As dawn spreads across Ardonia the following morning, Ingressus finally accepts defeat, if that's what he would be willing to call it. But he could also sit and call it a victory, for the first time since his ten-year ordeal, he felt peace within himself
Perhaps it would stay like that. Perhaps it wouldn't. That was for him to decide
Author's note: everything about this chapter is last minute - the chapter itself, the drawing, the upload. everything is last minute because I cannot even with life being somehow *determined* to stop this fic from being updated on its schedule. I promised y'all that there would be no more interruptions but good lord it's tough to keep that one. I had bought myself three weeks from the last three uploads after hammering them out across two days to buy that time. I had every intention of using that time comfortably. it did not go to plan XD
on that note, I appreciate y'all sticking around and suffering along with me, as well as my beta who never knows when Imma spring a chapter on her in need of beta-ing out of the blue XD
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To remember one's past as something that one cannot keep is to incite the utmost pain in one's head. Of all of the trauma and physical pain that Ingressus had undergone in the ten years that he was captive to the corrupted Tidesinger, none bear any comparison to the pain that he feels on gazing upon the broken staff that he had the lightest of grasps on as the sun rose over the secluded fishing hole in the south of Nestoria. He held it as though he was scared to grip it any tighter, as though in his hands he held the very physical incarnation of his memories with a small, timid Nestoris with whom he shared the fondest of experiences, of whom he had no idea would later become his enemy – and then some. As if china, he held the staff with tender care, fearful that he could shatter it with his monstrous, scarred, and callous hands, like he felt he had done with everything else he ever cherished in life.
Even this late on, this far from everything that he had caused, everything that he had created, he could look back and blame everything on himself. Everything. He had been down this road before – looking at the situation with a fresh pair of eyes (as much as 'a pair' would contribute) and see as if for the first time the mess that laid before him, realising from a new point of view that disaster had struck conjured with his own two hands, warranted by his own mind, determined by his own past. He knew the feeling well. It sat heavy in his stomach, weighted uncomfortably with every step that he took, every move he made. He knew that Achillean had felt exactly the same – even when he was wedged under the diabolical corruption that controlled him for those ten haunting years, he knew that Achillean felt the guilt. He could empathise with the boy.
Watching yourself destroy something using the same hands that created it is more soul destroying than the act itself...
But as he dangled his legs over the cliff edge once more, with the rising sun baking his tender back, casting his ever-looming shadow over the staff of which he held, he had finally come to the realisation that he had been fearing since he had made his decision to venture out to Nestoria.
On that early morning that he had awoken from yet another inescapable night terror, when he had decided to hang around for no longer and at last uncover what had become of the little boy that he had grown up with, he had every intention of finding Achillean. He would never admit it, but deep down, he was sure that he would find him. He would find him, and he would find a way to help him, even if it were something as simple as returning to the way he used to be four years ago – feeding and supplying safety for him; but after revisiting the mine network and finding that he had still not returned, his hope had dwindled.
Now, he knew.
He was never going to find Achillean.
Dead or alive, he would never find him; and knowing that in the very place that they had connected... He couldn't describe the feeling. He wasn't sad. He wasn't joyful. He wasn't heartbroken. He felt at peace with the world. For seven years, he had nothing but inner conflict. For four years, he did nothing but wonder. At long last, he could gaze upon the shoreline that he would once share with another and know that he need not wonder any longer.
It didn't help his concern that, if Achillean were still somehow alive, he would still be running from everything; but at least the suffering would be short.
They had both suffered a lot in their lives – decades of strife and little else.
Like the broken staff that he held lightly in his hands, he would hold onto the peace. He would hold onto the memories that mattered, and he would finally let go of that which ailed him for years on-end. For the first time since the Nether tournament almost 20 years ago, he could lift his head and inch into a smile. He could relax. He didn't know if the pain would ever go away, but he felt now more than ever that it would at long last subside.
He wondered if the night terrors would leave him be, letting him sleep well at night. He wondered if his demons would release their grip around his throat, strangling him every waking hour. He wondered if the slender grip of his thoughts would cease, allowing his mind to breathe. He wouldn't know, and it would be a long time to come before he could look back on these days and believe that he had come far, but he could see his first steps holding the broken piece of what once remained.
He couldn't smile at the absence of his brother, and he couldn't smile knowing of everything that the pair of them had gone through, but he could smile that was at last beginning to pass – that the ever-looming cloud of darkness that hung over his head every day would begin to fade, and the dead weight that he carried with him with every step would detach from his ankles, freeing him as Aegus had done on that day seven years ago, liberated.
Maybe he would still see him in his dreams. Maybe that was Achillean's way of getting through to him, and now that he had at long last found peace of mind, perhaps Achillean would no longer attack him in those dreams. Perhaps Achillean was only the nightmare in his dreams because he couldn't subconsciously let go. Now, he could. He could let go, and in finding that moment within himself, he filled up with hope more than when he had even first set out to uncover the mystery. He strode to the mine network with hope, only to have it shattered upon first glance. Here and now sat on the cliff edge of childhood memories – a peaceful time if ever there was one for the former Deathsinger – he breamed with it.
He would never be whole again – much like Achillean – but this was the next best thing. He would never be able to fill the hole that had been left by the ten-year ordeal, but he could patch up the wounds that still lingered, and one day, one could look upon him and see only faded scars. Not a bruise to be found. Not a wound uncared for.
One day, he thought. One day...
All the while he sat there, Ingressus had not realised that he had been blinking back a tear from his one good eye, for it wasn't until Amantius' light snoring had caught his attention that he found himself returning to the real world, escaping his abyss of thoughts; although this time, he was not in any rush to free himself from those wandering thoughts. He hastily rubbed his face, still sore and achy from days of restlessness and uncertainty – and tension, if he were being honest with himself. He glanced over his shoulder at the small, tired boy, curled up at the base of the tree with Achilles, snoozing away. He allowed himself a soft scoff in amusement. He could recall that Achillean had once fallen asleep by that tree after fishing all day, the bucket full of his bounty idle beside him, for Ingressus remembered his envy late that day at Achillean's more successful fishing session, and he had stolen two small fish from the Nestoris' bucket to add to his own. Even to this day, Ingressus was never sure if Achillean knew of that act and simply said nothing, or if he was just too innocent to notice. He was extra careful to be sure that he did not wake Achillean, which was easy as his unkempt hair draped over his tired eyes, although he hadn't curled up like Amantius had. He and Achilles were almost in mirror position.
At least he understood Amantius' mannerisms if he spent all his free time with a stray cat. He had expected Ilius to be better than that, but war will change the hearts of most, if not all.
Ingressus resumed facing the shoreline, watching the calm waves lap at the rocky sides, splashing lightly up the cliff edge and reaching for the grass verge on which he sat. The sounds of the ocean always calmed him – even when he would sit at the edge amidst a storm, seeing the violent water crash with intention, threatening to take what it wanted. He couldn't explain it, but even in the most violent of moments – the ones in which minimal control could be accomplished – he would find peace with the waves, sating even his most hungry emotions, determined to eat him up from the inside. He related to water – uncontrollable in a rage, fluid in tranquillity. He could either be the strongest, most foreboding character anyone had ever known, or he could be unnoticed, in the background and uneventful.
He liked it like that.
It was the Voltaris' misfortune to remain exiled in the Barrier Mountains of Northwind where water did not flow with such unpredictability. Instead, it stayed frozen, unmoving. Ingressus would think that he would enjoy those morning walks with Nakiri by the frozen lake if it wasn't... frozen – where he would take solace in the water's movement. It was one of the few aspects of Northwind that Ingressus would regret remembering that he would have to return to once he had found the answers that he sought; but all of the other aspects made it worthwhile.
Remembering that there were Voltaris waiting for him there was the biggest. He remembered that the Tidesinger's favourite game to play – with the help of Galleous – was to make him believe that there would be not a single Voltaris standing on the day that they would finally kill Ingressus, so that he may lie there dying in his cell, knowing that he had every opportunity to make things better for his clan, and instead wasted away, worthless. He never forgot that. He would remember it on the sight of even one Ardoni of Voltaris colours – that he had come so close to never seeing another again.
It didn't help his guilt, of course, remembering that he had very hastily and very suddenly abandoned his clan in search of his selfish answers; but Nakiri was always telling him that he needed to be more selfish sometimes – that he was spending too much of his mental energy thinking about his impact on others, and that it was slowly making him worse, for he was not focussing on his health, but on how his lack thereof was affecting people that ultimately didn't matter to him in the long run. This was his first selfish move since he had returned. He would hope that his clan would understand.
Nakiri and Jerome, especially...
They were all in the same boat, at the end of the day. Unjust and prejudice, the Voltaris had been cast off and left with little to nothing to their name.
He had to return to nothing... with nothing.
Or at least, that was his first thought, when in fact, Ingressus had gained a lot over the few days that he had been wandering between territories – more than even he had realised.
A small Nestoris stowaway would be the first thing that would crease the skin under his eyes as his lip stretched. He could still hear him lightly snoring behind him.
He could leave. He could return to Northwind right this very second and never say a word. He could stand up, retrieve his cloak, wrap himself in its shadows to disguise his markings, and make the several-day trip back to his camp, and Amantius wouldn't know a thing until he would wake up as though from a dream – that he had never known the mysterious red Ardoni, that the Voltaris didn't exist, and the Deathsinger was nothing more than the twisted tale that his father had told him many times before.
He could do it.
He could just leave.
He should just leave. He had gotten what he had come for, after all – and then some. He had no need to be out here in Nestoria so dangerously close to the enemy, the clan that were most likely to kill him on sight, regardless of what he had to say for himself, regardless of how much of a monster the Tidesinger appeared in comparison. He was the Deathsinger, after all. He had no heart, no soul. He had no morals, not a care. He was ruthless, destructive, monstrous. He was fear incarnate, the nightmare of children's stories, the villain in everyone else's. Why should he think twice before abandoning a child that had followed him everywhere for days? Why should he have mercy on the small soul?
Because that was who he was.
He wasn't the Deathsinger. He wasn't heartless, soulless, careless. Destruction was never his nature; fear was never his whole. He would be lying if he said he didn't rely on some aspect of fear in his ways – he was still a leader – but it was never the government in its entirety.
After all, he would often say that "a little fear commands obedience; however, one must also balance fear with respect." And he did where he could.
The same went for Amantius. He wouldn't just pick up and leave him, but he would also make it clear that he could hang around for no longer. He had never told the small boy the real reason as to why he was out here on his own, looking for something that he could not explain, and he wasn't about to either; but he wouldn't just leave him.
If Ingressus were being honest with himself, he had grown attached to the lonesome boy, anxiety, speech impediment, and all.
He looked to the elastic still linked around his wrist. He had gotten used to the feeling of having something around his wrists that meant not harm, and he had already found its uses even during the night. It drew his attention to something that wasn't his thoughts, whenever they would wander, and his subconscious had finally settled on the freedom of having something enclasped around his skin and still being able to do as he pleased. This was not the confinement of shackles.
This was the freedom to think.
He never would have related something enclasped around him as 'freeing,' but he could now – and all because of a small boy with his own convoluted form of anxiety.
He smiled again.
"Wh-what awe y-you s-smiling at?"
Ingressus half-jumped from his thoughts as Amantius' curious breath brushed across his features in a sudden start. He had not heard the boy rise from his restful sleep, nor did he hear him potter on over to him and lean over his shoulder. His features straightened out to seriousness as he turned to Amantius with a slight look of confusion glancing across his eyes.
"Nothing," he said plainly, looking the Nestoris dead in the eyes.
Amantius frowned playfully.
"I d-d-dink y-you wewe..." he said suspiciously. "You wewe s-s-smiling at s-someding..."
"Did your father never teach you to mind your own business?" Ingressus said with a smirk, knowing that if anything, he should have said that when he first met the boy. Perhaps that would have convinced him to go home way back then; but as much as he knew it was ineffective at this point, Amantius knew it, too.
He laughed.
"Always!" he giggled.
Much like a toddler, Amantius threw himself on the grass verge beside Ingressus and stared at the ocean with him, all the while Achilles continued to sleep curled up beside the tree. Ingressus wasn't sure what to say since Amantius had woken up, and as though the Nestoris could read his thoughts, he was scared to think too deeply about anything that had happened, even within the last 20 years. He had done well to remain composed for the most part during their time together, and he could count himself lucky that he'd had no issues with disassociation or paramnesia around the boy, lest he injure him in an unfortunate relapse of rage and anxiousness; he wasn't about to change now. He had made no effort to show himself as the Deathsinger of the stories, but he also wanted Amantius to realise the risks that he was taking – for Ingressus' sake above else.
But this, at the end of his journey yearning for answers, he was slowly losing his grip on composure. He wanted not an emotion to show in front of Amantius. He had gotten lucky that the boy's innocence had let him get away with his nightmare; but if he were to let slip even a molecule of a tear, the Nestoris would be on his back with questions in no time.
Then what would he say?
And as he blinked a split second too late, that very thing happened, and he sniffed rather suddenly, trying – wishing – to take it back. He needn't dare look to Amantius.
But he didn't need to.
Amantius flopped his head onto Ingressus' arm as it still lightly gripped the broken staff. He nuzzled against his hardened skin and relaxed with a hefty sigh as if having run for miles before at last seating himself beside the finish line. Ingressus could feel his contentedness, yet even still he could not understand it.
Had this boy no clue who he was, after all this time?
And just as the Voltaris Master could find himself the chance to relax for the first real time in years, something set him off again.
He heard something that he wasn't expecting, and Amantius squeaked.
"Ingressus, is that you?" came the voice from the bushes behind them.