Contrary to the popular beliefs of some, moving around to evade detection was just about the worst way to evade detection. Every motion is noticed by someone, and even the most carefully hidden shadow will sooner or later fail to go unnoticed. Every road that's walked on and every word that's spoken signifies the existence of one more person who's seen or heard you pass by.Â
Such were the thoughts crossing the pirate's mind when he awoke, surrounded by crates and darkness, the cold stone of the floor making its unwelcome presence known to his rattled bones. The interior of the Aleport warehouse was as mundane as a warehouse could get, and calling Nero's accommodations shoddy would be calling a Sahagin a fairly decent swimmer. The warehouse was completely devoid of light, save for two windows above the large rectangular doorway that allowed for the occasional intrusion of sunlight. Nero pawed his left hand around him in the darkness until he felt the rough steel of the oil lantern he'd managed to preserve. A squeaky swing of the hinges and some concentration lead to a small spark emerging from the his fingertips. That tiny flame was the best he could do--the silver scepter that had served as his focus had been lost in the raid.Â
It was with no small measure of amusement that Nero noted the practicality of Vail's advice even as he struggled to sit up, wincing from his recent injuries. Several moons of successfully hiding from his worst enemies by cowering in his estate was, in the end, punctuated by an attack by brigands on the caravan he was travelling with during a rainy night on his way to Aleport. There was safety in numbers, generally speaking, but numbers--and a wagon full of goods--also attracted the kind of attention that was belligerent, greedy, and rhymed with "andit".
Of course, whether or not they were truly simple outlaws was a question that would remain forever unanswered. They wore no insignia and dressed in black clothing and were far more organised than the standard grounded raider that typically made up caravan attacks in La Noscea. Calling them assassins might be paranoid, but calling them anything else was probably quite naive. In either case, Nero found that it was an appropriately contrived ending. He had little idea as to the full extent of his enemies, yet it seems at least one was merely waiting for him to emerge into the public eye.
He raised his right hand to rub his face, only to wince as pain shot through his shoulder. Nero's tattered linen robe still had holes from the bullets, and to the pirate's dismay he found that he still could not raise his right arm above his chest too much without the joint and collarbone screaming in protest. The crude stitches he'd managed to apply across the gash on the side of his abdomen were only barely holding together and were oozing sticky blood and pus. A brief inspection of his forehead with his left hand found that the ugly swelling above his eye hadn't ceased, though thankfully he still had some measure of clear vision. The ratty cloth canvas that served as a blanket was peppered with dry bloodstains, and an audible groan escaped from Nero's lips as he sat up against the large box. Despite his rather horrid condition, the thought of seeking aid didn't cross his mind even once; Aleport lacked conjurers and he dare not risk another attack from his black-clothed friends showing his face again before his ship arrived.Â
The orange glow of the lantern did little to alleviate the gloomy atmosphere, the struggle of the flame inside the vessel only accentuated the grim situation he'd found himself in. Nero had been squatting in this warehouse for more than two days now. The first day, when he'd managed to somehow stagger into Aleport without succumbing to his injuries, he'd spent every waking minute cursing the delay. A ship was to arrive here, bound for Sharlayan and then to Othard, only to be stalled by a sudden tempest. By the second day of inhabiting the unused warehouse, his curses had surrendered to cold silence, and today naught was there to comfort him but resigned acceptance.
The malaise that had set upon him the previous day was still present. Something was likely infected, but at this point Nero lacked the means or the funds to seek medicine, and every second he spent in public was another chance for his old friends in black to finish what they started. He felt his life's fluids leaking out of the various wounds on his body, and the longer he stayed awake, the dizzier he felt, just like yesterday.
"What a way to go, eh laddie?" A voice called to him in the darkness. Nero glared at it with his good eye. Emerging from the oppressive gloom was a Hyur, a Midlander. The newcomer's face still held some youthful vitality, yet it was also aged, the skin creasing against the lines of his jaws, his cheeks somewhat gaunt. The eyes were guarded by long locks of fiery orange hair the shade of hot coals, each pupil gleaming sharply with intellect and wit yet holding a a bitter and steely edge. A sharply trimmed beard adorned an equally sharp jawline, the same warm hue as his hair. The Hyur's jewelry, his amulets and earrings, jingled with amusement at each motion he made, and those accessories matched the man's clothing in gaudiness; a pure white shirt with red trim, embroidered with elaborate golden patterns, silken black trousers, and boots of fine velvet.
The Midlander--grinning suavely to show off an array of sharp, almost carnivorous teeth--pulled up a box and plopped himself down on it, his various ornaments chiming in a cacophony of acknowledgement. The newcomer crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knees. It was an incredible contrast that was struck between the two men: one confident and flashy, dressed in noble finery and infinitely arrogant, the other clad in little more than rags, despondent and resentful.Â
The Midlander gave Nero a cursory inspection before clicking his tongue and shaking his head sadly. "You know, I could have sworn I raised you to be a bit better than this." He rummaged around in his pockets until he pulled out an elaborate smoking pipe made of ebon wood and gleaming nacre, spinning it around in his meaty fingers.
Nero's response was a disdainful snort. He groaned as he adjusted his position, leaning his back against a large box. "Back again, huh? You know, they say that children are living proof of their parents' limitations. I wonder if that's more of an insult to me or to you."
Vail gave a puff of the pipe in his hands, though no flame was lit. "Do they really say that? Though, you're not really my brat, so I suppose that at it's only a half insult to me at most." He spun the pipe in his hands again, flashing that crooked smirk that had once been so familiar.
Nero's chest rose and fell with rhythmic breathing as he slumped against the crate, eyeing the man sitting on the crate. "I should probably tell you that your advice is garbage, by the way. I've heard more helpful adages from rocks and talking oranges."
The man on the crate gave a slight not of agreement, creasing his face in amusement. "Could be. Or you just didn't follow it well enough. And you're talking to oranges now? Ye gods, I always called you a friendless bastard, but I didn't think you were that friendless."
"Stuff it, old man."
Vail raised the pipe to indicate towards Nero's head, an eyebrow rising with interest. "So uh, your hair? You do that yourself? Missed dear old pops so much that you needed to keep a constant reminder?"
"Contrast is more effective at drawing attention when you're making deals. I needed to be someone less boring than you, which admittedly wasn't difficult."
The pipe stopped spinning in his fingers as Vail feigned a wounded expression. "Boring!? I was many things, but boring was definitely not it." There was another pause and another whiff of the empty vessel. "You didn't answer my question."
Nero sighed. "No, I didn't do it myself. There was some Elezen, an Aesthetician in Limsa Lominsa who was more than happy to charge me my weight in gil for it." Vail said nothing in response, merely grinning in amusement.Â
The conversation died quickly for a time.
"So, you look pretty beat up," Vail casually observed.
"I'm so glad that your nine-odd years of being dead haven't robbed you of your ability to observe the obvious," Nero responded dryly. As quickly as it was broken, the silence returned, enveloping the warehouse like a blanket.
"You afraid of death?" the man on the crate asked.
"No," Nero murmured, shooting his adoptive father an annoyed glance. "After all, you came back from it enough to mess with my head for a few days. It can't be that bad. Or effective."
"True," Vail conceded. "Yet something tells me that you're afraid of something, lad. You afraid of dying? If not death itself."
"No," Nero echoed.
The older gentleman spread his arms. "Then educate me. What is it that you're fearing in these last few moments of your life?"
"That's awfully fatalistic of you to say, isn't it? 'Never say die'." the pirate muttered to himself. Nero tried to inhale deeply, only to exhale sharply as a jabbing pain made its presence known in his lungs. It seemed the bullet was still lodged somewhere uncomfortable. A frustrated grunt forced itself through his lips. "If you must know, it's impossible to fear dying when your entire life has been naught but one slow death."
A pair of warm hazel eyes threatened to roll themselves right out of their sockets. "Must you be so dramatic, boy?"
"Probably not, but I've no idea if I'm going to die tomorrow or eighty years from now. That's the exciting part of life, isn't it? That uncertainty." Nero's response garnered no reaction.
A much larger, bulkier frame emerged from the darkness to stand behind Vail. Ashen blonde hair, skin tinted a minty green, and a stern demeanor came with it.
"So, lad, ye been shot an' abused mightily thus far," Daegsatz whistled as the Roegadyn gazed throughout the dark confines of the warehouse. "This'n all be worth it?"
Nero snorted, wincing as he did. "What kind of question is that?"
"Th' question ye be askin' yerself all this time, lad," the Roegadyn said.
"The question we're asking you now," Vail affirmed, the crooked smirk flashing across his face again.
Nero sighed and rubbed his head. The amount of visitors was increasing lately and he wasn't sure that he liked it all that much. "I don't know, I think my injuries are worth a couple thousand gil at the very least. The amount of people who would pay to see me half-dead like this is astronomical. You could send them all to Ishgard and they'd win their war with the dragons through sheer numbers alone." He met Vail's smirk with his own weak trademark.
"But was it worth it, in the end?" The voices blended together, making it unclear who was asking. Not that it mattered.
"Nothing ever ends," Nero grunted. "As for your stupid question, 'worth' is relative. If you mean to ask me 'was it worth it' in the sense of 'did I achieve my goal', then no, none of this was worth it. I didn't even come close to accomplishing what I set out to do. And so, in conclusion, my life of twenty-nine some odd cycles or so is--was--pretty much worthless."
"And yet," once again the pipe was set on its adventure of rotation on Vail's fingers, "knowing this from the start, knowing that your chances of succeeding were close to zero, you set out to accomplish it anyway. You killed many people for it. Women. Children. Abandoned by your crew and your ship. You even got my first mate killed, somehow, which is something I'd been trying to do for years." He tapped a finger affectionately against the Roegadyn's arm.
The pair of them received a baleful scowl.
"So, was it worth it?"
Nero sighed again, his exhalation giving way to coughing. "We all need a little self-delusion. A lot of self delusion. It's how all of us get by in life. We tell ourselves 'yes I am making a difference' and 'yes I did the right thing', blissfully ignoring how insignificant our lives are and how resistant to meaningful change this world is. That said, I probably deluded myself into thinking it was worth it. Changing Ul'dah, making things better." Though he couldn't see it--the orange flame barely extended past his wrist--Nero lifted his left hand and stared at where his palm would be in the darkness. "They say that that intelligence eventually leads to desire, and desire leads to the two most tragic things that can ever happen in a mortal life. The first tragic thing is not being able to obtain what you want. The second tragic thing is obtaining what you want."
"So then laddie, which o' them tragedies be yers?"
Another snort blasted itself from Nero's nose. "Well, let me answer that by saying this: the good guys have won a triumphant victory, and everyone in Ul'dah still managed to lose. And the funniest part about that is that it'll happen again. It'll keep happening."
The pirate sighed, lolling his head to the side, careful to keep away the sizable bump on his forehead away from the crate he was leaning against. His vision had begun to dim, though perhaps it was a trick of the lack of light. "So in conclusion, no. It wasn't worth it. Nothing is worth it. Nothing is worth anything. When I came at the crossroads, I should have stopped and simply turned the other way."
Vail uncrossed and recrossed his legs, an index finger tapping his beard thoughtfully. "The boy I knew would have never been content with that life of apathy."
"Of course not, but that life would have at least given me ample time to think of a theatrical suicide. Blaze of glory or something, instead of rotting in a warehouse having to entertain you two figments of my imagination, waiting for that idiotic paladin to swagger in here and be unable to kill me because of her stupid morals. Again."
"Ye ev'r consid'r that she might be right, lad? That there be another way o' doin' all this without..." Two thick arms the size of tree trunks raised themselves to indicate the warehouse. "Without doin' all o' this?"
Nero raised his left hand in a mocking proclamation. "Then let her and her goody-goody friends take care of it. If there really was another way, they wouldn't need people like me to show them that there was no other way." He left his hand fall to his side as he muttered to himself. "Twats."
His venomous statement gave way to stillness as his inquisitive companions slunk away and faded into the blackness. There was no way to tell the time save by approximating the position of the sunlight that filtered through the dull windows of the warehouse, but the pirate was barely registering the sunlight at all, much less using it to track time. His eyes were half closed and he barely registered his erstwhile guardians re-materializing into existence.
"So then, lad, what are you afraid of? You know me, always spouting off proverbs and the like. Judge a man by what he fears." Vail wagged the mouthpiece of the pipe towards the slumping pirate. "Judgement time."
Nero glared at the wagging smoking pipe. He attempted to inhale deeply, only to fall short of breath once again. "I'm pretty damn scared of being expected to live, I'll tell you that much."
"Oho? That bad, eh?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely aware of how I sound. I'm just some whinging adolescent thinking his entire future is over because he isn't allowed to go pork the vacant-eyed bimbo with the big rack who lives across the street."
"Hah!" The man on the crate leaned back as he barked out a guffaw. "Ain't no woman in the world worth dying for, much less living for, laddie."
"What shall the warrior do when all of his foes are dead? What shall the doctor do when all illness has sped away from this world? What shall the merchant do when wealth loses all value? Silly premises, perhaps, but the answer is the same. A life without meaning is a very special kind of death, reserved for punishing the most heinous of crimes." Another sigh. "So, yes, I suppose you can say I'm pretty afraid of death. I'm afraid of dying. Just not in the traditional sense."
"But my dear child, are you not condemning yourself to such an existence this very second?" A third silhouette emerged to accompany the warm voice, a Highlander woman. Hastily applied makeup did its best to mask bruises and scars and once voluptuous figure had shrunk due to hunger and been wrapped in a scantily-designed dress meant for "easy access". She wore no other clothing besides the tattered dress, not even shoes. Nero dare not look at her face, but he could see the blood leaking from her forehead.
Nero exhaled. "Well, you're not wrong. Believe it or not, I'm not completely fatalistic. As long as one lives and breathes--okay, bad example with me, given the..." he was tempted to tap himself in the chest to make a point but thought better of it. "But still--one can one day find his purpose and rekindle his desire to live again."
"And yet, even knowin' this, ye be 'appy ta condemn yerself ta death. Th' traditional kind." The Roegadyn rumbled.
"Yeah, because I know better by now. I said that life is an opportunity to find a purpose. I never said my life held that same kind of opportunity. I'm not exactly keen on pushing the boulder up the hill just to see it roll all the way back down the other side. Trust me, I've done that a few times. That boulder can go plough itself." Nero spat.
"The purpose of life is to have the freedom to seek its own purpose, laddie. You deny such a purpose. What's the measure of your life then, boy? What were you put here to do? What is your reason?" The Midlander murmured.
"Was," Nero corrected himself. "I'm fairly certain that I'll be dead soon." He grunted again as he adjusted his position against the boxes. "To get back to your question, who knows? Maybe my purpose was to be arrogant, believe I knew better, and proceed to make a complete ass of myself in front of everyone who claimed to care about Ul'dah. Maybe my purpose was to be the hack of a villain of some terrible story and make all of the good guys look good in comparison. Really, at this point, I couldn't care less."
"But what about atonement?" The Highlander hummed.
"What about atonement?"
"P'raps th' purpose o' all o' this'n be ta see yer own misguided cynicism fail, an' ta be giv'n th' chance ta redeem yerself."
"Brilliant," Nero scoffed. "Turns out the only reason I was born was so I can posture myself in front of some self-righteous group of bastards and whores and spend the rest of my life trying to convince myself that living in destitute misery is actually a very enviable existence."
"And now you're contradicting yourself. I could have sworn you weren't this stupid when you were crying on my ship. You demand justice for yourself and those souls you claim to sympathise with, and yet when the same demand of justice is made to you, you balk and refuse. Remind me never to strike a deal with you. You'd just run away from it." Vail raised an eyebrow sharply. "It's not as if you hate the idea of atonement. Not completely, anyway. If you did, you wouldn't have sabotaged Randolph's machine, and you wouldn't have told the paladin where to find you."Â
"That's called 'cutting my losses', old man. Something you failed to understand, which ended up getting you killed," the pirate responded disdainfully. "My plan would have never succeeded at that point. Merlwyb demolished the plans for the Rhotano League, so my collaborators are out of funding and are at each other's throats, and my support in Ul'dah is non-existent. The least I could do is wipe that stain of my past off the map." Now it was Nero's turn to sigh, pointedly ignoring the point that had been brought up about the paladin. "Even so, it seems nobody around here has ever been truly understanding the point I've been trying to make," Nero muttered bitterly. "Every bleeding heart shitelord and their mother going around screaming at me, 'the women and children, the women and children!'. The only thing that is worse than being forced to die is being forced to live."
"And so you were believe you were doing them a favour?" The woman's voice asked kindly, lacking any edge of judgment.Â
"I was saving them from a slow death. A life of misery, to be dominated by nothing but thoughts of how to survive the next day, the next hour...like I said, that is a very special kind of death. The kind of death that all of those arrogant fools are all too happy to subject them to."
"Yet ye be speak'n as if ye yerself not be engagin' in th' exact same imposition o' perspective that they are. Ye believe that they be forcin' a life o' misery. Yerself be forcin' an unwillin' death. Neither side be askin' those people who are bein' forced."
"Seeking morality in a situation like this is pointless. You either win, and you're right, or you lose, and you're wrong. Trying to gain the moral high ground is like trying to climb up a tree with all of your limbs cut off," the pirate breathed. "There is no justice, no righteousness, no good or evil in this. There are results, or the lack thereof, and nothing more."
"Boy, did you not start this crusade because of your morality? Because you believed your way to be right?"
"I believe my way to be preferable."
"But if someone had come along while you struggled on the streets, and told you they were doing you a favour by making you die for their cause, would you have accepted it?" The woman breathed the gentle, understanding sigh of a parent.
Nero paused, hesitating as his eye caught a rivulet of blood running down the woman's silhouette. "Regardless of what they told me their cause was, I wouldn't have accepted it. I would think they were lying or stupid or both." His voice trembled somewhat. "But if I did end up dying, I wouldn't have begrudged them."
"Ye would 'ave struggled ta live til yer own life be taken. That not be a contradiction o' what ye be sayin' 'fore, ye reckon?"
"I didn't struggle because I want to. I struggled to live because it was instinct. Self-preservation. That cruel gift that allows mortal lives to endure the very worst of the world beyond all hope and doubt."
The pause in the air was palpable.
"So, really," Vail, ever eager to overthrow a lull in the dialogue, examined his pipe as he ceased its spinning, the elaborate frame frozen around his thumb and index finger. "None of this was worth it then, eh, boy? Wasn't worth the killing, wasn't worth Satz, wasn't worth the Forte, wasn't worth them nasty injuries, and at the end of it all, one way or another you'll be dead. Literally dead, or living a life without meaning and thus better off dead."Â
Nero froze.
"The reason you did all of this, the reason why you were so willing to kill is because you reject a life ruled by instinct, a life that lacks all meaning except survival, and you call that a fate crueler than death. And yet, even as you rejected it, you hated yourself for accepting it as well, for without it you would never have had the option of rejecting it in the first place. Thus armed with this hypocrisy, you set about your plan with the intention of forcing everyone to reject that self-preservation whether they wanted to or not." Slowly, disdainfully, the pipe resumed its twirl. The crew of the Second Forte emerged led by Garalt, his square jaw narrowly set in reluctant determination.
"Ye be denyin' 'em their right as mortals ta struggle ta preserve themselves in a world that be cruel an' unusual. An' in doin' so, ye be managin' ta convince yerself that 'cause o' yer own experiences, such a thing be permissible, even if'n ye be considerin' it a necessary evil. Ye projected yerself an' yer choices onto them, an' called it a favour." Daegsatz folded his arms, his face wrinkled with sadness, his body soon glowing with the flames that threatened to engulf him. Another group stepped forward; Dunesfolk Lalafell with sword wounds, some with spears skewered right through them, Brass Blades with scorched armor and sailors bloated from the sea.
"Adair..." Fiora's silhouette stepped forward and crouched down to his level. He still couldn't force himself to look at her, for he knew what he would saw; a shattered skull, the blood seeping against the pavement. The Highlander woman reached out her arms to touch his houlders, her skin taut, her muscles weak and spindly. "In many cases, life is much worse than death. Death is itself a mercy, an instantaneous moment of pain soon to be flooded by the unending peace of oblivion. Life is often several moments of prolonged agony, stretched to a hundred years. And yet, that anguish, that torturous existence, that conflict and struggle is what assigns meaning to life. It is what differentiates living a life and dying a death. Without that struggle, without that bout of misery and torment...by taking that away, you remove life's meaning, and thus condemn all to the very death that you yourself fear."
Nero's breath shortened. His hands were shaking. He felt dizzy. He could see the blood, the blood from her skull, the blood that splashed on the walls and the pavement drip down and seep between his fingers.Â
"Not all is lost. You can still be saved."
The scantily clad Highlander woman, for an instant, vanished, and was replaced by a similarly slender form clad in armor, grey eyes scrutinizing him with a soft naivete.
And just like that, it broke.
What snapped inside of him was cold but soundless, like a glacial sheet snapping in the void. With a cry that was as ferocious as it was despairing, Nero swung his right arm. In an instant, the warm voice, the spindly arms, and the oozing blood vanished. He ignored the screaming of nerves in his shoulder at the motion, and he struggled to stand. He could not even stand up straight; it was all Nero could do to lean against the boxes in a facsimile of defiance.
"Ah," Nero said disdainfully, the volume of his voice raising. "So deep down, you're one of those people. An idealist. Let me tell you something. Love doesn't feed an empty stomach. Honor doesn't keep you warm at night. Courage doesn't heal your scars or soothe your bruises. A life of agony is a life of meaning? Don't make me laugh. That is a delusion, a weak justification made by those who've never had to worry about going hungry or freezing on the wooden planks that serve as your bed. You insist on 'salvation' and 'the right way' without understanding that every single second of your inaction is a complete and utter failure of that ideal. The only people who ever had the grounds to condemn me are people who have lived exactly like me. The people who continue to live exactly as I did. People who spend every waking minute of their consciousness facing starvation and fear and hopeless expanses of an empty future."
The Highlander woman appeared again, a few feet away from him. Nero found his gaze panicking, attempting desperately to avert themselves, but his willpower won over. With a shaking of his head and his body trembling, he forced himself to look straight at her. At the exposed bits of brain and bone that had been smashed against the wall, the eye that had popped out of its socket, the jaw hanging loose and unhinged like a snake's. She still had a sad expression on the half of her face that was still intact, and every second he forced himself to stare was another second he felt his consciousness evaporating.
"So you think you're righteous, do you? You said it yourself. A torturous existence is the only existence that has meaning. You can vilify me for robbing those lives of their worth and their purpose, but don't think for a second that you are any better than me for damning those same lives into unending squalor. Do you want me to tell you why you think that way? It's because you think you're better. You had money, you had power. You never went to bed wondering if you would wake up with another dead sibling, or a dead parent. You never waded through garbage wondering if you could find something to eat today. You ran away. You took your money and your wealth, and after building yourself a golden platform, set about calling yourself righteous, insisting that there was meaning in struggle." At this point, it wasn't clear if he was speaking to his illusionary audience or to himself.
The flames crawled up Daegsatz' broad form, lapping at his chest and soon enough, covering his shoulders and head, the latter of which casually lolled off of its body as it disintegrated wordlessly into ash. The Lalafell slowly began to fall over, one by one, and sink into the ground.
"'Women and children, women and children', they said! How could you kill women and children? Because it was necessary. I've killed men, women, children a plenty. Sometimes by my own hand, sometimes with a pen or a shout of a command, and I'd kill a thousand more if that's what it takes to see my vision through. To carve a better place for those souls denied every opportunity at happiness. To leave Ul'dah a better place than I found it. This is me. This is who I will always be. I did what I did because someone had to."
Like that day, the crew retreated. Garalt shook his head as the shadows enveloped him. Nero felt his strength leaving him, his voice growing hoarse.
"There was--is--no room for hope in Ul'dah. There is no...no way. No atonement. Not for the deaths of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. It's impossible to justify a single one of those deaths. So I will do what I must. I'll build a better future. A future that saves as many of those other lives as possible. A future without that meaningless struggle against the depravity and greed of others. To fight for that future, that is my only salvation!"
The silence persisted for what felt like years. The images of those people had completely faded away, swallowed by the empty, inky blackness of Nero's mind. He was breathing heavily now, searing pain shooting up his chest with every expansion of his lungs. Cold sweat enveloped his feverish face, and his vision had begun to shift out of focus as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Only Vail was left. The pipe had vanished from his hands completely.Â
His fingers were folded together as he stared the haggard pirate down. Though Nero himself was not sitting on it, he could feel Vail's seat on the box become uncomfortable and unwelcome.
Vail again flashed that crooked, audacious smirk. "So then, does that mean you regret it?"
A violent plume of icy shards, uncontrolled and undisciplined, as wild as the hand that shot it came screaming towards the darkness and plunged through Vail, whistling as the jagged, haphazard forms effortlessly pierced through his silhouette and crashing somewhere against the wall. Violet smoke flowed from the haphazardly conjured slivers as they disintegrated, leaving cold gashes at their point of impact.
Nero limped to the box where his adoptive father had been arrogantly sitting. The light from the tiny flame in the oil lamp had grown dimmer, leaving naught but defiant rays of sunshine.
He sat down on the box with a thud, scowling into the darkness with disgust.Â
"Grow up."
Such were the thoughts crossing the pirate's mind when he awoke, surrounded by crates and darkness, the cold stone of the floor making its unwelcome presence known to his rattled bones. The interior of the Aleport warehouse was as mundane as a warehouse could get, and calling Nero's accommodations shoddy would be calling a Sahagin a fairly decent swimmer. The warehouse was completely devoid of light, save for two windows above the large rectangular doorway that allowed for the occasional intrusion of sunlight. Nero pawed his left hand around him in the darkness until he felt the rough steel of the oil lantern he'd managed to preserve. A squeaky swing of the hinges and some concentration lead to a small spark emerging from the his fingertips. That tiny flame was the best he could do--the silver scepter that had served as his focus had been lost in the raid.Â
It was with no small measure of amusement that Nero noted the practicality of Vail's advice even as he struggled to sit up, wincing from his recent injuries. Several moons of successfully hiding from his worst enemies by cowering in his estate was, in the end, punctuated by an attack by brigands on the caravan he was travelling with during a rainy night on his way to Aleport. There was safety in numbers, generally speaking, but numbers--and a wagon full of goods--also attracted the kind of attention that was belligerent, greedy, and rhymed with "andit".
Of course, whether or not they were truly simple outlaws was a question that would remain forever unanswered. They wore no insignia and dressed in black clothing and were far more organised than the standard grounded raider that typically made up caravan attacks in La Noscea. Calling them assassins might be paranoid, but calling them anything else was probably quite naive. In either case, Nero found that it was an appropriately contrived ending. He had little idea as to the full extent of his enemies, yet it seems at least one was merely waiting for him to emerge into the public eye.
He raised his right hand to rub his face, only to wince as pain shot through his shoulder. Nero's tattered linen robe still had holes from the bullets, and to the pirate's dismay he found that he still could not raise his right arm above his chest too much without the joint and collarbone screaming in protest. The crude stitches he'd managed to apply across the gash on the side of his abdomen were only barely holding together and were oozing sticky blood and pus. A brief inspection of his forehead with his left hand found that the ugly swelling above his eye hadn't ceased, though thankfully he still had some measure of clear vision. The ratty cloth canvas that served as a blanket was peppered with dry bloodstains, and an audible groan escaped from Nero's lips as he sat up against the large box. Despite his rather horrid condition, the thought of seeking aid didn't cross his mind even once; Aleport lacked conjurers and he dare not risk another attack from his black-clothed friends showing his face again before his ship arrived.Â
The orange glow of the lantern did little to alleviate the gloomy atmosphere, the struggle of the flame inside the vessel only accentuated the grim situation he'd found himself in. Nero had been squatting in this warehouse for more than two days now. The first day, when he'd managed to somehow stagger into Aleport without succumbing to his injuries, he'd spent every waking minute cursing the delay. A ship was to arrive here, bound for Sharlayan and then to Othard, only to be stalled by a sudden tempest. By the second day of inhabiting the unused warehouse, his curses had surrendered to cold silence, and today naught was there to comfort him but resigned acceptance.
The malaise that had set upon him the previous day was still present. Something was likely infected, but at this point Nero lacked the means or the funds to seek medicine, and every second he spent in public was another chance for his old friends in black to finish what they started. He felt his life's fluids leaking out of the various wounds on his body, and the longer he stayed awake, the dizzier he felt, just like yesterday.
"What a way to go, eh laddie?" A voice called to him in the darkness. Nero glared at it with his good eye. Emerging from the oppressive gloom was a Hyur, a Midlander. The newcomer's face still held some youthful vitality, yet it was also aged, the skin creasing against the lines of his jaws, his cheeks somewhat gaunt. The eyes were guarded by long locks of fiery orange hair the shade of hot coals, each pupil gleaming sharply with intellect and wit yet holding a a bitter and steely edge. A sharply trimmed beard adorned an equally sharp jawline, the same warm hue as his hair. The Hyur's jewelry, his amulets and earrings, jingled with amusement at each motion he made, and those accessories matched the man's clothing in gaudiness; a pure white shirt with red trim, embroidered with elaborate golden patterns, silken black trousers, and boots of fine velvet.
The Midlander--grinning suavely to show off an array of sharp, almost carnivorous teeth--pulled up a box and plopped himself down on it, his various ornaments chiming in a cacophony of acknowledgement. The newcomer crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knees. It was an incredible contrast that was struck between the two men: one confident and flashy, dressed in noble finery and infinitely arrogant, the other clad in little more than rags, despondent and resentful.Â
The Midlander gave Nero a cursory inspection before clicking his tongue and shaking his head sadly. "You know, I could have sworn I raised you to be a bit better than this." He rummaged around in his pockets until he pulled out an elaborate smoking pipe made of ebon wood and gleaming nacre, spinning it around in his meaty fingers.
Nero's response was a disdainful snort. He groaned as he adjusted his position, leaning his back against a large box. "Back again, huh? You know, they say that children are living proof of their parents' limitations. I wonder if that's more of an insult to me or to you."
Vail gave a puff of the pipe in his hands, though no flame was lit. "Do they really say that? Though, you're not really my brat, so I suppose that at it's only a half insult to me at most." He spun the pipe in his hands again, flashing that crooked smirk that had once been so familiar.
Nero's chest rose and fell with rhythmic breathing as he slumped against the crate, eyeing the man sitting on the crate. "I should probably tell you that your advice is garbage, by the way. I've heard more helpful adages from rocks and talking oranges."
The man on the crate gave a slight not of agreement, creasing his face in amusement. "Could be. Or you just didn't follow it well enough. And you're talking to oranges now? Ye gods, I always called you a friendless bastard, but I didn't think you were that friendless."
"Stuff it, old man."
Vail raised the pipe to indicate towards Nero's head, an eyebrow rising with interest. "So uh, your hair? You do that yourself? Missed dear old pops so much that you needed to keep a constant reminder?"
"Contrast is more effective at drawing attention when you're making deals. I needed to be someone less boring than you, which admittedly wasn't difficult."
The pipe stopped spinning in his fingers as Vail feigned a wounded expression. "Boring!? I was many things, but boring was definitely not it." There was another pause and another whiff of the empty vessel. "You didn't answer my question."
Nero sighed. "No, I didn't do it myself. There was some Elezen, an Aesthetician in Limsa Lominsa who was more than happy to charge me my weight in gil for it." Vail said nothing in response, merely grinning in amusement.Â
The conversation died quickly for a time.
"So, you look pretty beat up," Vail casually observed.
"I'm so glad that your nine-odd years of being dead haven't robbed you of your ability to observe the obvious," Nero responded dryly. As quickly as it was broken, the silence returned, enveloping the warehouse like a blanket.
"You afraid of death?" the man on the crate asked.
"No," Nero murmured, shooting his adoptive father an annoyed glance. "After all, you came back from it enough to mess with my head for a few days. It can't be that bad. Or effective."
"True," Vail conceded. "Yet something tells me that you're afraid of something, lad. You afraid of dying? If not death itself."
"No," Nero echoed.
The older gentleman spread his arms. "Then educate me. What is it that you're fearing in these last few moments of your life?"
"That's awfully fatalistic of you to say, isn't it? 'Never say die'." the pirate muttered to himself. Nero tried to inhale deeply, only to exhale sharply as a jabbing pain made its presence known in his lungs. It seemed the bullet was still lodged somewhere uncomfortable. A frustrated grunt forced itself through his lips. "If you must know, it's impossible to fear dying when your entire life has been naught but one slow death."
A pair of warm hazel eyes threatened to roll themselves right out of their sockets. "Must you be so dramatic, boy?"
"Probably not, but I've no idea if I'm going to die tomorrow or eighty years from now. That's the exciting part of life, isn't it? That uncertainty." Nero's response garnered no reaction.
A much larger, bulkier frame emerged from the darkness to stand behind Vail. Ashen blonde hair, skin tinted a minty green, and a stern demeanor came with it.
"So, lad, ye been shot an' abused mightily thus far," Daegsatz whistled as the Roegadyn gazed throughout the dark confines of the warehouse. "This'n all be worth it?"
Nero snorted, wincing as he did. "What kind of question is that?"
"Th' question ye be askin' yerself all this time, lad," the Roegadyn said.
"The question we're asking you now," Vail affirmed, the crooked smirk flashing across his face again.
Nero sighed and rubbed his head. The amount of visitors was increasing lately and he wasn't sure that he liked it all that much. "I don't know, I think my injuries are worth a couple thousand gil at the very least. The amount of people who would pay to see me half-dead like this is astronomical. You could send them all to Ishgard and they'd win their war with the dragons through sheer numbers alone." He met Vail's smirk with his own weak trademark.
"But was it worth it, in the end?" The voices blended together, making it unclear who was asking. Not that it mattered.
"Nothing ever ends," Nero grunted. "As for your stupid question, 'worth' is relative. If you mean to ask me 'was it worth it' in the sense of 'did I achieve my goal', then no, none of this was worth it. I didn't even come close to accomplishing what I set out to do. And so, in conclusion, my life of twenty-nine some odd cycles or so is--was--pretty much worthless."
"And yet," once again the pipe was set on its adventure of rotation on Vail's fingers, "knowing this from the start, knowing that your chances of succeeding were close to zero, you set out to accomplish it anyway. You killed many people for it. Women. Children. Abandoned by your crew and your ship. You even got my first mate killed, somehow, which is something I'd been trying to do for years." He tapped a finger affectionately against the Roegadyn's arm.
The pair of them received a baleful scowl.
"So, was it worth it?"
Nero sighed again, his exhalation giving way to coughing. "We all need a little self-delusion. A lot of self delusion. It's how all of us get by in life. We tell ourselves 'yes I am making a difference' and 'yes I did the right thing', blissfully ignoring how insignificant our lives are and how resistant to meaningful change this world is. That said, I probably deluded myself into thinking it was worth it. Changing Ul'dah, making things better." Though he couldn't see it--the orange flame barely extended past his wrist--Nero lifted his left hand and stared at where his palm would be in the darkness. "They say that that intelligence eventually leads to desire, and desire leads to the two most tragic things that can ever happen in a mortal life. The first tragic thing is not being able to obtain what you want. The second tragic thing is obtaining what you want."
"So then laddie, which o' them tragedies be yers?"
Another snort blasted itself from Nero's nose. "Well, let me answer that by saying this: the good guys have won a triumphant victory, and everyone in Ul'dah still managed to lose. And the funniest part about that is that it'll happen again. It'll keep happening."
The pirate sighed, lolling his head to the side, careful to keep away the sizable bump on his forehead away from the crate he was leaning against. His vision had begun to dim, though perhaps it was a trick of the lack of light. "So in conclusion, no. It wasn't worth it. Nothing is worth it. Nothing is worth anything. When I came at the crossroads, I should have stopped and simply turned the other way."
Vail uncrossed and recrossed his legs, an index finger tapping his beard thoughtfully. "The boy I knew would have never been content with that life of apathy."
"Of course not, but that life would have at least given me ample time to think of a theatrical suicide. Blaze of glory or something, instead of rotting in a warehouse having to entertain you two figments of my imagination, waiting for that idiotic paladin to swagger in here and be unable to kill me because of her stupid morals. Again."
"Ye ev'r consid'r that she might be right, lad? That there be another way o' doin' all this without..." Two thick arms the size of tree trunks raised themselves to indicate the warehouse. "Without doin' all o' this?"
Nero raised his left hand in a mocking proclamation. "Then let her and her goody-goody friends take care of it. If there really was another way, they wouldn't need people like me to show them that there was no other way." He left his hand fall to his side as he muttered to himself. "Twats."
His venomous statement gave way to stillness as his inquisitive companions slunk away and faded into the blackness. There was no way to tell the time save by approximating the position of the sunlight that filtered through the dull windows of the warehouse, but the pirate was barely registering the sunlight at all, much less using it to track time. His eyes were half closed and he barely registered his erstwhile guardians re-materializing into existence.
"So then, lad, what are you afraid of? You know me, always spouting off proverbs and the like. Judge a man by what he fears." Vail wagged the mouthpiece of the pipe towards the slumping pirate. "Judgement time."
Nero glared at the wagging smoking pipe. He attempted to inhale deeply, only to fall short of breath once again. "I'm pretty damn scared of being expected to live, I'll tell you that much."
"Oho? That bad, eh?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely aware of how I sound. I'm just some whinging adolescent thinking his entire future is over because he isn't allowed to go pork the vacant-eyed bimbo with the big rack who lives across the street."
"Hah!" The man on the crate leaned back as he barked out a guffaw. "Ain't no woman in the world worth dying for, much less living for, laddie."
"What shall the warrior do when all of his foes are dead? What shall the doctor do when all illness has sped away from this world? What shall the merchant do when wealth loses all value? Silly premises, perhaps, but the answer is the same. A life without meaning is a very special kind of death, reserved for punishing the most heinous of crimes." Another sigh. "So, yes, I suppose you can say I'm pretty afraid of death. I'm afraid of dying. Just not in the traditional sense."
"But my dear child, are you not condemning yourself to such an existence this very second?" A third silhouette emerged to accompany the warm voice, a Highlander woman. Hastily applied makeup did its best to mask bruises and scars and once voluptuous figure had shrunk due to hunger and been wrapped in a scantily-designed dress meant for "easy access". She wore no other clothing besides the tattered dress, not even shoes. Nero dare not look at her face, but he could see the blood leaking from her forehead.
Nero exhaled. "Well, you're not wrong. Believe it or not, I'm not completely fatalistic. As long as one lives and breathes--okay, bad example with me, given the..." he was tempted to tap himself in the chest to make a point but thought better of it. "But still--one can one day find his purpose and rekindle his desire to live again."
"And yet, even knowin' this, ye be 'appy ta condemn yerself ta death. Th' traditional kind." The Roegadyn rumbled.
"Yeah, because I know better by now. I said that life is an opportunity to find a purpose. I never said my life held that same kind of opportunity. I'm not exactly keen on pushing the boulder up the hill just to see it roll all the way back down the other side. Trust me, I've done that a few times. That boulder can go plough itself." Nero spat.
"The purpose of life is to have the freedom to seek its own purpose, laddie. You deny such a purpose. What's the measure of your life then, boy? What were you put here to do? What is your reason?" The Midlander murmured.
"Was," Nero corrected himself. "I'm fairly certain that I'll be dead soon." He grunted again as he adjusted his position against the boxes. "To get back to your question, who knows? Maybe my purpose was to be arrogant, believe I knew better, and proceed to make a complete ass of myself in front of everyone who claimed to care about Ul'dah. Maybe my purpose was to be the hack of a villain of some terrible story and make all of the good guys look good in comparison. Really, at this point, I couldn't care less."
"But what about atonement?" The Highlander hummed.
"What about atonement?"
"P'raps th' purpose o' all o' this'n be ta see yer own misguided cynicism fail, an' ta be giv'n th' chance ta redeem yerself."
"Brilliant," Nero scoffed. "Turns out the only reason I was born was so I can posture myself in front of some self-righteous group of bastards and whores and spend the rest of my life trying to convince myself that living in destitute misery is actually a very enviable existence."
"And now you're contradicting yourself. I could have sworn you weren't this stupid when you were crying on my ship. You demand justice for yourself and those souls you claim to sympathise with, and yet when the same demand of justice is made to you, you balk and refuse. Remind me never to strike a deal with you. You'd just run away from it." Vail raised an eyebrow sharply. "It's not as if you hate the idea of atonement. Not completely, anyway. If you did, you wouldn't have sabotaged Randolph's machine, and you wouldn't have told the paladin where to find you."Â
"That's called 'cutting my losses', old man. Something you failed to understand, which ended up getting you killed," the pirate responded disdainfully. "My plan would have never succeeded at that point. Merlwyb demolished the plans for the Rhotano League, so my collaborators are out of funding and are at each other's throats, and my support in Ul'dah is non-existent. The least I could do is wipe that stain of my past off the map." Now it was Nero's turn to sigh, pointedly ignoring the point that had been brought up about the paladin. "Even so, it seems nobody around here has ever been truly understanding the point I've been trying to make," Nero muttered bitterly. "Every bleeding heart shitelord and their mother going around screaming at me, 'the women and children, the women and children!'. The only thing that is worse than being forced to die is being forced to live."
"And so you were believe you were doing them a favour?" The woman's voice asked kindly, lacking any edge of judgment.Â
"I was saving them from a slow death. A life of misery, to be dominated by nothing but thoughts of how to survive the next day, the next hour...like I said, that is a very special kind of death. The kind of death that all of those arrogant fools are all too happy to subject them to."
"Yet ye be speak'n as if ye yerself not be engagin' in th' exact same imposition o' perspective that they are. Ye believe that they be forcin' a life o' misery. Yerself be forcin' an unwillin' death. Neither side be askin' those people who are bein' forced."
"Seeking morality in a situation like this is pointless. You either win, and you're right, or you lose, and you're wrong. Trying to gain the moral high ground is like trying to climb up a tree with all of your limbs cut off," the pirate breathed. "There is no justice, no righteousness, no good or evil in this. There are results, or the lack thereof, and nothing more."
"Boy, did you not start this crusade because of your morality? Because you believed your way to be right?"
"I believe my way to be preferable."
"But if someone had come along while you struggled on the streets, and told you they were doing you a favour by making you die for their cause, would you have accepted it?" The woman breathed the gentle, understanding sigh of a parent.
Nero paused, hesitating as his eye caught a rivulet of blood running down the woman's silhouette. "Regardless of what they told me their cause was, I wouldn't have accepted it. I would think they were lying or stupid or both." His voice trembled somewhat. "But if I did end up dying, I wouldn't have begrudged them."
"Ye would 'ave struggled ta live til yer own life be taken. That not be a contradiction o' what ye be sayin' 'fore, ye reckon?"
"I didn't struggle because I want to. I struggled to live because it was instinct. Self-preservation. That cruel gift that allows mortal lives to endure the very worst of the world beyond all hope and doubt."
The pause in the air was palpable.
"So, really," Vail, ever eager to overthrow a lull in the dialogue, examined his pipe as he ceased its spinning, the elaborate frame frozen around his thumb and index finger. "None of this was worth it then, eh, boy? Wasn't worth the killing, wasn't worth Satz, wasn't worth the Forte, wasn't worth them nasty injuries, and at the end of it all, one way or another you'll be dead. Literally dead, or living a life without meaning and thus better off dead."Â
Nero froze.
"The reason you did all of this, the reason why you were so willing to kill is because you reject a life ruled by instinct, a life that lacks all meaning except survival, and you call that a fate crueler than death. And yet, even as you rejected it, you hated yourself for accepting it as well, for without it you would never have had the option of rejecting it in the first place. Thus armed with this hypocrisy, you set about your plan with the intention of forcing everyone to reject that self-preservation whether they wanted to or not." Slowly, disdainfully, the pipe resumed its twirl. The crew of the Second Forte emerged led by Garalt, his square jaw narrowly set in reluctant determination.
"Ye be denyin' 'em their right as mortals ta struggle ta preserve themselves in a world that be cruel an' unusual. An' in doin' so, ye be managin' ta convince yerself that 'cause o' yer own experiences, such a thing be permissible, even if'n ye be considerin' it a necessary evil. Ye projected yerself an' yer choices onto them, an' called it a favour." Daegsatz folded his arms, his face wrinkled with sadness, his body soon glowing with the flames that threatened to engulf him. Another group stepped forward; Dunesfolk Lalafell with sword wounds, some with spears skewered right through them, Brass Blades with scorched armor and sailors bloated from the sea.
"Adair..." Fiora's silhouette stepped forward and crouched down to his level. He still couldn't force himself to look at her, for he knew what he would saw; a shattered skull, the blood seeping against the pavement. The Highlander woman reached out her arms to touch his houlders, her skin taut, her muscles weak and spindly. "In many cases, life is much worse than death. Death is itself a mercy, an instantaneous moment of pain soon to be flooded by the unending peace of oblivion. Life is often several moments of prolonged agony, stretched to a hundred years. And yet, that anguish, that torturous existence, that conflict and struggle is what assigns meaning to life. It is what differentiates living a life and dying a death. Without that struggle, without that bout of misery and torment...by taking that away, you remove life's meaning, and thus condemn all to the very death that you yourself fear."
Nero's breath shortened. His hands were shaking. He felt dizzy. He could see the blood, the blood from her skull, the blood that splashed on the walls and the pavement drip down and seep between his fingers.Â
"Not all is lost. You can still be saved."
The scantily clad Highlander woman, for an instant, vanished, and was replaced by a similarly slender form clad in armor, grey eyes scrutinizing him with a soft naivete.
And just like that, it broke.
What snapped inside of him was cold but soundless, like a glacial sheet snapping in the void. With a cry that was as ferocious as it was despairing, Nero swung his right arm. In an instant, the warm voice, the spindly arms, and the oozing blood vanished. He ignored the screaming of nerves in his shoulder at the motion, and he struggled to stand. He could not even stand up straight; it was all Nero could do to lean against the boxes in a facsimile of defiance.
"Ah," Nero said disdainfully, the volume of his voice raising. "So deep down, you're one of those people. An idealist. Let me tell you something. Love doesn't feed an empty stomach. Honor doesn't keep you warm at night. Courage doesn't heal your scars or soothe your bruises. A life of agony is a life of meaning? Don't make me laugh. That is a delusion, a weak justification made by those who've never had to worry about going hungry or freezing on the wooden planks that serve as your bed. You insist on 'salvation' and 'the right way' without understanding that every single second of your inaction is a complete and utter failure of that ideal. The only people who ever had the grounds to condemn me are people who have lived exactly like me. The people who continue to live exactly as I did. People who spend every waking minute of their consciousness facing starvation and fear and hopeless expanses of an empty future."
The Highlander woman appeared again, a few feet away from him. Nero found his gaze panicking, attempting desperately to avert themselves, but his willpower won over. With a shaking of his head and his body trembling, he forced himself to look straight at her. At the exposed bits of brain and bone that had been smashed against the wall, the eye that had popped out of its socket, the jaw hanging loose and unhinged like a snake's. She still had a sad expression on the half of her face that was still intact, and every second he forced himself to stare was another second he felt his consciousness evaporating.
"So you think you're righteous, do you? You said it yourself. A torturous existence is the only existence that has meaning. You can vilify me for robbing those lives of their worth and their purpose, but don't think for a second that you are any better than me for damning those same lives into unending squalor. Do you want me to tell you why you think that way? It's because you think you're better. You had money, you had power. You never went to bed wondering if you would wake up with another dead sibling, or a dead parent. You never waded through garbage wondering if you could find something to eat today. You ran away. You took your money and your wealth, and after building yourself a golden platform, set about calling yourself righteous, insisting that there was meaning in struggle." At this point, it wasn't clear if he was speaking to his illusionary audience or to himself.
The flames crawled up Daegsatz' broad form, lapping at his chest and soon enough, covering his shoulders and head, the latter of which casually lolled off of its body as it disintegrated wordlessly into ash. The Lalafell slowly began to fall over, one by one, and sink into the ground.
"'Women and children, women and children', they said! How could you kill women and children? Because it was necessary. I've killed men, women, children a plenty. Sometimes by my own hand, sometimes with a pen or a shout of a command, and I'd kill a thousand more if that's what it takes to see my vision through. To carve a better place for those souls denied every opportunity at happiness. To leave Ul'dah a better place than I found it. This is me. This is who I will always be. I did what I did because someone had to."
Like that day, the crew retreated. Garalt shook his head as the shadows enveloped him. Nero felt his strength leaving him, his voice growing hoarse.
"There was--is--no room for hope in Ul'dah. There is no...no way. No atonement. Not for the deaths of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. It's impossible to justify a single one of those deaths. So I will do what I must. I'll build a better future. A future that saves as many of those other lives as possible. A future without that meaningless struggle against the depravity and greed of others. To fight for that future, that is my only salvation!"
The silence persisted for what felt like years. The images of those people had completely faded away, swallowed by the empty, inky blackness of Nero's mind. He was breathing heavily now, searing pain shooting up his chest with every expansion of his lungs. Cold sweat enveloped his feverish face, and his vision had begun to shift out of focus as he swayed unsteadily on his feet.
Only Vail was left. The pipe had vanished from his hands completely.Â
His fingers were folded together as he stared the haggard pirate down. Though Nero himself was not sitting on it, he could feel Vail's seat on the box become uncomfortable and unwelcome.
Vail again flashed that crooked, audacious smirk. "So then, does that mean you regret it?"
A violent plume of icy shards, uncontrolled and undisciplined, as wild as the hand that shot it came screaming towards the darkness and plunged through Vail, whistling as the jagged, haphazard forms effortlessly pierced through his silhouette and crashing somewhere against the wall. Violet smoke flowed from the haphazardly conjured slivers as they disintegrated, leaving cold gashes at their point of impact.
Nero limped to the box where his adoptive father had been arrogantly sitting. The light from the tiny flame in the oil lamp had grown dimmer, leaving naught but defiant rays of sunshine.
He sat down on the box with a thud, scowling into the darkness with disgust.Â
"Grow up."
