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‘You are mortal, foolhardy, and ultimately… Weak.’
The Rächer of Solnari gives the leash a tug, and Lohen inevitably follows.
These are just memories.
The fingers of red that settle on his shoulder. The black leather that courses over the Sinner like a second skin, now looped around his neck. Unwillingly, painfully, Lohen crawls forward on hands and knees, shocks of pink-and-yellow occluding his vision.
Disaster and Remorse, the spear sharpened by the edge of his bloodlust, sits uselessly out of reach.
The Rächer of Solnari continues to shorten the leash, twisting it in his hands, choking the air from Lohen’s throat. He coughs, he spits blood, he sees inhabited planets burst into supernovas behind his eyelids as his blood vessels pop.
It’s over. It’s all over.
When is it ever really over?
Rerir looking down at him; the red fingers that coax his chin up. The disaffected boredom in that man’s eyes, collapsing Lohen down to a mere bug. He is not the one who will kill the Rächer of Solnari.
‘Bark,’ Rerir commands.
Lohen is startled into a laugh.
Then he’s sideways on the ground, head spinning, the aftermath of that man’s boot colliding with his head. The Wild Hunt forces him back onto his hands and knees, as if in supplication.
‘Bark,’ Rerir says again.
Lohen, who isn’t sure if he wants to die or kill the Sinner first, howls.
‘Big Brother Lohen,’ Klee calls, ‘Come look at Klee’s drawing!’
‘Oh? What have we got this time?’
It’s a crude rendition of Klee, Prune, and him standing outside the Knights of Favonius Headquarters. Each one of them has a huge thought bubble riding over their heads, depicting their imaginary friends.
Klee’s is Dodoco, of course. Prune’s is some blue dog. And his…
Lohen chuckles.
‘Is that my spear?’ he asks, crossing his legs at the ankle. His buddy in solitary confinement claps her hands, glad to see her work recognised.
‘Yup! See here? It’s really mad all the time, so it has a frowny face and big pointy teeth.’
‘What are the teeth for?’
‘For biting the bad guys!’
‘But it’s a spear. Why doesn’t it just stab them?’
Crossing her arms, Klee says determinedly, ‘It can’t do that unless you pick it up, silly.’
‘Right. My mistake.’
With the point ceded, Klee goes back to grinning. She passes Lohen a blue crayon. ‘Draw with me?’
Lohen glances back at his pile of Mint Bubblegum, the same wrappers he keeps ravelling and unravelling.
He does hate kids. He hates this boring after-the-battle life.
But he’ll try.
‘Sure, Klee.’
‘Yay!’
Varka holds him in one great fist, iron gauntlet seconds away from crushing Lohen’s windpipe to dust.
His eyes darken. The perpetual smile on his face is gone; in his other hand he holds one of his two greatswords, held just above his shoulder like a reminder. A weapon is a weapon.
And Lohen is a weapon in need of sharpening.
‘Stayed with him until the end, did you? Got to see what your actions have caused?’
Lohen can’t nod; he’s stuck staring somewhere at the ceiling. As he always does, he notices the sword driven deep into the plaster, a reminder of the weight of words.
That is to say, nothing. Words mean nothing. He would tell Varka this, but all he can do is palm weakly at Varka’s scarred forearm.
‘Tch.’
Varka casts him aside like an empty tankard. Like that tankard, Lohen hears his ribs crack and groan, threatening to burst out of his skin.
‘The title of “Benevolent Knight” would’ve never suited you.’
‘W-we’re in agreement, then. Shit!’
On breaking, his knee makes the same sound as his ribs. Varka, lifting his steel-toed boot, gazes down at Lohen in disgust.
‘Passing the Knight’s exam doesn’t make you a knight. Not unless you have the spirit of one.’
Clutching his chest, Lohen says, ‘Is… That what you told Eroch?’
Amazing just how fast Varka can crush his entire head.
Just memories.
Rosaria doesn’t care if Lohen slacks on night patrol. They’re bound to hear any invaders intent on the Cathedral, anyway.
She smokes her cigarillo, one fishnet-stockinged leg curled alluringly over the roof’s ledge. Next to her is Lohen’s growing mess of wood shavings, a product of the squirrels he whittles for Witch Nicole’s approval.
What do they say? Not much. Occasionally, Rosaria taps out the ash on her stick and mentions a poison; Lohen, ears perking up, rattles through every time he’s used it. He doesn’t want for stories.
Rosaria tells him as much, looking balefully in his direction. ‘Why trust me?’
‘“Sister”, you’re the only one in this town who knows what I mean.’
‘You think I know wanton killing?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t indulged yourself. Not even once?’
Silent, Rosaria inhales a lungful of smoke. Lohen turns back to his whittling, exalting in the fresh pain that is being alone.
‘You try too hard,’ she says. ‘You want to convince everyone you’re dangerous. It’s boring.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, “Sister”.’
No one said they had to be friends, and they certainly aren’t.
Master Diluc is glaring down at him, hand planted on his chest to keep him down. The pace his hips set is bruising.
Lohen likes to be bruised.
‘At least– roll a guy’s clit, would you?’ Lohen pants. He’s already sawing away at the ropes that bind his hands with a hidden knife, but Diluc has his legs splayed wide, and–
It feels good. Sex is just another battleground.
‘Quiet,’ Diluc instructs, dispassionate as ever. Lohen grins, makes to say something pithy and infuriating,
To which Diluc thrusts his gloved fingers into Lohen’s mouth, rendering him mute. Lohen makes an affronted noise, whilst Diluc pounds away inside of him.
He hits a certain spot that makes Lohen’s brain short-circuit. His hands flutter, and his blade hits the stone floor of Angel’s Share with a final tink.
‘Hah.’
Diluc doesn’t laugh, but huffs something distantly resembling it– laughter’s cousin in another universe. He deliberately avoids that spot, leaving Lohen to try (and fail) to squirm.
It shouldn’t be about what he wants. Battle isn’t about trading toys and playing with dolls; it’s brutal, all-too-eager to remind its soldiers that they are worthless sacks of meat.
Lohen arches, tries to rub himself against Diluc, saliva dribbling out the sides of his mouth. Weak. Pathetic.
Diluc–Eroch–puts both hands around Lohen’s neck as he comes inside.
The world grows dark, soundless, until Lohen’s not sure who it is teaching him a lesson.
‘I-it looks like our notebooks got switched again!… Hm?’
Lohen packs the dirt in, rising to admire his work. He tilts his head marginally in Mika’s direction. ‘Damn. Again?’
‘Is that… what were you doing?’
Mika’s face, sweaty from the run over, is now starting to turn a little pale. Under the blazing sun, Lohen’s starts to smirk.
‘What do you think I was doing, Mr Surveyor?’
‘There’s no way that’s a…’
Mika trails off. Lohen leans in.
‘A what?’
‘A… grave…’
The answer’s so out of left field that Lohen bursts into screaming laughter. He ends up with his hands on his knees, totally out of breath, tears pouring from the corners of his eyes.
When he manages a modicum of self-control, he glances up to see Mika glaring, face aflush with shame.
‘You don’t have to treat me like an idiot, Lohen,’ he gripes.
Lohen claps him on the shoulder, just like the Grandmaster likes to do. Instinctively, Mika flinches, though the force isn’t really there.
‘That’s just what friends do to each other. C’mon– I’ll show you.’
Mika’s starting to relax the tiniest bit when Lohen, walking together with him, gives him a little shove– and Mika flails, dropping right down into the hole.
‘Hey! Hey! Lohen!’
Lohen, pulling Mika’s notebook from his pack, nods. He whistles as he meanders away, ignoring Mika’s growing panic.
I have no use for power I can’t control.
‘What are you then, boy? What makes you anything other than an outlet for violence?’
Lohen would answer if he could. Unfortunately, the gag is effective at muting his voice.
Il Dottore, or one of his Segments, stands above the operating table. Gowned and masked, he doesn’t look very threatening– but the pink vial in his hand certainly does.
He draws it out with a syringe, red eyes roaming over Lohen’s body, belted down. ‘Let’s see if you can rise above
‘The common clay,’ Eroch finishes. Where Il Dottore was, Eroch stands. He twists Lohen’s arm painfully, seeking out a vein.
He’s only as sharp as the last dagger in his boot, now discarded. He’s only what skin his fingernails can break, though they’ve now been filed down.
Eroch crooks his head and red hair tumbles down the side of his face. Theodore, brows raised, gets down to business: he smiles as the serum slips down the needle into Lohen.
Then, the thrashing;
The pink-and-yellow starburst across his eyes, venom poisoning every memory he’s ever held;
The screams that pass from his own lips;
The Rächer of Solnari. Varka. Diluc. Diluc, Eroch, Il Dottore, Theodore.
Which of them is real? What part of Lohen is real?
(Above his head, wearing his face, Ursa grins.)
He reaches for the only things he can trust:
The taste of blood; the potential of a choked breath; that animalistic need inside him to reach out and destroy.
From all that he cannot see, Lohen rises, snapping the rib from his breast and wielding it like a weapon.
Eyes wild, he turns on himself and strikes.