Promise to the Deceased

A bottle slips from the grip of a hand which just became mine. Glass shards scatter on the ground, feet stepping aside to avoid them.

    Seized by a wave of pain, I fall knees first into the dirt. Fingers gripped over my sides, breath ragged, I can’t hold any longer the sight of Peccelotte’s corpse.

“Why? Why..? Why! Why!! Why!!!!”

    Despite the horrid feeling that my body may be ripped to shreds at any moment, the pain is dulled. As if my nerves were already too numb to react properly.

    Briefly, my eyes fall on the broken bottle next to me. Empty.

    But I can’t bother to think about how much has been consumed to affect this body like this. Pieces of Peccelotte’s memories keep rewinding in my mind.

“Why did you have to be genuine?!”

    I saved her by accident. Stomach hurts. I pulled her away from the quartzal’s claws by sheer accident. Queasiness. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my will. I didn’t try to save her.

    Acid taste pulling up my throat.

    And yet, in her eyes, I am a hero. A hero?

    I shouldn’t have touched her.

    My back arching forward, a thick liquid spills onto the ground. Burning to escape my innards. It permeates the crystal sand, already sullied by unceasing footsteps. It spreads on the ground, more food mixed with alcohol flowing out of my mouth in a gag reflex.

“What did I do? What did I do to her??!”

    Memories of the crystal forest flash through my mind. My own. Fingers roaming over her body.

    Even if it hurt, I shouldn’t have done this. Even if it was to forget the pain…

    I really really shouldn’t have touched her.

    …It was also to avenge. Because, at that moment, I hated her. I hated that she survived and buried me only to make herself feel better. Only because that’s what people would do, pretending they care.

    And yet… I can no longer believe it. I was wrong. I was so, so wrong.

“People like her do exist? Why! In her eyes, that night… that wasn’t pity. Or perhaps it was, but not because she despised me. Not because she told herself how awful it would be to be me.”

    Her body became mine, but it was still hers.

“You are my hero. I won’t forget you.” Pecce’s words echo.

    Drops of saliva hardly part from the corners of my mouth. They fall to the ground where the reeking puddle stretches to my knees, permeating the fabric of my pants.

“Don’t. No. Don’t call me a hero… I’m not.”

    Disgusted by what I’ve done to her, tears mix with the stench below. Pristine droplets dissolve into the still warm puddle.

“Please… Don’t call me what I don’t deserve to be called.”

    It becomes clear to me that if I’m alive, if I’m still alive, it’s because this was her wish. Pecce used her magic so that I wouldn’t disappear.

“May death no longer force you into solitude, may your journey continue without a body’s cage. May your memories remain etched in the eyes of the one who watches with their heart!”

    The will infused in her words, it was a gift made out of her kindness. It wasn’t supposed to be a curse, nor a god’s twisted joke. It was supposed to be salvation.

    My fists clench over handfuls of crystal sand. A gift too pure to be handed to someone like me.

    Whatever her magic did with these words, the consequence seems to be that, each time I die, my soul incarnates into another body. No wonder the Militia acted so quickly. The moment their instruments registered the disturbance, it must have been quite the mess.

    That’s when a thought crosses my mind, everything else vanishing.

“But… Even if I’m not dead, what about Pecce? Her body… It’s no longer mine. But in the state it is… she won’t be able to reintegrate it. Does this mean that Pecce is…?”

    Feeling my innards twist anew, eager to get rid of a content they no longer have, I back away.

    A thud.

    As I hit the wall behind me, the vague pain doesn’t even register. Instead, it’s people’s gazes I finally become aware of. Many hastily walk away, making a small detour to avoid stepping too close. Eyes filled with disdain, wariness at best.

    A man hesitates, steps towards me, but is soon stopped in his tracks. Another one puts a hand over his shoulder.

“Don’t. He’s just always drunk.” He whispers, discouraging the first man.

    I can’t stay here. I can’t stand to. Not any longer.

    Avoiding to glance at the platform, I try to rise to my feet. Stumbling, I have to lean my hand against the wall to regain some sort of balance. Only then do I manage to walk away, trying to put as much distance as I can between this cursed place and me.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    If part of the stores and houses have been painted to add some fancy touch, many just kept their natural colour. The greyish, whitish one of the bone powder they are made of. That’s what the closest town to the castle is. A clustering of dwellings wholly built out of the skeleton of the beast once beaten by Orloff Od Mithril. With their roofs shaped as half-spheres, the higher buildings are a stacking of half-spheres.

    Vague, my gaze drifts from one to another, hoping to find some sort of distraction from my circling thoughts. But despite it being my first time in town, nothing manages to catch my attention.

    I have no idea whose face is mine, no idea where I am going, but before I realise it I am standing before a tavern. Its name, The Merry King, is engraved into a round stone sign fixed over the entrance.

“Why did I get here?”

    Lost in thought, I almost entered. Why would I? Such places never compelled me in either life. They are noisy. Filled with too many sentient beings for my liking.

    It’s only as I stand here, dumb and lost, that I realise how thirsty I am.

    Gulp.

    After a moment of hesitation, I enter the tavern. At least, barely anyone bothers to glance at me here as I make my way between the tables. Maybe they couldn’t care less. Maybe my figure is all too familiar to them.

    When I approach the counter, I cast a side glance at it, but I can’t muster the courage to interact with anyone yet. Hence, I cowardly retreat to an unoccupied table in the back of the tavern. Hoping the loud discussions and number of clients will conceal me from their eyes.

    Sometimes, being a ghost feels just safer, easier to bear. Someone nobody can see, someone nobody can hate.

    But, the moment I sit, I feel dizzy. Leaning my elbow against the table, I press my fingers to my temple.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    Each time, he ended up sitting at this very same table. For some reason, no one ever sat here. It was almost as if this table were expecting him. Perhaps it did. That would be nice. Even if it was an inanimate thing, thinking that something expected him was a very nice thought.

    At The Merry King, there was never any silence. He’d call picky anyone who’d argue, mentioning closing time. Someone sober enough to make such a remark should probably spend his time elsewhere, in the first place.

    Laughs, voices growing louder with alcohol’s diligent support, occasional fights added the spicy bite.

    Everything was lively. Everything aside from him. The only silence here was within him.

    At this very same table, where no one else ever sat longer than for a card game. No one remembered his name longer than for a night, no one aside maybe from…

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    A thud.

    The sound of a mug put down onto my table chases the flashback away, as if dissipating the tinnitus-adjacent noise deafening me to the casual ruckus around me.

“Memories, again…”

    Raising my chin, I glance at the huge mug of… whatever alcoholic beverage this is. A delicate hand releases the mug. Generous breasts stifled by the fabric of a white apron tied over her amber dress.

“Here you are, Gryffin. A pint of fresh Kepvailic.” An emotion-free voice utters.

    A familiar feeling hits me when my gaze reaches the level of her face. A face of rare beauty, framed by short, wavy teal hair. Her eyes crystalline, of a pale pink hue.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow, hands on her hips, puzzled by my silence.

    But no word manages to escape my mouth. She sighs.

“Looks like you aren’t in great shape today.” She turns away. “This one is on the house. Enjoy every sip.”

“W-wait!”

    She glances back at me.

“Can I… Can I have a glass of hot milk instead?”

    Now she truly examines me, squinting at me as if I was attempting some kind of twisted joke for the first time in my life.

    At last, the barmaid walks away as if nothing occurred. Despite my first thought being that she ignored the audacity of such a request in a tavern, she returns soon enough with a steaming glass. Its content white as moonstones.

“Thanks, Ameline.” I utter as she doesn’t linger, waving the back of her hand at me.

    Her name. It echoed to me along with that piece of memory… Gryffin’s? This was the name of the initial owner of this body, right? I guess it is.

    Wondering if I’m bound to be prey to many more of these intrusive flashbacks, I warm my fingertips against the milk glass.

    Even if I feel the urge to drown the content of the first mug Ameline put on the table, I try to ignore it. This body craves it. Not me.

    The only thing I could think of, hoping for some sort of comfort, was the cup of hot milk Gordon served me at Peccelotte’s mansion.

“…”

    Hands cupping the glass, I bring it to my lips.

    Sip by sip.

    As I hoped, at least no one seems decided to come and bother me. Should I address a prayer to the goddess of mercy? Oh well, no one believes in any god in this world.

    Sip by sip.

“You are my hero. I won’t forget you.” Pecce’s words echo again.

    My grip on the glass tightens, a shadow over my face.

“I am a hero only in your eyes. If you knew me… If you truly knew me… You’d think like them.” I purse my lips. “You’d know your kindness was lost on me.”

    I abandoned long ago the idea of finding warmth in anyone. In this life, as Razzel. But also long before, as that man whose value was defined by whether he could be useful or not. Was, and still is. This sounds like a rule which transcends death. Kind of a universal filth, no matter the world, huh?

    And yet…

    I’m surprised to find some sort of comfort in Pecce’s smile. It wasn’t fake.

    Someone cared. Someone didn’t despise me. In a sense, she reminds me of that little cloud.

“Fufu…”

    That little monster I found only recently, and already seemed to be so concerned by my misfortune. Actually, I still suspect it to simply be thoughtless.

“Wait, where is Fufu?”

    My eyes widen as I realise that I forgot about him. Quick glances all around allow me to confirm the little cloud isn’t here. Knots settle in my stomach at the thought that he might still be at the place where I was executed.

“…”

    Part of me wants to remain here. But…

    With a jolt, I stand up and rush out of the tavern.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    Every single working braincell of mine compels me to leave, to back away.

    Despite that, I end up finding the very place I fled. The platform where I died.

    No more crowd is gathered. The execution complete, they must have returned to their activities, to the lives they still have.

    No more guard is present. Nobody cared yet to clean the corpse, or what remains of it. It takes me all my resolve not to throw up again at the sight of pieces of flesh scattered all over there and, knelt among them, the figure of a maid.

    Shoulders shake, clenched teeth hold back raging sobs.

“I’m sorry…. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry….” Semia frantically whispers, collecting in her bloodied arms pieces of Peccelotte.

    There was no more face, no more beetroot hair, the locks mingled with blood. Shreds of fabric soaked with crimson.

    Unable to tear my eyes from a truth I can’t escape any more, I don’t notice at first the little shape escaping the platform to float near my feet, heavy from the blood dripping from its now red cottony edges…

“Fufu…” I mutter.

    The poor thing doesn’t even emit the faintest sound, shaking to the core.

    But I barely have time to glance at him before Semia’s complaints grow more frenzied. Her back arched, she is rocking back and forth while clutching pieces of Peccelotte against herself.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

    Peccelotte and I are very different, and this is maybe what makes us the most different. She was loved. Peccelotte would be missed.

    Her smile flashes through my mind.

    I’m definitely not the hero type. A prince? I never even aspired to fight over the throne. Epic lineage? Sure, fancy background. But I have only this little ambition.

    In fifteen years, I didn’t change. I died twice being the same useless person. Or should I say thrice? Fact being, I don’t believe in second chances. That’s some irony-filled concept. Nothing more.

    But…

    I curl my fingers into fists, trembling with rage.

“I promise you… I’ll try to become the hero I was in your eyes. Whatever it takes.”

    This may be my only hope to pay tribute to Peccelotte. The only way to ask for her forgiveness.