And all over again, the villain was indifferent. "That was unexpected," he uttered innocently, brows raised and eyes pointed at Zachariah's best friend.

"Please help him! Please! I'll do anything!" he screamed back.

"O Strings, alright, alright. Nothing! Let's get in a circle," Donao appeared to complain, waving his free hand around as if to cool himself.

"What?!"

And he was even more aggravated to have to explain. "Grab my hand, grab Pecabec's hand, go on! And you, Pecabec, touch the chap on the floor, and don't let go."

Having taken the cane, Constantin was already holding Donao's hand, so Zachariah grabbed the other one to have warmth clasp his shaky palm. This was, he remarked with a high dosage of disgust in his mind, his first time touching the monster.

One moment later, the warmth abandoned him, and they were no longer in the bookstore. They stood in a room different and unfamiliar, of air thick and stale, of darkness abundant. Suffocating in feeling, it smothered in size too for it was tiny, meters times meters. Silver light wandering through the window behind them was enough to illuminate almost its entirety, and hitting the group, to cast shadows on wallpapers of faded green. One bed was there, in the center. In it, an individual was asleep, with hairs golden and ruffled, and on the other side of the room, next to the door, was one stool with a well-dressed man sitting on it – awake, and very, very surprised.

"What by the Strings happened? Who are you?!" Their whisper was at its breaking point, and their black moustache was quivering dramatically. Zachariah wasted one glance at them, and the rest of his focus dispersed; once, went to Maximilian, who let go of his hand, then, another instance, to the body on the floor. Radoy. Fuck that stranger and their shock.

He stepped over to lift him from the ground – fearing it was dirty – and, holding his head up first, he checked his pulse. It took him unbearable seconds to realize it had slowed.

A crack, and a loud thump somewhere to his left. He looked up. The person who had been sitting on the stool suddenly lay sprawled over the floor, their head rotated in a direction wholly unnatural, face up, mouth ajar, eyes open and gawping like dead. Alright, they were less of a bother that way.

Donao stepped towards the bed, positioning himself by the bedside to lean over the incapacitated person there. "Psst. Athana-asius," he whispered loudly, very logical.

They, Athanasius, did not react. Thankfully, Donao did not hold back and started shaking them by their shoulders, which made the person groan and turn their head around. "What... what's going on?" they griped. Zachariah immediately recognized that voice. It was the arbiter he had spared that very night.

"We're in a bit of a hurry, so please, be a dear and heal these people, starting with this one," Donao urged and showed Radoy who was in Zachariah's arms.

Athanasius grumbled some incoherent words but did not deny the request, much to Zacharoah's content; they lifted their arms from beneath the sheets and yawned, rubbed their eyes afterwards. Zachariah would yell at them to hurry the fuck up, but he didn't want any unnecessary attention on him. Luckily, they did not recognize anyone... yet, and he hoped it would stay that way until Radoy was fully healed.

Donao beckoned for Zachariah to come over. He did not hesitate.

The floor groaned at his footsteps. He approached with Radoy, and, with legs hurt and muscles so strained, he struggled to kneel by the bed. Once he did, and once his knees ached against the cold ground, once it creaked, Athanasius placed a hand on Radoy. That was when a miracle unfolded: green light emitted from their fingertips, spreading towards Radoy and throughout his arm. The wounds and the fractures all lit up, soon to stop illuminating, so the glow waned into total recovery to show nothing short of solace – his skin, and it was all intact.

Zachariah's breathing ripened into sighs, and his eyes closed, and shrouded alone in that darkness, he uttered a myriad of mental thanks addressed to everything on this Goddamned world, even the monster that was Donao. Yet it was in a jolt that his eyelids had to part, gratitude stop, and he stared as the bedridden blond spoke,

"That guy's going to be fin..." Athanasius' scowl deepened. "That... guy..." And then they yelled, "Titus, I've been putting up with your bullshit for a while, but this has crossed the line!"

Donao once again slipped into his sheepish act. "What are you talking about?" He seemed more ashamed than anything else.

With one decisive flip, they removed the sheets from himself, revealing a large, bloodied bandage on their torso, courtesy of Zachariah. "These two... these three are the reason this happened."

Finally, something Zachariah would have to pinpoint as an honest reaction: surprise, etched on Donao's face, blown out through the "o" of his mouth when he said only, "Oh my." Zachariah's heartthrob rose to another high only to plummet down into painful pulses. Did Donao know that an arbiter with an angel's powers could only be harmed with obsidian as well...? If he did, that would mean... he'd simply take it, Constantin would give it to him, and... and... everything would be over...

"No more. No more. I'm not going to be putting up with your bullshit any more. I'm leaving Aurun," Athanasius continued shouting, which had never been a pleasant sound, especially now that their voice was all croaky from sleep.

"Please rest, you deserve it. But first, heal Constantin. You know Constantin, he's a good guy. These three also hurt Constantin! There, so it's a good thing, healing him."

Athanasius, surprisingly, spoke in a normal tone, "Mhm. Fine. Whatever. I'm only doing this because I like him, not because you want me to. To Hell with your schemes!" And they looked at the wounded man with the smallest impression of a smile on their lips. "Hi."

Constantin stepped next to crouched Zachariah, ignoring... or merely not noticing his stupor? He was grateful to be left unacknowledged. "How are you?" They asked the blond.

"Could be better, can't be any worse. You?"

"Oof. So sorry. And I'm... well," Constantin paused and pointed at their neck and arm, while Athanasius's powers reached them, and even laughed when the green dispersed over their neck thus erasing the slit, as well as the on the limb. "I'm having a bit of a situation here, as you can see. Also, could you –"

"Well indeed!" Athanasius frowned, then pointed at Zachariah. "I can see that this is a very apparent situation you're dealing with. Fucking nonsense that is. Why was I to help these bastards? You're against them."

"As you managed to feel on your own skin, they can do great things, so I'm keeping them," Donao broke in.

"...all of them?"

"Only that one in the back, the two next to you are expendable..." He waved his hand at Zachariah as if he were a bag of corn to be sold; underneath the ridicule, Zachariah hugged Radoy closer. "Though I am yet to spend them, I don't know how, but I will."

"Ah." Athanasius sighed. "Fuck it."

Zachariah looked up just in time to see trails of glowing coming to the blond's hand. A quick hitched breath later, and he knew he was a goner.

They swung a glowing hand towards Zachariah. As he was cradling his friend, the only thing he could do was move him away, brace for impact... which never came. Wide-eyed like before, he was staring at a marvel. One abnormally large, muscular arm covered in black with rods and feathers and thorns all spiking out in no order, such an arm was extended, holding Athanasius' so much smaller one, preventing it from reaching the brunet. To justify their surprise for they had their mouth agape (and Zachariah was already scowling), it was Donao's.

"It was you. All along," the blond whispered, hand slowly dulling in the darkness. The green glow stopped, and the dark hand vanished as well. Donao retracted his then normal arm, flailing it around with a palm limp, and he sighed, looking away yet walking closer.

"Farewell, my friend. You've been of use, as all true friends are," he spoke and offered a hand for the arbiter to shake, a gesture that was declined.

Athanasius' face was not that of disappointment, as Zachariah would expect. What he saw instead was... peace, perhaps a sort of catatonic displeasure if he had to guess, and guessed he had to, for again, Athanasius was compliant in the one moment they shouldn't have been. How he'd wished to spend more time with them, get this mystery going! But he couldn't. Something on his shoulder, gentle, was felt, and next thing he knew they were all in the street, in the slums, and fortunately on the pavement, for the road was dirt and Radoy still partially on the floor, his back leaning against Zachariah's torso. Air was a bit fresher, but had its domestic stench, barely unlikable.

Donao was heard, cheerful, "Zach, Vero, whatever – I'm sure you'd love to see a fractal of demon's power released. Oh, your friend is already staring at the right place." Indeed, Maximilian was gawking at one three-story building, five or four buildings away, the same shameful excuse of architecture that plagued this neighborhood. Zachariah had no choice but to follow that exact sight. So, he would get to see a demon in action...?

"There! Three, two, and one," Donao announced ever so proudly.

A rumbling explosion scarred his ears, a blast of light ruined his vision, all for a moment, and then a sight meant for imagination only was unfolding before his eyes: in a fiery whirlwind, the building exploded, dust and fractures up in the air, smoke all around, whitening the night. The wind reached them all, nastily warm. He hugged Radoy closer.

He could watch it for a moment only, and again, he was teleported. A change of sights, as well as the air. All he could see were rooftops of varying heights, most of them below him, of quality tiles and tall chimneys spurting out of them; he was on a rooftop too, one of the flat ones, a terrace of sorts. With the wind breezing its way freely there, he felt he had to warm up Radoy even more. Just, how...? Hugging him more? Which is what he had done, hoping he wouldn't crush yet another bone in his body.

In a cool sort of panic, looking around, he could see – yes, Constantin, Donao, Maxi – and a sort of a orangish smoke far off in the distance. They were at least a kilometer away from the blast, he estimated.

"You blew up... Athanasius' residence?"

"I did, him too." The boss and his employee were heard talking. No more healing, then. No more hope for the wounded... and hopefully no more unnecessary cruelty. That arbiter's story indeed had its epilogue in this night, and did he loathe it! Did it cause his hands many a jolt, a need for ripping the pages, the worlds, the lives, and in that, somehow, lessen the occurrence that was Titus Donao.

A fluttering sound above his head attracted his attention. He gazed upwards, to see... nothing. Yet the sound grew, neared, then passed him, and he followed its approximate source, to see it end at Donao. Underneath the Moon, it became evident. It was a crow that landed on his shoulder. That could represent only one thing.

Maximilan nodded at the bird. "I remember that your demon's a bird, so that must be it. Why can't I see it?" And on that cue, Maximilian yelled, grabbing his own face, covering his eyes, staggering backwards. Zachariah managed only to raise his hand, as if to reach out to him, but alas, he wasn't letting go of Radoy. Poor man...!

"She won't let you, isn't she kind? She's protecting you from her overwhelming presence," Donao explained," and now you can see exactly why it's overwhelming! She's overpowered! Take it in!"

Maximilian had his back turned to the demon and her master. In-between the breaths, he managed to ask, "H-how... no soul can... escape my sight... how can you just switch it on and off..."

"That's her ability! She can conceal anyone from your vision, or anyone's at that."

"Fuck you!" That evaluation was honest, hence Donao was glad, and patted the crow's head and praised, "She's lovely, isn't she? Very clever and ambitious, quite the rarity among demons." Nothing was said to that; Maximilian calmed down, and managed to look up and around. Zachariah assumed that the demon once again concealed herself, something he was very grateful for. Constantin coughed and whispered whatever, words unheard. His boss gave him a singular perplexed glare, and spoke not to his employee, "Now, as I was saying before your friend over there rudely interrupted us with... how do I refer to...?" He snapped his fingers, then pointed them at Zachariah, or, the friend he was cradling. The brunet grumbled, "Oh, now you care about formalities?"

"Just tell me."

"Him."

"Interrupted us with his dramatic moment, I need you to get me someone who sells obsidian weapons. Do you know the right person?"

"I do."

"Find them. Get me as many weapons as you can. I have all the money."

Wasn't that just fucking idiotic? Why bug Zachariah to find something that was evidently uncoverable? Hell – he was far from an expert, and Donao was among the Syndicate's higher ups. He would know best. Then why Zachariah? He'd love to ask, but not in this situation. "Smugglers from the other continent... are not that common of a sight here. By the sea, they are, but only one with that sort of stock comes to Aurun in specific."

"Go get them."

He frowned. "I can't. I don't know where she is."

"Alright. Then find them."

"Her."

Donao paused there, blank in his appearance. Then a grin twisted across his face. "Do I care?"

"You did, moments ago."

"Who said I cared? Just get me the obsidian. Now."

Zachariah was mildly annoyed with having to act like some servant to this man, but! If anything, he knew, he would snap soon and he couldn't wait for that moment. To just let it all out...! But until then, he had to use his normal, calm voice, pronunciations and sentences all nice and servile, "I can go check if she's at her usual residence, if not, then I'll ask around and check when she's coming back. Is that fine?"

"Fine." Donao nodded. "Your search starts now. The sooner you're finished, the sooner you'll be joining your friends... or their pieces? Depends on how fast we both are with our respective needs."

What? "You don't need to hurt anyone," he had to point out, hiding his bewilderment.

"Maybe I do. The same way you do. Are you being a hypocrite?" Now what was he talking about?! "What are you waiting for? Tell me where to drop you off."

That fucker. Oh well. He said the address of the tavern. Less than a second, he was in front of it, in the slums. Sounds of seemingly eternal celebration inside hadn't failed him yet – one look at it, and he saw that the door was still open. To get inside, well, he'd have to realize that he was still kneeling... but no longer with Radoy in his arms. He jumped up, seething. What if his friend dropped onto the floor, his head just smashed against it?! And with the arbiter possibly dead, nobody would be able to treat the injuries as effectively... amazing. Just, all in all, gut-wrenchingly splendid. Futile above all, his fists clenched, and he turned on his heel to walk inside the tavern.

Whereas the streets were desolate and cold, the tavern... it was warm and welcoming. To replace the summer-worn stenches of the sewers, sweat and alcohol lingered in the air, a far more pleasant alternative. The few lanterns did not make for good lighting, but, would anyone here care? As far as Zachariah could see, the bunch was drunk and loud, tables moved to the walls (and a lot of them dirty) for some jolly group to dance and sing poorly. So long they had fun, good for them. He'd sing along as well, for he knew the song by heart. And he didn't even hum. He sighed and paid no mind no more, not to them.

Remarkably, the clock on the wall had its glassy exterior broken, and some sort of brown liquid splattered all over its snowy surface. Despite the dishevelment, it still worked, judging by the seconds that ticked by. It informed him courteously that midnight had passed. He snickered.

Walking over to the bar, compared to the context of his whereabouts, he wasn't much of a disgraceful presence. Black coat, ripped coat, dirty coat, alone or altogether, none of it would ever bother the bartender, or anyone present, truly. In happiness, everyone's blind. Drunkards weren't too insightful either, and were also unpleasantly loud, as his first question for the bartender was unheard. He cleared his throat and thought once again about his very needed smuggler. Poor woman, he couldn't help but think; she risked her life to get him his obsidian knife ages ago, and to think that now, all over again, she'd have to go through the trouble only to be killed by Donao at the end... it wasn't nice. But there's nothing easier than that which had to be done.

In spite of the poor lighting, the bartender's face lit up upon recognizing this visitor. A flash of emotion captured the entirety of their once bored expression, and they beckoned for him to come closer; he did, occupying one of the high stools, nodding slow greetings at his friend who positioned themself in front of him, still cleaning the glasses. Their deep voice sank low, "Cheers, knew you'd make it out." Their hazel eyes squinted with foxy mischief as they revealed, "I can see it in your face, you're up to something! No need for convincing. I would've found out, and I've been trying very hard to find out. You aren't guilty. Then again, humanity is at least duplicity." They nodded to themself, leaving the clean glass next to Zachariah and throwing the rag to the side. Free hands were now on broad hips. "What do you need?" No wonder Zachariah liked them.

"Darling, your faith, words and efforts are appreciated. I've nothing to say, sadly, though I'd love to stay. I'm leaving in moments."

"Truly?!" They leaned in. "I could shelter you for the night. Is it that bad? Are you being chased?"

"Worse, and maybe." And Zachariah would love to stay, love to enjoy the night, the day, to enjoy anything at all, but in this present nothing could be savored properly. He didn't match his dear friend's energy, he knew. Another joy that was taken away from him, usually not very appreciated but a joy nevertheless. He had to move on and get the business taken care of. A sigh later, a grave glare at the questioning bartender, and he began. Having used the right alias, he was told that the smuggler he needed had in fact left more than a month ago. "Actually, no, make that two months, I don't know the exact date but that's my best estimate," the bartender rambled while polishing a greasy glass. "Can I at least... help you, somehow?"

After a quick "thank you but no" Zachariah left, once again smothered by the ghastly smell of the outside. Speaking with the dear bartender, now that he had the quiet to think about it... it made him yearn for the old times. A feeling he loathed.

Even worse, Donao was right there, waiting for him on a bench that was certainly not there up until that moment. He blinked, and blinked again. He indeed saw that well. The black-haired male turned his head towards him. He was especially glad, it seemed, to see him. "So?"

Zachariah was telling what he'd found out while staring at the bench. It was legitimately stuck to the ground, screws and bolts and all, clear work. How come he did not notice...? No, he did not notice. This appeared out of thin air. Demon work.

Donao stood up, joints loud, and smacked his cane against the floor. Grinning, he expressed his joy, "You are a damned savior, Vero. I'll pamper you with everything your heart desires."

"Hatred and love are two sides of the same coin," he blurted out the thought, and could not expand upon it for Donao was already interrupting him and taking the conversation in his direction,

"That lacks poetry. You lack poetry, Vero! Your words have enticed me, taxing words. The tale about the poet on a boat, I loved it! You're an activist through your writing, incredible. But when put in real life... your sentences are dry, your talent – gone."

"Gone with the wind," he commented, utterly uninterested in entering a discussion about art with this monster. His art.

"Indeed! But how come? What tied up your tongue?"

"Don't mock me."

"Your tongue truly is a knot. A shame. I'm sure the both of us would love to untie it. Would you let me?"

"Do not act friendly with me. You are the one person on this entire planet who can't behave that way towards me."

"People change through denial, and life is change. Deduct, and you will see that life is denial."

"You generalize."

"He says, having written those exact words!"

All Zachariah could do was sigh and pray for this bastard's soon death. He had to say something, retaliate somehow! And, unsurprisingly, he had just enough material to craft the accusation, desperate but at least told, "Titus. I pity you for your empty soul, the fact you'll never be able to go the full lengths of being a human. It's in your damned nature to devour and conquer – but humanity is something you never will, because you lack the organ to, an organ no human can borrow, no devil can steal. And for you to think you can imitate it? Replicate it, fabricate it? Some humanity in the wrenched hole that is your soul? Don't be a fool! You are no God, Donao, and you never will be, to be able to break the rule: ex nihil nihilo." He found the words of the professor's demon coming perfectly to his aid.

It wasn't even a fate he knew would happen, it was a fate he assumed would; either way, what he wanted, what he would get, was the seed of this idea. It's incredible what a tiny push could do to the mind, just a nudge! Because, right before him, something was being planted. Donao's face did not change, not even the Moon reflecting in his eyes. His gaze keen, only blinks were present to disrupt the calm. He eventually asked, "I'm unaffected. Was I supposed to be affected?"

"Not now. But the thought will peck your brain late at night, you may move it away, ignore it, but to know that I managed to land a single peck – that is enough to me."

Finally, a change, that to the positive. He moved, he smiled, he perked, "A-ha! Do I inspire you, Vero?"

"What is the point of this conversation, anyway? What do you want?"

"So grumpy! But you do realize I'm the one asking questions?"

"Go ahead."

"Do I inspire you?"

"You inspire hatred in me."

"Like this?"

He lifted his hand, reached out to Zachariah, whose reflexes worked fast and he ducked, avoiding Donao's grip. "What are you scared of?"

Zachariah didn't reply. His steps took him backwards, slowly away from Donao. Blood ticked in his temples and his headache – could he even call it that way? His agony was unbearable, augmented by this monster's presence, and, even while looking at him, his silhouette, he yearned for it to shatter.

The Moon amplified him, white lighting mixed with the sickly yellow of the lampposts to illuminate his satin darkness. If Zachariah were to gaze any better, he'd see every wrinkle in that man's face, every hair in his black beard. But Zachariah, not even in his imagination, not even while forcibly looking at him, could see him. A smudge, merely, instead of that man's face, and there a pair of blue eyes, and the rest of it, he didn't know. Just smiles, always smiles, that was all he could think of, and what he could, judging by the shadows, see this night as well. Some would find Donao so endearing, so sweet, so amiable...! And that was the damnation of it all. The monster was happy.

If only he could die. He wouldn't mind, whatever sort of death brought by whoever, the end product would be the same! To just know that this monster was dead! So that, finally, the smudge could be erased into an empty slate et voilà, the world would be one horrid brain lighter, one desire safer, and one sadist duller!

How he hated it, the fact it wasn't the law who constrained him. It was Donao's very existence with that demon who was – where could it be? Sitting on his shoulder, crouching by his leg, or perhaps behind Zachariah, whispering sweet hatred into his ear? He took more steps backwards. Though the road was shabby, dirt and dust mixed with water made for a slimy surface, he managed not to fall, but his heel did dangerously slip.

Why was nothing happening? Donao stood, Zachariah cautioned, and stood too. Where was the whiplash? No, Zachariah was the nonsensical one. Why try to run away?

"You're being so silly," Donao cooed at last, easily confirming that.

The very next moment, Donao vanished like he was never there. And another moment later, Zachariah was horrified to feel a harsh hand on his head, pushing it down, down into the floor –

And instead of seeing mud, he saw... hardwood, yellow-ish in its tone, the floor of his home. The smells were replaced with comforting odor of the books, the cold, pleasant air. He was surprised not to feel any grip anywhere at all, and, unrestrained, he looked up, a decision he would immediately regret.

For, before him, he saw his best friend in a puddle of blood, in his very own home. One gash in the stomach, devouring the rest of her body, usurping it through blood, too much of it, spilling everywhere. Above her, Donao, welcoming the owner of the store to the worst part of his life, arms spread and as hospitable as his vile smile. The cane in his left hand, its tip, was fittingly dipped in crimson.

Zachariah collected his thoughts. Donao wanted to hurt him by bringing him back into the past. That was all. So, he had to distance himself from it. Simple. He walked backwards and tripped and fell, and instead of hitting the floor with his back, had his feet back on it. He staggered to regain balance, looked up in the process.

The ceiling he saw was different than that of the bookstore. It was lower and brighter, daylight sprawled all over it. He recognized the lamp poking at the edge of his sight, so he directed his gaze at one spot to his left, predicting a bed. Indeed, it appeared, and he recognized it. He'd never forget it. Maybe the bends and the turns of the white sheets that covered her, maybe that's something that would slip his attention, for of course, that was considerable detail, and his memory wasn't most literal in that sense. But, but the most important thing he both felt and knew lay there... mother was resting. She didn't deserve it.

Sheets grew to envelop his sight like a gag; when his eyes were suffocated, he saw darkness, and when his mind became but ricocheting laughter, reality bled back to him.

It wasn't his mind breaking out in laughter, however – it was him. Rolling out in echoes were his laughs, full-bellied and raw, the kind that had left his lungs abraded. Deep breaths emitting vapor, through which he observed the slums again. He looked around to see some people across the streets, a middle-aged couple, staring at him. Was he not famous? Was this all it took? And he laughed again, and he relished in being known.

"Calm down, you're scaring my baby! She's sick, please! She can't sleep!" some feminine voice called out to him. He looked to the right, up, and saw, on the second floor, poking through a window, a woman in rags.

"You calm down!" he snarled immediately.

"I can't believe it! You will treat a single mother like that! Her baby! My life is already – "

"My parents are dead, my best friend was killed before my eyes, I've been forced to commit crimes to pay off the debts of a dead woman, yada, yada, yada! Keep your excuses coming, my lady! Keep them coming!" His voice became hoarser, higher. "Let's compete and see who's had more misery in life! Indeed! Let's count misfortune till birth and back! Who's got more excuses! Then we'll see who's more deserving of grace! Don't you agree?!" He asked nobody. She had long vanished behind the closed window.

"A marvelous portrayal of anguish. You'd be god's favorite."

Donao was heard behind him. Zachariah's fists clenched till pain nested in the knuckles. He gazed not behind him to postpone cold rage, allow it to settle further in his veins; anger which palpitated all over his body in punctual pulses, dreadfully steady, much like his words, "He doesn't have favorites. To think He does would mean He isn't your God." A proper explanation, he assessed with pride and scorn.

"Yet, Faust was his favorite." He stood up. His coat of rotten colors was a glint in the dark, a pale shimmer to follow its shifts, turbulences in void, snatching Moon's light! With his cane fleeting over the ground, he approached in steps wide and certain, seizing space before him like a wormhole. One star hung undisturbed, its gleam rigid, and it was his grin. The brunet was meant to stand and watch that elegant monstrosity glide over. He spoke to greet it, hatred contrasting joy, "Is that what you're referencing? I'm Faust? That idiot? So, much like Mephistopheles, you aspire to ruin me through, what, acts eternally good despite wishes eternally evil? Won't you too fail, Donao?"

Smashing his feet into the ground and its grime, Zachariah neared him as well. And it was evident. His eyes burned the closer he came, the more the immoral gleam filled them, as if dust and pollen all chafed together. That very presence of his, he could not stand it. Yet he moved on, he squinted them and yelled, "Wouldn't you love to fail, as all scum of the Earth does? When you try to oppress but turn into the oppressed? When you savor the sweet punishment?! When you finally fucking die?!"

Inside of that echo, they were entombed. The two did not tolerate the compartment. As soon the distance between them measured a single meter, one of them attained shakiness, sickness, illness in the stomach, in the legs, in the mind and in the heart, and the soul, it had already been derelict. All of the sensations alongside beautiful hatred, uplifting the bearer to more insane yearnings of power and tempest.

Zachariah was barely himself, and yet he managed to promise, "And someday, I will be able to touch you. I will touch you only once." And it would be enough.

"Oh, no. I do not see life in failures and accomplishments, what a horrible way to look at it," Donao whispered, no longer smiling, not in the least whilst watching the man paralyzed before him, because of him, intoxicated with hatred.

And hatred, was it a vicious deed! Neither good or bad, certainly, rather a violent make-a-wish! "But of course! You view it in bigger and lesser pleasures! You will find some atrocious pleasure in failing! Ha!" Zachariah backed away once again, that tattered coat of his sticking to his thighs. He could make that step, he deserved it, for he was triumphant.

"As you do," another whisper from the monster, and the brunet's soon to be laughter cascaded into a dramatic scream.

"That resemblance makes me want to stab my guts out. Indeed, Donao! I don't see any purpose in you torturing me, so it must be a madman's obsession. I want to know here and now, what do you want?"

"Nothing. Be yourself, and I'll love you, dread you, or even forget you for it. Whichever pleases you, suit yourself," he spoke calmly, barely to be heard.

"Your death would please me," and he talked back, voice breaking from laughter.

"Then take my hand. Unless you prefer my death over your friends' lives?"

Friends? Zachariah stilled. Hatred truly had blinded him. Having succumbed to the realization, tamer, he watched as Donao offered him his hand; its glove shone up until that one black hole on his white palm, a bit off the center. Black hole? Zachariah focused on it, was his vision that poor? What could it be? An irregular circle, far too imperfect to mean anything... for one moment of thought, he looked down, and saw a perfect coincidence, his own hand, and dark, so very dark stains on it as well. His suit of noir was hiding the rest, surely.

Therefore, Donao's glove was blemished by Radoy's blood.

Blood of his friend on him, on Donao too. Wouldn't that make them the same? Similarities galore! Similarities he'd tear to shreds! It was with horrendous elation that he took his enemy's hand, squeezed it for once. That repulsive, foreign warmth enveloped his limp hand all over again. He couldn't bear to look him in the cold eye.

But wasn't he doing a good thing? By siding with this man, he betrayed the world, selfishly for his friends. What mattered the blood on his suit, whoever's may it be, so long the end product was met, so long his friends would be safe? Did anything else matter? It certainly had stopped.

His eyes stung again while he sealed the decision with a handshake. Donao was the one laughing.

Again, they were teleported. This time, they were inside, a mostly green room with a high ceiling, with – oh God, Zachariah was shocked to realize it – so much décor. The lamp above him was adorned with crystals, the blue couch to his left stood on legs beautifully carved, the rug beneath his feet deviously soft, it had to be, it looked so, for his shoes were partially sunken into it. A rug? Ah, he stepped away from it by reflex. Right to him, he looked, and two staircases that lead down to a huge, massive salon, all in similar cool colors, plenty of plants and statues and divans. A masterful display of extravagance.

Suddenly, next to him, Maximilian (with Radoy in his arms, carried bridal-style), Constantin, and Donao as well showed up. Constantin once again neared their boss, standing behind him, as further away from the trio as possible; they were still holding the cane, expression sour. The boss, then, rubbed his hands together and explained, "We're at the famous hotel Marigranda, which, I hope, at least one of you recognizes. I know mister Pecabec does, you've been here a couple of times for business purposes, haven't you?" Not that Maximilian would ever reply to such a thing. "Either way, I've had my demon's demons transport all of your belongings right here, thus maximizing the pleasure of being my associate."

He paused, arms stopping mid-air. Gaze darted from one man to another, awaiting, but not receiving. Sighing then, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and started to complain,

"Nobody is thanking me?! Always men, but not yet gentle, I see. Suit yourselves. See this? This floor? All yours, marvelous indeed. Two bedrooms, each a bathroom. Downstairs, a living room, where we all will be able to hang out. I'm sure there is much the both of you want to say! I should bring a court reporter, Vero would have use of them. He's quite the fascinating fellow when prompted. Eh? Hehe." He winked at Zachariah, causing more undisclosed hatred. Either way, neither him nor his friend replied.

"Well, now I'll be leaving you to your chambers. If you need anything, we'll be downstairs, but I regret to say that something tells me you won't be coming. If this is our last time seeing each other, I thank you in multitudes, and wish you the best sleep possible, if possible. If not, wake up whenever you please after a hopefully pleasant slumber. Good night! Sweetest of dreams!" Constantin followed with similar wishes, albeit quieter. What they spoke, they could not finish, for Donao descended the stairs. Theirs were visages of hesitation, grievance, very illustrious in mutely telling; eyes fit to water, lips pursed then pressed, brows tumbled in all sorts of arches. The density of emotion was too vast! Simply none of them could get through!

They coughed, turned their head around to stare dolefully at Donao. Gaze followed the boss, as did their steps. They would catch up with him, and speak not. That was their farewell. Zachariah stared after it all with some strained intent, but as soon as they were distance, he turned to Maximilian who was as expected not bearing the happiest face. "How are you?" he inquired quietly.

"Fine. Better now that the so-called Prince of Hell is no longer here. The fucker was clouding my vision for so long..."

Zachariah gasped and stepped back, heeling the rug. "What?!" The Prince left Aurun?" He quickly removed his foot from it, glaring at not one, but multiple muddy stains he had left on its pastel surface.

"Not telling."

From the rug, he looked at his friend again. "Understandable."

Maximilian left Radoy on the couch, then went on to open both available doors, presumably leading to bedrooms. Zachariah sat on the couch, next to his passed-out friend. With trembling hands, he clasped Radoy's in hopes of feeling life. Natural warmth confirmed them. He let go, gently setting them down; he could feel his chest inflate from gratitude, it settled his eyelids to droop down.

Quiet chatter downstairs. He opened one eye, as if that would make him hear better. Donao and his employee of the month were, it appeared, speaking about cats. He scowled Soon enough, Maximillian would stand before him and deliver, arms crossed, "Two bedrooms, one with a queen bed, the other with a normal one."

"You'll be taking the normal one, Liam. No need for the conversation." It was in an unpleasant way that Zachariah had learned that Maximilian was not the one for intimacy, any sort of it. Additionally, he had already slept with Radoy.

"What now?"

Zachariah raised a brow. "There's nothing left to do. Nothing but obey and rest."

"If that's so, I'll be going to sleep." Maximilian neared the door, opened it and stopped right there. After some seconds, he halted to wish, "Good night. Take care of him." Nodded at Radoy. "And wish him a good night too if he wakes up. When. Or morning. Ugh. Goodbye." He slammed the door shut.

As a compulsory insomniac, Zachariah, as per usual, marveled at the fact his friend could sleep after and through anything. He had better get going to his bedroom too. Lifting Radoy wasn't the easiest feat, but he managed to get him to the bedroom. Luckily, the door had already been open due to Maximilian. He left his friend on the bed's white sheets, once perfect, now convulsing in wrinkles. The rest of the spacious room was in some snot-like colors; yellow lights only worsened them. As for the specifics...

Dark bookshelves were there, mostly empty. Next to them, a wardrobe of the same dark, almost black wood, with flowery ornaments at its edges. Opposite to it was the queen bed, where Radoy lay, and to each side, cupboards with lamps, blandly symmetrical. Then to its right, windows, wherefrom treetops were seen polished by the moonlight.

He opened the wardrobe to see if his belongings truly were there; indeed, they were, shirts and coats and pants all neatly arranged, but not only his. Maximilian's too. He couldn't help but huff. Donao's humor was a pain.

Another confirmation of that sentiment was the fact that, as he approached and scanned the bookshelves, he spotted one of his books. A collection of essays and short stories, Comas, his most acclaimed work; it was from there that Donao referenced the tale of the poet of the boat. It wasn't with much happiness that he thought of it. It was, essentially, a metaphor for the modern author and Zachariah's way of criticizing it. He could clearly remember himself writing it, next to a candle in the spring's pleasant night, and he remembered the way his pencil scratched the paper, to embed the first graphite words: "To read is nonsense..."

How he yearned to write again! To write so! What once were wildfires now were silly embers in his chest! He scowled.

Flippant, his emotions shifted from nostalgia to anger from it, so he decided to do something more useful than mope around in some mushy feelings – rest. He went to the bathroom, turned the lights on, washed his hands, then returned to take his clothes and continue the preparations for "sleep". While brushing his teeth, showering hot, staring at the blooming bruises of his legs, getting dressed in underwear, a pale shirt and khaki pants meant for "sleep", his mind raced faster than anytime that day.

It was the finish, was it not? Nighttime, for everyone's minds to settle, thoughts to be gathered and made sense of. And he did exactly that. Reliving the events, rehashing the conclusions, refuting any doubts and fears. His trail that of steam, he left the bathroom a different man – a man who believed that his life was so much richer.

That was his final conclusion. That, when all was said and done, he had after all lived through it, deepened his soul, and learned something new. It was with a dose of gratitude that he regarded this day, despite all the pain he had been through. Why would he ache more? Fear more? He knew what awaited so it was of no use, and he had no control over it, therefore, everything was as fine as it could get. And he realized that it was Donao's presence that agitated him most, so he gave himself that goal: to overcome that too, grow and develop in that way as well. Because, he thought as he neared the bed, he had calmed so much once that bastard had no longer been in his presence. Exactly, he could mark the very moment his anger diminished!

Another way to train himself, eh? He was looking forward to it. The next day, in general. Now, to waste the night away... he sat onto the bed, unsure what to do, for he was somewhat tired. He held up his two hands to grasp his melting consciousness. Setting his index and middle finger apart, he was to peek through his tired eye at the pastel setting. Colors dove into each other, docile yellow into limes and vomit-greens. Nothing to upset his sight, and yet, he didn't even have to try. He wouldn't sleep. Should he pick a book to read?

Shifting sounds behind him. Surprised, he immediately jolted his head in that direction. Even more surprised, he saw Radoy, moving. He had to check if he were truly awake, first, so he whispered, "Poe...?" The male turned his head around, some bangs looming over his confused face where two murky eyes blinked and twinkled. He propped himself up with his arms, and the sheets he had laid on, were revealed no longer to have been white, but ever so slightly brownish, as if dabbed in rust.

"Zach?"

He grinned. "How are you?!"

"Fi... fine...?" He looked at his arm, and the otherwise great sight displeased him. "Where are we? Is this... the afterlife?"

Zachariah laughed. "No! Absurdly not. A lot has happened while you were away, but you are alive and well! And everything is peaceful!" Radoy was quick to celebrate the fact he was alive and well, and Zachariah joined him, but of course, the joy was short-lived. Radoy demanded that he find out what happened, every single bit. So, the brunet went on to explain everything in great detail, that was, everything except for the part where Donao had tampered with his memories and he – well, was mean to that woman. He had to pause for a bit while retelling the events, because, what an incredible coincidence that was. To have Radoy earlier that night say Zachariah was practically relapsing, then Donao stick his head directly into former inconveniences.

Those two connected, was it not perfect? A rendezvous. It was all coming into a textbook circle, and what a loop it was, fit to be a noose. He stopped talking there as well, blinking and smiling, hoping he'd remember the comparison for some further writing.

He didn't want Radoy to worry about him, not at all. That's why he didn't utter a thing about how he had felt throughout the ordeal. Regardless, his friend was surprised enough as it was, and when the retelling was over, all he could mutter was, "What."

Zachariah chuckled. "Indeed, a what encompasses it all."

Feelings were discussed, Zachariah's purposely dismissed or lied about. He attempted to convince Radoy to believe his logic that, "Nothing is under our control, so stress is pointless. It'll only make you feel worse, only hinder you. A damned bother it is, and we don't need that now as well, do we?" His friend agreed, but furthered, "If stress were that easy to eliminate for most, there would be no heart attacks."

They continued the conversation, inevitably having it steer towards Maximilian. Radoy expressed a wish to see him, which Zachariah announced his doubts for. "He might be asleep, but I can't claim that with any certainty. We can go check."

"Together," Radoy immediately suggested.

Zachariah's brows rose. "Donao wouldn't hurt you, not yet. He knows we are expendable, especially with the arbiter dead. It'll be in a convenient moment that we are attacked."

His friend huffed. "That's much of a consolation." Following the discussion, they would soon leave the room, hugged together. On their right, down the stairs, their cohabitants were seen.

Donao and Constantin sat on one of the couches of the salon, each on the opposite side. They were both engaged in a quiet conversation, and that tone was not something the boss was commonly seen using. Neither of them seemed to have noticed the two had left the room, a lovely thing. Zachariah was surprised to spot an orange cat in Constantin's lap. Having it there was a bad idea due to all sorts of plants present, not only ferns and flowers who were possibly toxic but also cacti. Not that he cared. He also believed an imp would make a better pet for them as it matched their personality.

Radoy slowly reached out to open the door of Maximilian's bedroom, and luckily it did not creak. Both of them peeped inside, Zachariah looming over Radoy, to spot a corpse-like Maximilian on the bed, on his back, still in the exact somber suit, on the road to dreams. In spite of darkness, the Moon managed to tiptoe its way to him, curving along his jawline. With the scene inspected, the two closed the door.

"Wait, I forgot," Zachariah grabbed his friend's sleeve and whispered, "first of all, he had wished you good night, second of all, your clothes are in his room, Liam's and mine are in ours."

Radoy chuckled quietly. "That's so nice of him. But I'm not disturbing his sleep, no way," Radoy whispered back.

"What'll you be wearing then?"

"Yours? Maxi's are too big anyway." Deal.

Upon reentering their room, Radoy pointed at the stained portion of the sheet and remarked, "Yuck. That looks like shit."

"It's your shit, own up to it."

Radoy made a choking sound. "That's oddly inspirational, which is very needed in these dire times!" He was walking towards the bed, then stopped, and looked at Zachariah. "Your clothes."

"Hm? What about them?" He looked down.

"There's blood on them too, on your sleeve. Sorry, you probably intended to sleep in that..."

It didn't bother him, he said, and added he'd take it off if it upset his friend. As he was, expectedly, comfortable, nothing would be changed. Radoy said he should too, perhaps, get ready for sleep, and he did. Zachariah picked a book to look at its cover during the wait. Aside from the uniformly beige cover, one peacock's feather was drawn on the front. That was it for his attention.

Having gone through the same process of bathroom cleanery and changing, Radoy reappeared in Zachariah's oversized white shirt and similarly long pants, whose ends he had to cuff, the brunet noticed and laughed. And like that, looking both hilarious and undeniably cute, Radoy stood in front of him, hands on his hips. "I've realized I have questions, and you're the fun-fact-dealer of the group."

Zachariah tossed the book to his side. Oops, it landed on the floor. Not a shame. "I'm flattered. Ask away." He looked back at Radoy.

"If Donao becomes the Prince of Hell, what would that mean to everyone?"

There was much to explain, Zachariah knew, so he patted the place next to him on the bed. Radoy sat there and listened as the brunet spoke, "An intro. Despite what most people would expect, demons have a hierarchy. There is some self-imposed order among them. They're mostly sentient and they do mostly differ, so a power imbalance would be inevitable, especially to beings whose innate nature is merely to... be evil, there's no philosophy in that. Now, evil as they are, what is the one force that governs them, that decides it all, grants everything and nothing?"

"Power."

"Correct! So, at the top, we have Satan, the mysterious ruler of Hell, the very personification of malevolence. Standing below are demons similar to him, fallen angels, great in both strength and mind. Their job is to rule Hell. These are the most powerful demons, and though they do comprise a good portion of the demonic society, the majority of other demons is of different origin. I'm yet to understand which, exactly, as it is described in metaphors. I remember one portrayal calling them "the avalanches of damned souls", but other descriptions state that they're old pagan spirits. Whatever they may be, they are the lower class, considerably less powerful and less intelligent. In terms of what power they use, the hierarchy goes as: the most powerful are the fiery ones, then aerial, terrestrial, aqueous, subterranean and lastly nocturnal. Not truly important, but those are their species, if you'd like to know."

"So, they're destined to be the lower class? Imagine living in such a society. To think that Hell has it the same way as we do."

"Right? It's almost as if power, sheer power and all the wickedness and greed it entails... prevails. Just like here!" He laughed. "But that's none of our concern."

"You'd really say that? Our?"

"As in, mankind's."

Radoy's head tilted. "We, I think, have always strived to be better. It can't be pointless, for sure, for we do develop, and there's always a change for the better, small but... it exists. We always battle wickedness. Then, hasn't that always been our concern?" His head tilted to the other side, this time, bangs in his eyes which he removed again. "Or at least it should be."

Gentle in his laughter, Zachariah had himself lean back, hands meant to support him sinking into the mattress. He looked upwards to be met with the ceiling, its dreary paint and improper coverage all full of clusters of paint probing through like clay stars. "It should be, it should. But once again we stubbornly look away, pry our gazes to the skies and ignore the grounds. It's the conditio sine qua non. And why?"

"I don't think there's a cause or an effect to it, there is no... why. That's, as you said, the condition, the default. The state of affairs, if you will."

And upon hearing that, he shivered. "Absolutely! You are absolutely right, my dear!" He scooted nearer and landed one hand on Radoy's shoulder, beaming all the while. "That's the esse, but where's our sum? Where does the me spring out? Is it even alright for the individual to do so? What can one do with their yearning and finally, what can one do having flown? I know you know the answer, my dearest, us both are scapegoats of fate! Are we not? You'd agree?"

He clung onto Radoy's hands and he clung onto his life, and gazed into dots of darkness, forever comforting and forever understanding. They withstood him once again.

"I think I would. Please, continue," his friend escaped the trance to be lulled back into it, tender smiles all along. Zachariah was beyond ecstatic, and even used his hand to pain the description mid-air, "We get this, this is our collective fate: to fall like birds shot for their flight! It's an endless cycle, of killing and flying, of great ideas soaring to be throttled in their own blood. That is all of pseudo and verhistory, and that is mankind! And Hell, Hell is never having wings to set off in the first place. Hell is where you are irredeemable, inert, constant. Hell is where your will no longer matters. Hell, that is..."

Hell was this, and so long it was theirs, they could withstand it. His eyes were burning again, and so, he paused, blinking. After a deep breath, after replying to Radoy's concern that he was alright, he said, "I'm genuinely surprised I managed to ramble as much. I maintain you aren't bored?"

"No, no, I find it... funny. You won't write down any of that, again?"

"Ha. Of course. That's... a problem which I am yet to deal with, but thank you. Please keep on laughing. It's a remedy for the soul." He patted his head.

"I swear, I don't know what to say to your purple prose talk." He laughed back.

"That's quite alright, thank you. To return to the categorization of Hell's kindred hosts... if you will?"

"Sure."

They held hands again. It was at that moment that Zachariah realized he should've said that Radoy's laughter was the remedy for both of their souls. However, the exaggeration of that thought, its chunkiness at the given moment, all of it and so much more mortified him for some reason. Simply because he thought about it for an instance too long! Ridiculous. He chuckled the thoughts out, following the pattern of his rattled heart, and continued, "All demons may grow in power by devouring souls. That is why... Malphas, Donao's demon, as the president, might be able to beat the Prince. And every greater demon, those fallen angels or other stronger demons, have titles. Dukes, lords, counts, duchesses, all of that sort. The higher the title, the higher the power, naturally, and the higher the power, the more demons serve you directly."

"Jesus –" Radoy immediately put a hand over his own mouth, but it was too late, for the brunet had already broken out in laughter.

"Wait." Radoy gasped. "I did not say Jesus! I can't believe – no, no, that's because you keep saying that. I had to pick that up. Unbelievable. Stop laughing!"

Zachariah leaned closer to him, one hand in air to reach after Radoy's cheek. "Ooh, you've fallen right into my trap. You've succumbed to Christianity!"

"Shut up." He rolled his eyes, leaning away.

"Oh no, you've just looked at God. Or were you strumming the Strings with your eyeroll?"

"Shut up."

He took Zachariah's hand and removed it, which, to some extent, did insult him. He sighed and retracted it. "Alright! These digressions. Jesus. The Prince of Hell, as mentioned by the professor's demon, is... well, the Prince, so he is undoubtedly... at the very top when it comes to strength."

"Satan himself?"

"I'm not an expert, but very likely."

It would make sense, he thought, for Satan to call himself a prince... he was yet to, in his belief, inherit or earn the rest of the world. What else would he call himself, the king, the emperor, president of Hell? None of which matches as logically. The brunet rubbed his chin, seeing by Radoy's expression that the gravity of the situation had worsened. He would only add to it with,

"No matter what, I suppose that, with such power, Donao wants to conquer the world –"

"What?! Why didn't you say so earlier?!"

He reciprocated in a higher pitch, "Why else do you think I was panicking so much?!"

"Panicking?! You were joking moments ago! But, wait, wait, how. Wait." Radoy swung his hands around, both palms thrusted forwards. Having endured all of that emotion a long time before, Zachariah waited patiently. Despite the silence he offered, his friend didn't do anything else but sit shocked. Then he spoke up, "No. That doesn't make any sense, because, this is what I thought: if the Prince's title, legions, power, whatever, really was so great and almighty, then how come he hasn't conquered us yet? Besides, these things have happened already, demon masters going about and conquering, and every single time we've managed to fend them off. What makes the Prince so different?"

"Demons should by default want to destroy mankind, true. Yet according to all the sources I've read, rarely does Satan himself have an agency, and usually his role is passive. But I'm sure Donao's demon knows better since she recognized the Prince... meaning she knows him. And we know Donao."

"Uh." Radoy's hands dropped onto the mattress. "Haha."

"On the bright side, nobody will blame us for we had no choice...!"

"We didn't? We had to sacrifice the world for what? Each other?" Selfishly. It wasn't a good thing, not to Radoy. How Zachariah loathed that, because of this friendship, he came to know humility.

"It's a choice we mutually agreed to, then," Radoy replied to Zachariah's silence. To say it delighted the brunet was an understatement, yet he began, "Poe... I'm so sorry, I –"

"No, no, there's no need for comfort. I'm used to these things anyway. All of us are."

Zachariah could only nod. This wasn't something he could easily talk his way out, because he knew Radoy. To speak to his friend was (at least sometimes) the same as to walk on eggshells, and while he cared... the discomfort was overwhelming at times. He might as well break a few. He jumped from the bed, stood up, and asked, "Could you check something for me?"

"What?"

Zachariah turned his back to him and in one swift movement, took off his shirt. "Is there anything on my back or on my neck?"

"...no, nothing... new."

When he turned around, his friend's cheeks were redder than before. "So, the demon didn't leave any scars. That's good to know."

"Your pain has waned...?"

"Mhm."

He wore the shirt again. While on his feet, he also ducked to pick up the book and return it to its shelf. A good half of its pages were bent. Too bad nothing could be done about it, but he patted it and told it to get well, as if that would help. Radoy's chuckle was heard.

He told Zachariah he would like to try to sleep. So, the brunet turned off the lights (which did not encourage the dark; the Moon was aggressive in its endeavors that night and had to spill its rays all over the room), and got into the bed next to Radoy who had already been underneath the covers. Lying down, sinking there, after everything, it was a surreal experience. But, surely, it wouldn't help with Zachariah's insomnia, so, he was mentally rubbing his hands, ready for some wild imaginary scenario. Maybe the continuation of the poet's tale? Though it was tempting, he was better off creating new ones! Maybe something to do with nooses, zeros, loops... Ouroboros! Snakes and dragons and tails and feet, boots and grime and cities. Why count it, he could think about everything! It was almost as if he was looking forward to it.

The first thing he did, however, was hug the pillow beneath his head. It smelled of clean. Just like home. Hugging it was justified. Then, to chase the minutes away, he gave in to thinking, and his heart throbbed.

He had to let in the irrational. The paranoia. The cosmic fear. All that in order to feel. To waste away the night. While his friend would shift and turn in the bed, Zachariah remained as still as a cadaver, thoughts abysmal and deathly. He couldn't help but wonder at times, was Radoy having even worse notions? Could he be even more creative in terms of... imagining death, of feigning life, of awaiting meteors and falling into earthquakes. Of being devoured like an apricot, sweet blood sticking to a demon's fingers, arms, sharp elbows, wherefrom it dripped to manure the soil. His stomach vanishing to fill up another. The pleasant emptiness. His bones clattering against saws of teeth, some breaking under their manic bites, some swallowed like bits of the apricot's core. Once so invincible. Now ragged up in unrecognizable bits.

Him staring into the fiery eyes of the demon, two swiveling fires of two vile Suns set into certainly cold ebony skin. Both of which burned more than that of his world. Both of which didn't let him look away. Both of which he relished in, beautiful fires dripping their flames into the gloom. Flags of warmth, waving him his defeat. Then they tattered into naught.

And there he was, getting wood between his legs. For the better or the worse, it could no longer grow.

Blaring against his ears was a whisper. His very name, shushed almost to silence. Eyelids separated in mild annoyance, and his gaze captured Radoy in all of his cold fear. Eyes glassy, exaggerated, like that of a doll. Hair fitting for a scarecrow, that wild and unkempt, surely from the tossing, some obscuring his face but not from the Moon. It was remorseless, seeking to augment every imperfection that embossed him into Radoy, every hill and hole of a scar morphing the tender relief of his visage. It did so by stroking with pallid colors, shadowing wherever possible. Lips were barely parted, as if interrupted mid-gasp, and shadows dug deep inside of that crater. Then, then the hurried hush rolled out, "I'm sorry if I woke you up! I didn't mean to –"

"Good Lord, Radoy, calm down, everything is fine. And no, I haven't been asleep. Far from it." Indeed, he was getting very awake. He sounded too annoyed for his liking, so he softened his tone. "Why'd you call?"

"It's..." And his gaze flickered to the side. "Can we talk?" Radoy's fingers dug into the mattress – the covers were mostly kicked down to warm his legs only – weaving long cliffs of shadows into it so. Zachariah saw it all in his peripheral vision. He nodded, knowing exactly what this was about.

"Of course." And they did. Even as it went on, he didn't recall much of it. It seemed like hours had passed until the conclusion. Only the near end was etched in his memory, when he assured, for some sappy reason, "And if darkness overwhelms, and if the night blinds, I'll be by your side. Holding your hand like that, if need be, and placing it on your heart, to remind you that you are alive." Because he was holding his hand, and he was placing it on Radoy's heart.

"Is this what you deem to be living? Just this heart and a pulse," Radoy whispered.

"That's what it's always been. Your heart, and what you make of it."

"That's how it's supposed to be?"

"I won't lie to you." So he had to embellish the truth. "But maybe... you'll discover more, if only you stay."

"That's strange of you to say. Why would I... leave?"

Words rang with genuine confusion, such that it was the tune to soothe Zachariah's heart in fissures unknown. "You won't?" And his words, he allowed them to, spoke of surprise too.

"This idiotic life?" Radoy laughed out loud, and his laughter shivered its way into a hum. "Well, it is awful. It aches and burns and scars. But after everything is over... sometimes, when evening falls, the day ends and the toiling is over, just like now... that's when everyone can rest."

"When you can notice that there is progress, that there is healing, and even if there isn't..." Zachariah had the pleasure to continue. He gazed down the illuminated curve of Radoy's long nose. "You can, and you should, praise yourself for making it to another night. There is greatness in, simply, seeing the Moon."

"I hope it's like that for everyone." It was for them. Through the window, the old Moon greeted them.

"Of course." For the rest of the night, Zachariah smiled no more than a single smile. "There must be mercy. For everyone."

Why was that moments like these that brought them together? And since their life regularly consisted of them... he peered at his dearest for the umpteenth time, finally to see lids closed, webbed with velvet veins.

He couldn't imagine what they could become once it was over. He didn't want to.