut to the world for several days, every year. Although it was typically closed off regardless, Lux would only adhere to Kaden's solitary ambitions on these days.
The night of the Blood Moon approached. For Lux, he would be wracked with pain all along his body, to the fiber of his bones.
A pain amplified for every wound saved, every life that had been remade. Thankfully, his use of his ability was sparing—the limitations were strict, after all.
It wouldn't affect him until the night of. But for some, days prior, small fluctuations in the air would occur. For Kaden, it was inevitable.
His ability was knotted and tangled together, twisted by fragile threads that snapped every day.
There was nothing to be done for him, and although Lux had wanted to help in the first year, the pain in his own body had been unbearable. And there were few others willing to endure the nightmares of Kaden's delusions.
He sighed impatiently, ruffling his red hair with a hint of frustration.
Then, a shadow stretched down the hall, and in his frosting blue eyes and silky golden hair, came the crown prince. Only, something was different. Something was off, abnormal. Disorientating.
Reed's gaze flickered to the door, lingering for a second before acknowledging Lux's presence.
Lux raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, smiling. "On that night, the Blessed undergo two things—if they are affected at all, but most feel disorientated."
Reed stood there, silently and almost obedient, although Lux knew that violent and cruel man was anything but.
He pushed off the wall, leaning closer. "They lose their ability, or they experience something akin to a Reversal. Some effects are so subtle, it's barely noticeable. Others go crazy. Which are you?"
Reed's blurry gaze settled on him coldly, and he blinked, long and slow, as if absorbing the question. Instead of replying, he said, "Bring Kaden to that Room."
"I'm out of business, I won't obey your orders for the next few—" Lux paused in his drawl, red gaze sharpening viciously. "What?"
"Take him down to the Room."
"I won't, I never agreed to that," hissed Lux. "I don't agree with what you did to him in his youth, and sure, I doubt that same abuse will occur, but I won't—"
"Enough." Reed's voice was calm, frighteningly so. An eerie calmness, without any anger or bite, just exhaustion. "Who else is down there? The only person that can get that fool to shut up is him, not you, and not himself."
Lux scowled, taking a step back. "Right, let's bring a child back to one of his sources of trauma, of course. What can that dragon do?"
"You're a stubborn, hard-headed brat," said Reed in response. "Bring him down there. No chains. I think you'll find, even with an open door, he'll choose not to leave."
"Could he leave, even if he wanted to? Or would his legs buckle under the weight of the memories, the scars so deep, no blessing can heal it?"
"Don't be deluded. You know nothing of him."
"And you do?" sneered Lux with a sharp laugh. "Really? If you were helping him, toss him in the cell with Noah Bellamy, if that's what'll work."
Reed stared, and stared, and then shook his head listlessly. "I thought you'd understand that dog better after clinging all these years. But of course you don't—you always stepped back before you got too close."
"Careful, prince." Lux's voice lowered into a simmering lake, danger lacing every syllable. "I may be a runaway, and I may need you, but you're perfectly usable without a limb or two."
A wilderness burned over the red eyes. Madness. It seemed to be a trait in that messed up royal family—although really, which family wasn't?
Reed closed his eyes briefly. Under different circumstances, what positions would they have stood on? Friends, at the Academy? Strangers? But it was a foolish thought that emerged from tiredness.
Reed continued walking slowly. "Throw him in the cell with the dragon if you wish. And see if he remains, even if that dragon eases him, even if he feels like dying."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"He's as stubborn as you, only worse."
Reed said nothing more, his figure painting a lonely shadow across the empty hallway, devoid of servants. Half had been fired years prior, keeping the bare minimum to maintain the castle. The Crown Prince, subject to assassinations and poisonings, chose to dismiss most of his staff.
Lux stood in the lonesome hallway, a draped rug running across the grounds. He watched as Reed disappeared from view around a sharp corner, unhurriedly exiting. Gritting his teeth, Lux turned back around and tapped firmly on the door.
It was a full hour of progressively more violent knocking before an irritable answered.
"Shut up." Kaden had said bitterly in a hoarse voice.
Lux continued ramming on the door with a smile. His knuckles were red and he couldn't care less. "No can do, little puppy. I have orders to transport you."
Inside the room, Kaden emerged from the draped blankets spread across the ground, knocking over a small stack of books that had been near his body. Lethargically, he lifted his head to the door as hair fell over his face. His lips parted, dry and peeling, throat leeched of moisture.
Dark circles hung under his sunken gaze and fear seized his heart, thrumming in his blood.
"Where?"
Back outside, Lux hesitated. He tried to imagine the king of expression Kaden was making and scolded himself for wondering. Trying to understand others was a dangerous game that he couldn't afford to play.
But he wasn't heartless, not to Kaden. It was hypocritical. Because he would be speaking regardless, that any pity was fruitless. "The Room."
Silence fell between them, the air stagnant and cold. Lux heard the wind wedging into the windows, the low creak of the empty hallway, and the distant dripping of water. He pressed his lips together and raised his knuckles to start banging again when it swung wide open.
Kaden's dull, empty eyes stared past him.
Tension stiffened his muscles and he stood uneasily, as if he would double over at any moment. Seeing the tall man hunched and ill, Lux felt uncomfortable.
Before he could say anything, the sinner staggered past him, drifting instinctively towards the basement. Like a ghost with nothing binding him to the world; Lux wondered if he'd disappear at any second.
Kaden's steps were slow, walking in a familiar direction. He blinked, and there the iron door stood, heavy and unyielding. Metal chains pooled into a pile on the ground, removed by somebody earlier.
His expression went completely slack, blankness stealing away any expression of life.
In the next cell, Noah stirred where he lay against the wall, slowly cracking his eyes open. Sleepily, his gaze refocused. The first thing he recognized was an ancient terror printed deep behind that lifeless green gaze.
Noah raised his head, frowning. "Chauvet?"
It'd been days after their last meeting. But Kaden wasn't ignoring him; no, he couldn't hear anything. His senses had shut off to the world, consuming the darkness of the humid and rotten air as his eyes trembled.
Even his fear was subdued as if revealing it would be fatal.
Mechanically, he tugged the handle open, a small sliding slit in the door that could be locked, and slipped inside. Kaden wasn't sure what he was being punished for, and there he was, back in small bony and brittle bones.
There he was, curled in the corner, in the deepest darkness where the foul dampness of the cell soaked the edges, and he was certain old blood stained the walls, even if they'd been cleaned.
Cleaned by who, the thought distantly meandered through his aching head, and he blinked, and he thought he saw a tall and skinny shadow lumber across the room.
He could hear it, the whips dragging softly against the ground, the mocking jeers of the servants and him, oh so small, weak, helpless, and pathetic.
Kaden hated how he felt, the small part of him aware of rational, hated his pathetic state.
But his body had fallen shut, and the delusions blinked across the darkness, little spots of false life that kept him company.
Back then, he'd clawed the walls until his nails cracked and splintered, made bloody, but the pain was numb, his mind was numb, everything was empty.
He'd brought a knife with him once, etching his name on the walls. It kept him sane; it kept him himself.
What was himself?
Kaden wondered if he ever knew that answer.
But if this was Reed's punishment or ploy, for whatever reason, all Kaden could do was remain.
He brought his knees to his chest, a persistent ache in his head, pounding away. He felt small; he felt childish; grow up—he hissed at himself internally.
He was no longer that small boy, eager to please, scared and frightened. Closing his trembling eyes, he took a deep breath and exhaled.
One, two, three.
One, two, three. He realized that there was a rhythmic knock in groups of three, tapping on the wall.
Noah.
Kaden opened his eyes, dragging his body over and pressing his ear against the cold wall. An illusion slithered in the corners and he glared, pressing closer to the continuing sound that pulled him away from the roaming nightmares.
His breathing steadied, slowing into relaxation, although fear still prickled along his arms.
Right. This was not his first life, nor his childhood that he only remembered pieces of. This was not his second, where he lived a disorientating life until his early death.
He was there, present and real, and in control.
Kaden's head thudded lightly on the wall, pink hair pressed flat as he exhaled again softly.
This life was his.
Would there come a day he could truly believe that?
———xxx———
Lukiyo says,
I've been super inactive, I'm sorry! This is a weird month, I'm not sure why, it just feels weird. It's also a leap year, coincidentally, which is very exciting! I'll be replying to a lot of stuff tomorrow (I seriously want to, I haven't even had the time to read things T^T;;;)
So much appreciation to you all. I say it too much and not enough, and I mean it more than anything, always. You're wonderful. You're amazing. I'm so thankful.
See you all later!