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i-will-physically-fight-you · 2 years

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Heard No More

Title: Heard No More

Summary:

“Speak. You’ll be forgiven, pardoned of all grievances. One can understand how you did what you could to survive. All you have to do is speak.”

Virgil has heard these words time and time again. Speak. Speak and everything will be over. But it wouldn’t be over because there are specific words His Eminence wanted to hear. Words that would jeopardize the lives of the three people Virgil has come to cherish in so short of time he’d been granted.

When one day he wakes up to the sight of those three people–whom he never thought to see ever again–he refuses to believe any of it is real. It is a ruse, another way to trick him into betraying those he cares about and he cannot let himself fall for any of it.

Pairings: Platonic Lamp (Virgil-centric)

Word-Count: 15k

Warnings: Whump, Malnutrition, Starvation Mention, Disassociation, Nightmares, Aftermath of Torture, Panic Attack, CPTSD, Crying, Injury Mention, Blood, Villain OC, Portrayals of Unsympathetic Sides (None of them are actually unsympathetic), Unreliable Narrator, Guilt, Angst with an Ambiguous Ending (It’s Part of a Series)

This fic is part of a larger AU called By the Pricking of My Thumbs. I will polish this up probably soonish but here it is for now as is! This was part of @ts-storytime and my artist was @dillydallydove who did some really cool art you can check out here!

Special shout-out to @theeternalspace who helped coined the name of the larger AU this fic is a part of, and who has also helped me brainstorm a huge chunk of it, in addition to few other people on Discord <3

Part 1: The Way to Dusty Death

Sunlight seeps into the tiny window of a cell. It is a small, almost insignificant amount of light. Not nearly enough to see well within the cell. For Virgil, the occupant of the cell, it is more than enough. It is his only source of warmth in the cold, damp cell that he inhabits. The rags he once considered clothing provide very little in that department. He shivers, leaning his head as far up as the chains allow him.

The feeble sunbeam tickles his hair, his face. He fixes his gaze on the window, straining to see something, anything, out of the window. He always looks despite never being able to see anything. The window is too high up and too small to allow anything but sunlight to creep in. This is purposeful, of course. It is his captors’ way of taunting him. Of letting him know a world exists outside the torment he willingly endures.

“All this pain, all this misery, it can all go away if you just speak.” A hand clutches his chin, sharp nails digging into his flesh.

“You’ll be forgiven, pardoned of all grievances. One can understand how you did what you could to survive. All you have to do is speak.”

Virgil stares at the face of someone whose features have only ever been kind towards him. He opens his mouth, lungs shuddering. His Eminence leans closer, eyes bright like a hawk swooping in for a kill. That is when he spits at Him, the saliva landing directly between His eyes.

His Eminence hadn’t liked that. Virgil knows that much, by how His Eminence’s hand slides to his throat, squeezing so tightly until he couldn’t breathe. Virgil thinks this is it, this is how he is going to die.

He wakes up again, alone and sequestered in his cell once more.

Alone until His Eminence returns again. Along with Him comes a never-ending kaleidoscope of torment and agony. Again and again, over, and over, time after time—with no end in sight just a continuous stream that never ebbs or grows. Of course, there is an end—one repeatedly promised to him; Speak. Speak and everything will be over. But it wouldn’t be over because it was specific things His Eminence wanted to hear. Things that Virgil refused to give up. Things that jeopardized everything Virgil had come to cherish in so short of time he’d been granted.

In the midst of this dark reminiscing, Virgil’s neck muscles give out. His head rolls to the side, tilting his vision towards the dark musty cell floor and away from the precious sunlight. Virgil tries raising his head upwards again. And then again. He tries several times without success. He is too weak. His neck muscles, much like everything, throbs in pain from being strung on the wall like meat at the butcher’s shop. It is like a thousand natural shocks stinging him all at once.

The Ether is a nearly forgotten dream to Virgil. He cannot feel even a trickle of its energy in this desolate place. So much so that he wonders if he ever really possessed its Blessing upon him. Or worse, perhaps it deigned him too weak to be worthy of its Blessings.

He whimpers, more from the hunger and thirst than the pain. He cannot recall the last time he’s been given either food or water. Was it the night before last or two nights previous? All sense of time has left him. When he first arrived, he tried so hard to keep track of time. He scratched his nails against the grime of his cell wall; one scratch to signify a single day. It worked at first. Until His Eminence kept switching him to different cells and binding his hands to where he couldn’t even twitch a finger.

Now there is only Awake and Not-Awake. Though there is hardly a difference between the two anymore in his mind.

A distant clang erupts far off in the distance. Virgil’s blood runs cold at this. No, please no. He knows what sounds mean. Sounds mean that His Eminence is returning to afflict more pain in the efforts of getting words to spill from his lips. He’d rather starve to death or die of dehydration than utter even a single word.

He can’t simply close his eyes and attempt to ignore His Eminence’s presence. His Eminence doesn't like that. He’ll have to look at His Eminence and see His face—no, not His face. Never His Eminence’s actual face, not as of late. He’ll have to see whatever face of his friends His Eminence has chosen to don that day through the twisted use of Aether. He’ll then have to see that friend’s face speak things in that friend’s voice.

The first time it happens, Virgil almost falls for it.

“Virgil!” Logan screams as the whip cuts into his flesh, “Virgil, help, I beg of you, pl—please—”

He stares, horrified. Logan is here. Logan is here and he is getting hurt because of Virgil. It’s one thing if he is enduring the torture—he can take, he knows how to handle it. But it’s another if Logan—one of the reasons he bites his tongue—is on the receiving end of it.

His throat burns as he tries to say something, anything. He wheezes instead, the words failing to form. The guard lashes out on Logan again, the whip making a horrible cracking noise against Logan’s back. Virgil watches, unable to tear his gaze from the horrific sight. It’s then he sees past the cuts and welts on Logan’s torso and onto clear, unblemished skin. Not one with the swirling, swoopy ink of the Locutus constellation across his shoulder blades. That’s not Logan. It can’t be. It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it isn’t ReAL—

Virgil chokes down a sob, trying to shove the unwanted memory away. He can’t focus on that, not now or perhaps not ever. The point is—he knows His Eminence’s tricks well. His Eminence wants him to break, to fool him into giving vital information away. But Virgil won’t give his friends up—he loves them too much to let that happen.

Even if none of them share the same strong sentiment. They see him as an asset, nothing more. Sure, Patton cares—in the pitying sort of way that one would treat a forlorn stray. Logan is cordial if just tolerant of his presence. Roman? Oh, the Crown Prince of Imaginari openly made known his dislike of Virgil upon first meeting. But even Princey doesn’t deserve the death that awaits them all if Virgil breaks.

So, Virgil doesn’t speak—at all. He doesn’t scream curses at His Eminence, doesn’t beg for food or water. Nor make a sound of any kind. He does none of that. It’s easier this way, it keeps him from accidentally saying things he shouldn’t. It infuriates Him. Virgil hopes it infuriates His Eminence enough to one day give up and finally let Virgil die. Either by His hand or by being left to rot.

He vainly hopes that the distant clang is a false alarm. That perhaps His Eminence is here for some other poor soul and not him. The clang resounds again, followed by a series of clatters. It becomes louder as the entity draws nearer. It is the sound of footsteps accompanied by the jostling of chainmail.

He knows what that last one means—Roman. His Eminence is using Roman’s face today. He breathes in heavily. Roman’s face should be easier to tolerate than Patton or Logan. After all, he has displayed the most hostility towards Virgil. Yet for some reason, Roman’s face is always the most difficult to see.

Virgil closes his eyes, despite knowing he’ll be punished for it. It isn’t like His Eminence can’t do anything that He hasn't already done. Or say anything His Eminence hasn't already said for that matter.

The cell door slams open with an ear-splitting screech from its rusted hinges.

“My gods…” A voice murmurs, strangled with emotion.

“Is he still alive?!” A second hysteric voice breaks in.

Two voices? Virgil almost stops breathing. His Eminence has never used more than one face before. He doesn’t know if he can handle seeing all of them at once. Maybe if he fakes death he won’t have to endure it. A second barely passes before a cough escapes him, ruining the planned façade.

“He’s—oh my gods—he’s still alive, Padre.” A third voice says, stating the obvious.

Padre—that’s a nickname Roman calls Patton. It means “Father” in his late mother’s native tongue. How did He know about that nickname? Did Virgil let that slip? No, he couldn’t have—he wouldn’t have! Unless somehow he did and he forgot in the haze of it all. And if he let something so innocuous as that slip, who’s to say what else he revealed? Oh gods, he must’ve failed them all and His Eminence has come to taunt him with it.

Someone steps close to him. What little strength he has, Virgil tenses up. He thinks he may not be breathing at all. He expects His Eminence to start shaking his shoulder, begging—no, commanding—him to open his eyes. A soft shake that turns into a crushing grip as gentle words shift into cruel gibes. It does not happen.

Instead, they reach up and grab hold of the chain keeping his left arm suspended. With a click, his arm falls to his side. They are…they are freeing him?

No, not freeing him. Just another trick, another illusion to manipulate him into doing what His Eminence wants. He won’t fall for it. He’ll keep silent and still like always.

His Eminence unlocks the chain holding up his right arm as well. He can feel the whoosh of air as his body falls towards the cell floor. Virgil waits for the inevitable impact with the stone floor of the cell. He does not bother even spreading his arms out to catch himself in the fashion that is instinctive for most humans. Someone catches him, cradling him into a warm embrace and oh—this is so much warmer than just a mere sliver of the suns’ rays. Virgil can’t help but weakly shift his head closer to their chest. He is pathetic.

“It’s okay—you’re safe now.” Patton’s voice whispers to him.

He gasps, the sharp inhale of oxygen grating across his throat. He wants to believe it’s truly Patton. He selfishly wishes it’s really his friends who’ve come to rescue him. However, he knows better. It’s a wonderful fantasy yet it isn’t reality. Tomorrow he’ll wake up back in chains in the same damn cell with the same damn small window before he knows it.

“Erst Nad Ahel.” Patton—His Eminence commands, kissing his forehead. Virgil breaths one deep breath in and then he is no more.

White. Fluffy, rolling layers of white. He lays on something soft and not hard. He is warm and not cold. He feels nothing and thinks nothing, not of sadness or joy or anything. He exists and he does not exist. Has he finally died and reached the afterlife?

Slowly, he turns his head away from the whiteness—a pillow—and he discovers, no, he is not dead yet. Yet the sight still startles him. It is not that of a tiny window surrounded by damp stone growing with mildew. It is a sight he’d never imagined seeing again; burgundy walls with gold accents adorned with a wide window and chastely paintings. He is in Roman’s quarters, lying on Roman’s bed.

He stares at the walls, his gaze flitting listlessly downwards until he meets the gaze of weathered blue eyes. Patton. He is sitting on a chair beside the bed, along with Roman and Logan. The latter two are asleep, their heads each resting on one of Patton’s shoulders. But Patton is not. He is staring at Virgil.

“Virgil,” He starts, falling out of his chair to kneel at Virgil’s bedside, “You’re awake!”

Then he breaks down crying. Virgil stares. He should comfort him—no only if it was the real Patton, then he would comfort him. It is not the first time he’s witnessed a Patton-Look-A-Like sob in front of him. Though certainly the first in what is not a cramped cell. Is this real? Is this a dream? One surely too good to be true?

Patton’s actions have woken up the others. Roman slings an arm around the Court Mage, whispering something to him. Logan approaches Virgil with an indiscernible expression on his face. Virgil doesn’t acknowledge him, keeping his face perfectly blank. Still and silent. Still and silent. He has to stay still and silent.

“Virgil, it’s…good to see you are awake.” Logan says, the words oddly stilted and hesitant. Not like his Logan, always confident regardless of which situation he strolls into.

Virgil continues staring at Patton. The world sways and warps, causing him to see doubles of Patton and Roman. Like their souls are escaping their bodies, going elsewhere, somewhere better than facing reality. A hand touches his shoulder, and he flinches. He almost hisses but his throat tightens up and keeps the noise from leaving.

“Virgil, I apologize,” Logan says, his voice growing distant as if he’s standing on the other side of a tunnel, “I need to check your bandages to make sure they’re…”

Virgil doesn’t hear the rest of it.

Darkness. Great billows of darkness all around him, entrapping him. No light, nothing. Alone, all alone. Blue eyes peering at him behind a set of bars. A smile full of white sharp teeth. Clatter-clop, clatter-clop, clatter-clop. The noise grows and grows, swelling like a great big thunderstorm. A ghastly inhuman wail follows it. The cell bars shake. The blue eyes are gone. BANG! The cell door falls off its hinges. Something stomps down on him, impaling him.

A word is spoken: “Speak.”

And an answer is given, “Never.”

To which the response is, “Oh? But you just did.”

Virgil inhales, exhales, and then, screams.

A human hand clasps his shoulder and Virgil thrashes with his all might. It isn’t enough. The person is able to pin him down with ease. He bares his teeth, eyes unable to see his assailant. It doesn’t matter, he knows it’s His Eminence, regardless of what He may look like.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” His Eminence whispers, adjusting His hold into a looser, relaxed one, “it’s just a nightmare, it’s not real.”

What? Is this yet another trick? Virgil’s head hurts. Everything hurts. Liquid pours out of him. Blood, most likely. He should be more alarmed by this discovery, he thinks. His Eminence’s fingers trace over the area, coming to a halt. A curse falls from His lips, pursued by a shout. Light flares across Virgil’s vision, leaving dizzying dots in its aftermath.

He wakes up in Roman’s quarters again. The others are there again. He almost wonders if he has started hallucinating. Or dreaming. He hopes he isn’t dreaming. Dreams never end well. Even happy dreams because they’re just a cruel reminder of what he can never have.

Patton doesn’t cry this time. He’s holding onto Virgil’s hand, rattling away.

“—you know Lady Mittens? She gave birth to a litter of kittens a few days ago. They’re so cute and tiny! I was thinking, would you like to see them once you’re feeling well enough?”

Virgil stares blankly at him through half-lidded eyes. His hand lays limp and unresponsive in Patton’s hold. He waits any moment to be punished for his insolence.

Patton squeezes his hand. Not tight enough to hurt. So light that Virgil almost wonders if he’s imagined it.

“If you do want to see them, I’ll let you name one! Right now, I just call them Little Mitten, Spots and Blacky—”

Patton keeps talking. Virgil watches his mouth open and close as something akin to words tumbles out. He does not comprehend them. He cannot when he is too stupefied by the chain of events. Virgil did not speak—that justifies punishment in both dreams and reality. Yet Patton did not punish him. It has to be a fluke. Or maybe a false sense of security before everything collapses in on itself like always.

��—do you think so, Virgil?”

He jolts, catching just the last bit of Patton’s sentence. Far too late to know what Patton is asking of him.

He leans his head back, staring into Patton’s shimmering eyes. Not shimmering like a diamond or some exquisite gem. No, there’s something wrong and Virgil can’t figure out what it is. His mind buzzes like a hive of hornets. It’s too bad he’s not a hornet himself because he can’t make out anything it’s giving him.

Virgil doesn’t say anything, of course. Even if he felt inclined to, he couldn’t. Just keeping his eyes open seemed like a colossal task. Like before, Patton doesn’t punish him for this.

“It’s alright,” Patton tells him, “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here.”

He smiles at Virgil before rambling on once more. This time without any questions being directed Virgil’s way.

For a long while, this is what makes up Virgil’s awareness. Fleeting moments of brightness followed by dreadful moments of darkness. There are the dreams where he’s with the others once more and there are the nightmares that makes up reality. There is the gleaming, airy Prince’s Quarters and then there is the grim, cramped Prison Cell.

Virgil’s frayed consciousness floats in and out, never staying idle in either place for long. Fighting to stay awake, to stay aware of things, is exhausting. Sometimes he gives in to the numbness, lets everything blend together into nothingness. It’s a nice feeling and he wonders if it’s what death feels like. It doesn’t last. It never does, although he wishes it did.

In the moments he is aware, he notices things. Lots of things. Such as when he finds himself in the Prince’s Quarters, one of his friends is always present. He is never alone. Which takes a while for his mind to adjust. Alone is good, alone means His Eminence is not there and he is safe. Yet when they are there, he is still safe. Patton, Logan and Roman even help him in his weakened state.

Not even in dreams, can he escape the reality of his situation. He scarcely has the strength to hold up his head, let alone leave the bed.

Patton takes care of his bandages, whispering words laced with the Ether’s power in them. A cold feeling always rushes through Virgil when he does this. Like taking a plunge in a lake during the dead of winter. Patton occasionally gives him sponge baths with soap that smells like lavender.

Roman feeds him soup, lifting the spoon up to his mouth so he doesn’t have to. It should be humiliating but it isn’t. Roman lavishes praise on him, telling him with each spoonful he’s becoming stronger and ready to kick Roman’s ass. Only he doesn’t use that specific word because he’s too posh and proud to stoop to such language.

And Logan? He reads to Virgil about anything and everything. He reads to Virgil about the stars. The constellations and the stories behind them. Or about historical accounts by people who’ve been deceased for centuries. All their struggles and strife that sometimes differ very little to life today. His calm steady cadence of words is sometimes the only thing that anchors Virgil.

Through it all, they speak to him, describing the actions they’re taking (“I’m going to lift you temporarily out of the bed in order to change the bedding, understood?”) and sometimes things about their day (“Dot caught me stealing a pastry from the kitchen and I barely escaped her wrath with my head still intact!”).

Sometimes they ask questions and wait for a response. Virgil never answers them. He keeps waiting to be punished for this. But there are never any consequences if he does not speak.

He is…confused by their behavior. Even if they are truly his friends, and not idealized versions conjured by his mind, they would not risk their lives to save someone like him. He isn’t the Crown Prince like Roman or hold nobility titles like Logan and Patton.

He is a nobody who happened to have a meager connection to the Ether. A nobody Patton took pity on and subsequently refused to take any other apprentice but him. Stupid really when his grasp of it is so weak. Especially when he cannot feel its presence no longer. It is as lost to him as his voice is.

He doesn’t dwell on the moments he finds himself back in the cell. The disembodied corpses. A knife that is plunged into his chest. The piercing shrieks that beg for him to listen. After a while, one would think he’d get desensitized to such sights. But it’s as if expecting a wound that keeps getting infected to instantaneously get better from the repeated exposure. Instead, it festers and only worsens with time.

He always startles to awareness in his dreams, cradled in loving arms that are accompanied by a soothing voice singing lullabies and whispering apologies. When this happens, he often drifts into a state of in-between. Not quite like the nothingness. He is vaguely aware of happenings.

He catches a snippet of conversation once while in such a state. One he thinks his friends’ dream selves didn’t expect him to overhear.

“—He’s asleep now. Lo, did he…happen to say anything to you earlier? At all?”

“He did not, but he did show interest today when I was reading Romulus’s account of the Split. It is as we’ve discussed before, Roman, I have no doubt his mind is still with us though he cannot speak. We need to let him speak again on his own time.”

“And what if he doesn’t speak ever again? What do we do then?”

“Then we’ll love on him regardless. He’s still our Virgil, voice or no voice. It’ll be okay.”

“It isn’t okay, if only—” There’s a muffled sob. Virgil almost wants to understand why the person is crying. But his eyes refuse to open and the next thing he’s aware is Roman offering him porridge.

Patton gifts him a journal one day. It’s a blank journal with purple binding and the front engraved with a thundercloud sigil associated with Taran, Virgil’s favored god.

“You can do whatever you’d like with it,” Patton says, “You can draw or—or use it to talk with us. But only if you want to, of course! You don’t have to share anything with us unless you feel comfortable enough in doing so.”

Virgil barely pays attention to Patton’s words. He’s more focused on running his fingers across the etching of Taran’s sigil, the tactile sensation oddly pleasing to him. Out of the corner of his eyes he spies Patton’s beaming face and freezes. Why is Patton happy? His eyes narrow, tilting his head slightly to the side. Patton catches his gaze and seems to understand his confusion.

“You seem happy with the journal—is that right?” Patton says.

He squints his eyes further as Patton’s words about the journal’s purpose slowly register with him. He does like the etching of Taran’s sigil. It comforts the part of him that still clings to faith. Still, this is a ploy to get him to talk, one way or another. He should’ve known it’d been too good to be true when they were accepting of his silence.

Not that he is going to reveal any of this to Patton. Slowly, he dips his head down and then back up again. A nod. He does not know when he took to nodding or shaking his head at their questions. It is not all the time. Only to certain questions, for there are still many, many questions he does not (and will not) acknowledge. Selective being the key for there are still questions he refuses to acknowledge.

“Well then, I’m happy that you’re happy!” Patton clasps his hand together with a toothy smile.

Virgil shrinks back instinctively at this, hiding his face behind the journal. He shivers, remembering a time that Patton’s face wore a similar smile as he broke Virgil’s pinky finger.

“I’m happy when you’re happy. Why aren’t you happy? Tell me.”

He hears Patton clear his throat, jolting at the sound.

“Virgil, are you okay?”

Headshake.

“Do you want a hug?”

Headshake.

“Do you want a distraction? A silly story maybe?”

Headshake.

“Do you…do you need some alone time?”

Headshake.

His heart is beating fast now, his hands clammy against the journal, his legs entangled in the satin sheets. Patton hovers beside him still asking questions he’s shaking his head at. But he’s too focused on the fact he’s not getting enough oxygen. It is like thorns have grown around his lungs, squeezing, and suffocating every last bit of air. It hurts, hurts, hurts.

Then the world swishes to black and suddenly doesn’t hurt anymore.

Virgil is awake. He is awake and confused for it is dark and there is a figure staring down at him. Where is he? Is he in his cell or having a dream? And is either option better than the other?

His heart should be racing but instead it trudges along at a sluggish, slow rate. Everything about him feels sluggish. His mind is sludge swishing down a river. His body refuses to move, tingling with a numbness that would terrify him if he could feel emotions in the moment.

Instead, everything is oddly muted. It makes him wonder if he’s been drugged again. It wouldn’t be the first time His Eminence tried doing that.

The figure has a candle-stick, he realizes belatedly. The figure lifts it closer to their face and oh—it’s Roman. At least the figure has Roman’s face. Same facial structure, same hair that cascades down to the nape of his neck, same eyes with that honey-brown glow.

Then a smile splits across the figure’s face and it’s not a friendly smile. With the way its mouth stretches out wide, it bares its teeth in an act of false comradery. The figure moves closer, limbs too gangly. The numbness dissipates at this, adrenaline hitting him like a lightning strike. Virgil tries retreating back only to hit a wooden obstacle. There are no chains restricting his movement, he realizes belatedly.

The figure tilts its head at this, in such an odd angle that Virgil wonders how its head doesn’t snap off. Virgil breathes noisily, searching for a weapon in the darkness to protect himself. The only thing he can see is the candlelight illuminating the figure. He bares his own set of teeth, fingers curled into his palms. Despite no chains, his body moves like lead. Perhaps this is why he has no chains; His Eminence knows he is too weak to fight back anyways.

The figure stops their advancement, settling their weight onto the platform Virgil is sprawled across. Not platform, bed. Princey’s bed. In the dimness, aided by the candlelight being closer, he can make out the distinctive posters of the bed frame.

They laugh, a screechy high-pitched crackle, further cementing that He is not Roman, for he would never laugh like that.

“I don’t believe it,” His Eminence rasps, “With the way everyone was reacting, I thought you were dead! With maggots feasting on your rotting corpse, or your remains burned beyond recognition. But all this time, you’ve been the Crown Prince’s bedfellow?”

Virgil doesn’t give a response. He doesn’t even twitch in recognition of the words spewing from His Eminence. Although he can hear the words, the words that just don’t make much sense.

“Where is Roman, anyways?” His Eminence continues, “Is he in some secret part of the Prince’s Quarters I don’t know about?”

The bastard sits there on the edge of the bed, legs kicking absently. He might as well have plunged a knife into his chest. Virgil doesn’t just keep breathing noisily. He stops breathing at all.

He is a fool, a complete and utter fool. All this time he’d assumed this had all been a dream, a cruel fabrication of his mind to taunt him with what he can’t have. He should’ve known better. He should’ve known this was an elaborate illusion. So intricate and layered, to lure him into giving up like a child unable to keep their eyes open upon hearing a lullaby.

It made sense, His Eminence is smart. He knew that His methods weren’t working. And His Eminence had the Ether to pull something like this off. And worse of all? Virgil almost fell for it. He almost put the others at risk after everything he’d endured to protect them. Just because he was weak, so desperate to see them again, even while knowing it was fake all along.

“Hey, are you still with me? Hey! This isn’t funny anymore!” A hand slaps his face.

He thinks this happened at least, for his face has a stinging sensation from the action. A menagerie of voices erupts following this, clashing and conflicting in sounds. The illusion is falling apart, unable to sustain itself with its captive.

“GUARDS! SOMEBODY GET IN HERE!”

“—mus what are you doing here—”

“Get away from him—”

“Why isn’t he—”

“What’s—”

“Virge—”

Light streams through the high arched windows of the Prince Quarters. The darkness is gone and so is His Eminence. Virgil blinks, catching sight of Roman, Patton and Logan asleep akin to when he first found himself in this illusion. They’re in chairs by his bedside, leaning against one another.

He almost expects Patton to wake up any moment now, blabbering about how sorry he is. When the real Patton has nothing to be sorry for. None of them do. Something catches his eye however; the journal Patton gave to him sits on the bedside table. He almost doesn’t recognize it; it takes him a moment to recall it.

Of course, he knows its true insidious purpose. His Eminence wants him to journal down his thoughts, so that His Eminence can steal it when he isn’t looking and exploit them. Still, he picks it up even while knowing this.

He opens the journal, staring at the blank paper. A reed pen lies nestled in between the pages. He picks it up, contemplating for a moment. And then he begins to draw.

Part 2: To Beguile the Time, Look like the Time

Virgil draws. He draws and draws, lines and circles that hold no meaning to anyone but himself. Sometimes even he doesn’t know what they mean. Strangely, they do not try to confiscate the journal from him to look at his drawings. He sleeps holding the journal close to his chest. They do not try to take it from him even then. At least, if they do, they are very good at obtaining it and returning to it his unconscious body without him waking up.

They still encourage him to write in his journal. Either by outright expressing this or not-so-subtle glances as the purple leather-bound book. He never, ever does. In his mind, writing is the equivalent of speaking, and he does not speak nor sob or scream. He has trained himself for long, that it hurts to make a noise. Like chains tightening around his throat, strangling him.

He keeps expecting any moment for Them to give up the charade. To snap their fingers and the whole illusion to melt away like a painting left to ruin in the rain. They don’t like it when he doesn’t play along to the tune of their flute after all. Which is almost always because he is not one to fall so easily to such perfidious notes. Even if he does, it’s only a lapse, a matter of forgetting, before he spits in their face.

Yet, these visages of his friends continue to not punish him at all. It confuses him, but he does not let down his guard. Too many times, has he let down his guard.

“Virgil, Virgil, Virgil pleeeeease?”

“Look! We’re fine! Back without a scratch!”

“Virgil, look out!”

His head hurts. ‘No,’ he grits his teeth, exhaling. He pushes the offending fragment of memory back to the shadows of his mind. Too many shadows haunt his mind these days. But as long as it’s in the shadows, he’ll only have to face it in his nightmares.

In the corner of his eyes, he can see Roman—not Roman—glance in his direction. He is sitting in a chair quietly reading a stack of papers. Something very not Roman-like. His Princey does not read quietly. He squirms in his chair, letting out “hmms” and guffaws. Eventually he’ll get up pacing the room, ranting up and down why the writer is either an imbecile or a genius.

At times, this Roman will express behavior like this. But he is far too quiet, far too reserved. Another reason why this can’t be real.

Virgil ignores the veneer prince as he turns to a fresh page in his journal. He picks up his quill and begins to weave a set of curvy lines across the page. He attaches little circles to the ends of them, crowned with a series of ovals. He blinks, looks back a bit and suddenly it isn’t a nonsensical, abstract piece. Daisies. It’s a drawing of daisies.

Then there isn’t a drawing of daisies. He clutches a messy bouquet of daisies in his hands, pumping his little legs as fast as he can. Giddiness alights his chest in a way that was always bountiful in those days.

A small hut on the edge of the village crops up in his field of vision. It’s old, weathered, and close to crumbling down but it’s home. The door is slightly ajar and in it, there’s a woman weaving away on a loom.

Once upon a time, Virgil had a mother. With auburn hair not unlike his own tucked up into a bun and wrinkles when she smiled. She worked on her loom, all day, and all night, so that she and Virgil might have a bit of food. It was not a good loom—there were newer, nicer ones that better-off weavers could afford. But they were poor, and she always insisted it was good enough for their needs. Virgil always dreamed of giving her the loom that a weaver like her deserved.

“Mother,” Virgil whispers, slightly out-of-breath, “can I show you something?”

She hums, finishing a bit of work before looking up.

“Daisies?” She gasps, “in late Autumn?”

“Yup!” Virgil beams, “I found ‘em, and picked them just for you ‘cause I know you like ‘em!”

Mother takes him from his hands, staring at them. When she looks up at him again, there’s an odd look in her eye.

“Thank you, Virgil. You’re truly something special.” She tells him, words that almost every parent tells their child. Then she coughs. Nothing to worry about, just a small cold.

She keeps coughing and coughing. Until the warmth leaves her cheeks, until her hair is brittle and body thin, until her hand goes limp in his own, her eyes glazing over—

“Virgil!”

He blinks. Then blinks again, staring down at the pages of his journal once more. The drawing of daisies is gone. In its place is muddled ink ruined by something wet. His face is wet, vision slightly blurry. Still, he can make out Roman’s figure by his side.

“Are you okay?” Roman’s voice asks.

He’d laugh if the attempt wouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t shake or nod his head as an answer to the question. He just looks at Roman with half-lidded eyes. He breaths so slowly and so quietly one might mistake him for a corpse. But this Roman isn’t fooled by that. His Eminence never is.

Roman takes his hand to which Virgil does not react. Which is a lie, as his breath hitches slightly, his body wanting to tense up in preparation for the hurt.

“Virgil, please, just give them what they want, it—it’s not worth it.” A bloody Roman gasps, lying at his feet. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Roman is too stubborn, too idealistic. He’d never place himself above the needs of his kingdom.

“Virgil,” A different Roman says, white uniform pristine and unsoiled, “let’s go to the Gardens, get out of this stuffy room and get a breath of fresh air.”

He stares at him, confused. He’d expected a broken wrist, or a shoulder pulled out of socket. Not…whatever this is.

His Eminence must be inwardly pleased with Himself. As much as He desires information from Virgil, He is also a sadist. He openly delights in Virgil’s torment.

“As pitiful as it is that we couldn’t come to a more civilized arrangement,” His Eminence once murmured as he idly scraped a knife against Virgil’s abdomen, “I do think I am going to take immense pleasure when you finally do break.”

Yet mirage after mirage of Virgil’s friends grievously injured or grievously injuring him hadn’t broken him. At least, not in the way His Eminence wanted. So, it makes sense that His Eminence has decided to torture him with visions of what can never, ever, be.

Not-Roman is still waiting an answer. So patiently, he might add. Not an ounce of impatience typically associated with his Princey. A soft smile crests his lips as he gazes upon Virgil, almost statuesque in his stillness.

The Gardens. This Machiavellian Roman asked him if he’d like to visit the Gardens. The Royal Gardens, to be precise, although there couldn’t be any other Gardens he was referring to. Virgil would like to shake his head no. To decline the phony prince and see the reaction it’d stir.

But a part of him wants to see the Gardens. To see if the illusion holds up past the barriers of the prince’s quarters. Illusions are so hard to do well, after all.

“Illusions are a matter of manipulating the Ether to morph someone’s perception of the physical world into whatever the mage wants them to see or what that someone wants most to see,” Patton tells him once during a training session, “Now, this isn’t always a bad thing! Street performers often perform illusions for shows.

“It’s easy to perform illusions on a person who’s willing to believe whatever illusion a mage presents to them is real. Less easy if the person possesses a strong will or is cynical to the illusion. And of course, the more elaborate an illusion is, the harder it is for the mage to cast.”

“You said illusions ‘morph someone’s perception of the physical world’—can illusions affect other senses besides sight?” Virgil asks then, the words falling so freely from his lips. As if not fearing the consequences because of course this Virgil didn’t have to worry about that.

The smile Patton gives him is bright and blinding. Even before he opens his mouth Virgil knows he’s pleased by his question. It’s weird and unfamiliar territory to Virgil—his prior teachers have never freely distributed positivity like this to him, their pupil.

“You got it in one, kiddo. In fact, best way to see through an illusion is to use your other senses—most mages focus too much on one specific sense or a specific detail that they leave something out.”

This illusion of His Eminence is elaborate, it’s powerful. So, so close to real life with attention to detail normally amiss in illusions. Patton took him to see performances done by illusionists almost all the time. He said it was for Virgil to observe and pick apart their illusions but really, it was mostly because he enjoyed the shows himself. Still, it prepared Virgil in ways neither of them predicted.

Although just barely, really. His Eminence is a master at His art. Even with Virgil’s training, he found only the smallest chinks when He disguised Himself as his friends. Much less, something on this scale.

“Please Virgil?”

He almost flinches from the suddenness of those words, his attention drawn again to Roman. He’d almost forgotten about Roman; lost in the dark catacombs of his mind. No, wait, not Roman. Not his Roman, anyways. Just an illusion, a shade that pales in consideration to the boisterous, haughty Prince. He has to keep reminding himself of that lest he wants to get fully swayed by the illusion.

It is something that is hard to fight against at times. Especially in this moment, with a Roman that possesses such a wide, pleading look. Virgil has never been good at combatting against an opponent who’d stoop to such lows.

“Ugh, alright. I live to serve, my liege.”

“Wait, you mean you’re—”

“—actually gonna help you with your crazy stupid idea? Yeah, I am. Let’s just hope neither of us regrets this.”

Virgil looks away, his eyes dropping to their entwined fingers. Roman’s touch is gentle and light, a warmth that is almost incinerating. He wonders how he’d react if Virgil does not answer at all. Even Real Princey wouldn’t like that. He’d tap his foot against the ground impatiently, letting Virgil know he could have him hanged or worse for not answering.

He breathes, short and shuddery. Slowly, he dips his head down before raising it to meet Roman’s gaze once more. It isn’t giving in, he tells himself. It’s just the illusion of it. Virgil might not be able to access the Ether, but that’s okay. He’s survived years without being aware of its existence within him. He can survive without it. He has to, for the sake of his friends and the entire kingdom. He can’t lose them like how he lost his mother.

He expects a jubilant, triumphant Roman to come out of this. A Roman who dances about the room, loudly making his victory well-known. This Roman seems happy by his answer through a more subdued way. A smile that twitches, growing wider. Eyes that light up just the tiniest amount. It is wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Let us set off then,” Roman says, before tugging him forward. The motion startles him. He yanks his hand away from Roman’s hold, a silent scream on his lips.

“Virgil I—” A hand hovers near his peripheral vision but does not touch him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He cannot trust those words. He can’t trust anything, not even himself at times. He has lived by this creed for years, long before a cell with a tiny window existed. Still, he nods to acknowledge those words. To let Roman think he trusts them when he hasn’t. Never will.

Slowly, he sweeps his legs out of the bedcovers and over the side of the bed. He’s met with a set of bandaged, disturbingly pale malnourished legs. In the same state as his arms and the rest of his body. Everything hurts, his arms especially. The simple act of drawing has already zapped most of his energy away. It’s pathetic that in a way, his own body has become like a prison to him.

An anger swells through him just then. One he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Clenching his teeth, he pulls himself off the bed and onto his feet. He stands up for one, glimmering moment. Then his legs waver, buckling underneath him. Rather than crashing onto the ground, Roman catches him.

“I’ll carry you,” Roman says, as if he hadn’t already been planning on carrying him, “A knight like yourself deserves a royal steed.”

Virgil blinks, caught off-guard by Roman comparing himself to a horse, much less Virgil a knight. But then, Roman is overly-dramatic. This is just His Eminence’s attempt at capturing this.

Roman lifts Virgil up, caressing him close to his chest. Virgil doesn’t try to lash out or escape it. Not when his attempts would be like a newborn kitten in its feebleness. He is defenseless. He has always been defenseless, but he’s especially reminded of this whenever His Eminence carries him.

Roman rambles along the way to the Gardens. His voice is kept to a careful timbre. It might be because he doesn’t want to startle Virgil. Or it might be because it’s apparently nighttime. A glimpse of a window they stroll by reveals a dark blue starry sky. They make their way through hallways dimly lighted by torches.

This is perhaps something Virgil should’ve known before they left the Prince’s Quarters. But then, there are two possibilities. One, Virgil’s awareness of time is warped after weeks spent in a dark dungeon. Or two, this is a crack in the illusion. Virgil thinks it’s a plausible explanation though a very obvious blunder.

He is fixated on this more so than the words coming out of Princey’s mouth. He can see him moving his mouth. He can hear a sound of some sort that might be words. But his mind does not translate this sound into coherent words. Several times the sound takes on a questioning tone, as if this Roman is asking him a question. But quickly the sound continues as Virgil offers no indication of responding to him.

At long last, they come to the Royal Gardens through the use of a servant’s passageway. Virgil is surprised that Roman knows this way. A prince like him would be oblivious to this. After all, servants are to be scarcely seen nor heard by nobility. The latter to never question this unless a servant has come under their ire.

Just another possible flaw in the illusion.

The moon is out tonight. Big, bright, and full—surreal in its’ serenity. The stars, though numerous, are nothing to compared to the ruler of the night sky. Virgil is reminded of a legend. One he’s heard long ago but has since forgotten who told him. That on days when the moon disappears completely from view, it is the stars at fault for this. Though, he does not remember the reason why. Perhaps out of mischief and tomfoolery. Or perhaps something darker, borne of jealousy or hatred for the moon.

Nevertheless, aided by the full moon and the stars, the night sky is brighter than usual. It feels almost too bright for someone who has almost forgotten what the sun feels like. If he thinks the moon is too bright, he can’t imagine standing under the intensity of the sun’s glare. Or rather, carried.

Roman brings him to a secluded corner of the Gardens, away from the more impressive flowerbeds. He settles Virgil onto the soft grass beside some dark-colored flowers with thorns. Roses, not daisies. He sits there, staring not at the delicate petals but the thorns.

The urge to grasp the stem, to have thorns sink into his skin, is strong. The imagined pain feels so tangible. For a moment, he thinks he has acted on it. He can hear Roman’s alarmed shout, arms pulling him away from the rosebush. As if he’s worried about Virgil’s safety when really, it’s just an act.

His hands lay by his side, unblemished by crimson red. Either he has not touched the thorns, or His Eminence has made him think he hasn’t.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Roman sitting beside him, head leaned back towards the sky. For once, since coming here, he is quiet again. His eyes flutter shut as he breathes in soundly. Virgil wonders if it’s possible for him to fall asleep sitting like that. Or pretend-sleep anyways. He doubts His Eminence would actually fall asleep in front of him.

Something brushes against Virgil, sweeping his hair back with a feather light touch. He jumps back, heart thumping heavily against his sternum. He looks around, trying to find the assailant. He makes direct eye contact with Roman. A Roman with hair fluttering in the wind. The wind, yes, of course.

He directs his attention away from Roman, past the rosebushes and onto elsewhere. The night has a way of turning the most familiar surrounding into the most alien thing out there. Yet, he’s almost certain this looks as to the Gardens as possible.

Although he wasn’t much one for the Gardens before everything. His fingers grip the smooth blades of the grass, dirt gathering underneath his nails. He breathes in deeply. The air is fresh and free, not stifling and stuffy like the air he’s grown used to.

His eyes sting. It all feels so real but then, it’s because he wants it to be real. Illusions feed into that. Illusions trick your mind into believing what you want most is real. Virgil wants his family—no, friends—to be safe. Even if this means he’ll never see them again. Even if he has to endure mental and physical torment for them, he will. But it isn’t what he truly wants most. What he wants most is for them to be safe and for him to be at their side.

He knows that this can never be. Early on, even a notorious pessimist like himself held onto hope. A hope that had to be quickly discarded for decisive resignation. He accepted long ago that he couldn’t have the happy ending he wanted. But his heart—it hadn’t fully accepted that. Sometimes it betrayed him in moments like this, weakening his resolve against His Eminence.

He is also just tired, so tired of the hurt and the suffering. He doesn’t know if he is strong to endure it all over again, though he must. He has to. He can’t give up after going this far. His breath hitches on the edge of hyperventilation.

“This was my mother’s favorite spot in the Gardens.” Roman says abruptly, causing Virgil’s everything to come to a careening halt. Roman is still looking up at the sky, back slightly turned to him.

“She loved all of it, really. The Gardens was her greatest love besides Father and myself. She worked alongside the gardeners on cultivating and planting it. But she loved it here the most, among the roses. She’d…she’d bring me onto her lap and tell me stories. When she died, Father ordered the Gardens to remain exactly the same. Not a petal out of place.” Roman laughs, shaking his head.

Virgil doesn’t join in. He just stares, confused. So, so, confused. His Roman isn’t one to divulge details about his mother, the late Queen. She died not from an illness like Virgil’s mother but from injuries sustained in battle.

He remembers the day the whole nation tied strips of black fabric around their arms in mutual mourning. He’d been too young to understand it. He cannot imagine what Roman, who is a similar age to him, had felt to lose not a monarch but a mother. Of course, he lost his own mother not long after so perhaps he understands a little.

Regardless, Virgil’s head hurts trying to understand what this all means. What is this phantom of the prince trying to accomplish?

“I’ve wondered often though,” Roman continues, swallowing, “what it’d look like if she was still alive. And I’ve thought—well.”

Roman looks as if he has more to say yet it’s too painful for him to go on. Virgil understands that. Which is a problem, surely this is some sort of ploy to get him empathetic to this Roman? To unwittingly harm the others by revealing secrets?

Virgil’s head and heart both ache trying to comprehend it all. He is also utterly exhausted of it all. So, he gives in. Just a little bit. He shifts closer, until he can hold onto Roman’s hand.

Roman is still. He squeezes Virgil’s hand. He doesn’t say anything further. The two remain this way for a long, long time. Long enough that Virgil’s perception of the surrounding world is muddled. His head is no longer able to support itself. He leans against something soft, something soft like satin. A solid weight steadies him, keeping him from completely collapsing.

There is a rustling noise. Something is approaching. Virgil should open his eyes. He has to stay alert—he should stay alert. His eyes will not open. His heart cannot even be bothered to thrash with adrenaline inside of his chest. It is a slow, steady beat.

“What are you two doing out here?” A voice asks.

There is a response—an answer that does not come from Virgil’s lips. He does not hear it. He does not hear or see anything for some time—or rather, not anything that he remembers. When he does regain his senses once more, he is no longer in the Gardens. He is back in the Prince Quarters, his journal in his lap. Overlapping circles and swirls of dots stare back at him.

Part 3: Full of Sound and Fury

The next day—or perhaps a few days after—Patton looks at Virgil in the eye and asks, “Want to steal cookies from the kitchen with me?”

Virgil looks at him, searching for the hidden meanings from this Patton’s words.

If stealing cookies is a way to gain his trust, it is certainly one of His Eminence’s oddest ploys. But he has to admit, it is a Patton thing to instigate. Despite being the Court Mage and old enough to be above such childish things.

Patton smiles back at him, the tightness of his eyes suggesting a determination not quite unfamiliar. He’s seen it in those eyes before, peering into a set of bars. A hand stretching through the bars, unafraid of the wild beast prowling within. A voice begging, “Please, please, please!”

“Please?” This Patton asks, offering his hand out to Virgil.

He looks down at the hand and sees a different one—a hand encased in an intricate silver gauntlet. The face that belongs to the hand’s owner is long forgotten, but the voice still haunts Virgil’s ears.

“Come, boy, and your mother’s death will not be of one in vain.” The voice, as smooth as a stone softened in a river, promises.

He doesn’t know what made him believe in those words so strongly. He’d been a child, a foolish, naïve child. A child who didn’t know any better—the worst sort of child. So, he had rose on the tips of his feet and let his hand be swallowed by the silver gauntlet.

The grip of the silver gauntlet brought tears to his eyes. He didn’t cry, though. He wishes he had. Perhaps if he cried and kicked his feet, someone would’ve saved him. Deep down, he knows it’s just a futile fantasy. Nobody would’ve put up a fuss for a starving, sickly orphan child.

But the hand that reaches out to him isn’t a silver gauntlet. It is the calloused hand of the one masquerading as his Patton.

This Patton has kept his distance, waiting as patient as the not-Roman. The similarity in that is almost unnerving. The more unnerving part of it is that Patton would be this patient. Virgil has witnessed the man wait an hour for a feral cat to finally accept a pet behind its scraggly ears.

“Dot’s made a fresh batch of snickerdoodles—your favorite,” Patton says, “If we get caught, she won’t be mad, I promise. She’ll probably be happy even to see you—knowing her, she’d send us off with a feast fit for a Blue Moon celebration.”

Virgil lets out a slow huff before catching himself, the breath of air wheezing to a halt. A laugh. He almost allowed himself to laugh at this Patton’s words. Still, he is unsure of this latest ploy of His Eminence.

Even the actual Patton’s way of doing things has always perplexed him. Patton isn’t one for court politics—he always speaks from the heart. For this, he has made both friends and enemies alike. Yet even the man’s enemies seem to have a grudging respect for him.

Early on, he might’ve assumed this an insidious trick to poison him. He knows now has that His Eminence will not allow him to succumb to death so easily. Nor did He need to go to such chicanery in the first place. Although His Eminence did so love such theatrics.

“Virgil,” Patton coughs, scarlet splattering onto grimy cobblestone, “please, I’ll die if you don’t.”

He doesn’t respond, he won’t respond. He digs his nails into his palms, relishing in the dull pain. Out of them all, His Eminence fails at even holding up to a pale shade of Patton. The court mage is selfless—to a ridiculous fault. He would off his own arm or leg if it’d help out someone else. Not just for family or friends—Patton would do it for a complete stranger. He did so for Virgil.

Patton would not ask of Virgil to save his life at the cost of others—ever.

After the fifth attempt of pleading, Patton just laughs. It does not sound at all like Patton’s laugh. Too screechy, too demented.

Patton’s hands snatch upwards, encircling Virgil’s throat. “Is this better?” He asks, as Virgil grasps for breath, “will you obey your dear mentor now?”

A hand hovers towards him. “Virgil, breathe.”

Breathe? Is His Eminence mocking him? How can he breathe with His hands strangling his throat?

Something tugs at the hands. The hands won’t let go, further clenching down. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Someone cries. Is it him? It doesn’t sound like him. His eyes don’t feel wet either. Someone takes a deep breath—that isn’t him. He can’t breathe.

Then, “Lerease einth shand.”

The hands slip away from his throat, but his lungs still ache for air. Each short, stilted inhale pierces him as would a spear. Hands drift close to him. They do not touch his throat. They do not touch him at all. There is a voice, steady as a stream.

“Breath, take deep breaths. Hold and release.” It says, repeating its words over and over like a liturgy. So sure, so trusting that Virgil can breathe.

The dark clouds flooding his vision says otherwise. He knows if he does not draw enough breath, he will succumb to this darkness. Once, he would think of this to be a bad thing. Now he does not see it as being either good or bad—it is just a fact.

He should give in into the darkness. To let it take him under its blissed ebony wings and be ignorant of the waking world. Alas, he does not. Something, an impulse, an instinct, urges him to fight for breath. The voice aids in this, encouraging him when each attempt leaves him gasping further.

“You’ve got this, you’re doing good, take each breath slow and deep,”

The process is a bit like whittling wood. The first nick is rough and shallow but little by little it becomes smoother and easier. Until each breath becomes more and more an afterthought than the breadth of his entire being.

He can breathe and so the dark clouds dissipate. He is in the Prince’s Quarters. There are scarlet curtains and scarlet satin sheets but no drops of scarlet. Patton is there, kneeling a foot away from the bed. His hands kept to his side, not reaching out to choke Virgil. His eyes wet with tears, his gaze scarcely meeting Virgil’s own.

“I’m sorry,” He says, “I’d thought you might like to get a change of scenery; I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Virgil stares at him. Patton is not talking about the strangling. He is talking about…the cookies. Snickerdoodles. Patton asked if he wanted to steal snickerdoodles from the castle’s larder. Then he asked for Virgil to speak and then strangled him when he didn’t. But wait, no, that isn’t right. The latter had been in the cell, the former in the Prince’s Quarters.

“The more elaborate an illusion is, the harder it is for the mage to cast.” Patton’s words echo through his brain.

Virgil’s lips twitch upwards. He knew it—he’d found a true breach in His Eminence’s illusions. Even His Eminence couldn’t make an illusion last forever.

Something stirs in his chest. It isn’t the warmth of the Ether. It is a slick and oily sensation that coils around his rib cage. His Eminence thinks he can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Unfortunately, for Him, Virgil isn’t a fly; he is a spider. Honey or vinegar will never be enough to entice him. A spider creates a web and waits. They wait and wait until the fly gets caught in the web. Then they feast.

Sometimes the fly never comes. Sometimes the Spider will die waiting. But at least the Spider isn’t the one that gets tricked into their demise like a fly.

Virgil is not a moron. He has no delusions of escaping or even defeating his captor. But he can weave a web—he can wait. He’ll wait in a way that makes His Eminence think He has won. And the longer he waits, the longer he keeps the others safe and further waste His Eminence’s time.

“—ppened?”

“It’s my fault, I asked if he’d like to go to the kitchens and he got upset—”

Virgil blinks, looking to see Patton isn’t by his side any longer. Somehow, Logan and Roman are here now. The three are huddled several feet away, speaking as if he cannot hear them. He would find it insulting if he doesn’t know it’s His Eminence wanting him to overhear. It is a string, a piece of the web His Eminence is weaving.

See, Virgil, listen to how concerned they are for your wellbeing! They aren’t trying to harm you, they’re only here to help you, why won’t you let them? Why won’t you tell them what they need to help to you?

Virgil does not look at those mannequins and believe they’re what His Eminence wants him to believe. He does find himself staring at the Phantom Prince. At hair that should not be greasy and disheveled. At attire that is too plain to be royalty. At those amber eyes that gleam like dying embers rather than a blazing fire.

‘This is a dumbass idea, and you know it.”

“Oh hush, Mordread, it’s a brilliant idea and you know it.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“We’re not going to get caught!”

Virgil doesn’t end up staring for much longer. Instead, he stares at his journal, at the pen nestled in his hand. He draws repetitions of smooth, crisp ovals. A shape that holds no meaning, not even to himself. It is the action that is important. He is taking a page right out of His Eminence’s book.

There is a flash of blue robes in the corner of his eyes. Specifically turquoise blue, not the sapphire blue robes that Logan sometimes wore.

“Virgil, are you hungry?” Patton’s voice asks. So soft, so delicate in a way that makes Virgil’s stomach upset.

Like Roman, Patton rarely reins in his emotions. Even with his most placid voice when speaking with the King’s Council, the stiffness of his neck and the way he clasps his hands always gives it away. Or at least it does so for Virgil, who has been trained to look for such tells.

He cannot find such a sign in this Patton’s posture or face. His eyebrows are not raised or scrunched together. His eyes do not squint or widen in any way. His lips do not curve upwards or downwards. Instead, they rest in an even, neutral line. Much like how he holds himself. Not exactly stiff but not relaxed either.

It is not in any way like he knows Patton to attempt concealing an emotion. Perhaps that is why it hurts so much to see Patton in this manner. So close and yet so far off from the one he knows.

Virgil’s pen continues its steady course. He knows he has no choice in the matter—that this Patton will insist on him eating. He is hungry—but not enough hungry to justify a meal. As a child he thought he knew hunger wandering the streets after his mother’s death. The time he’s spent in the cell has taught him what true hunger feels like.

It isn’t always a sharp, piercing pang in your stomach. That comes and goes after a while. What is hard is the thoughts that come with no food. Virgil could not stop thinking of food.

He’d have nightmares of banquets. Of tables piled to the ceiling with every kind of food imaginable, even the food he hates. It doesn’t matter because he would eat it. He would eat it all. But his hunger refused to be satisfied and the food tasted like nothingness.

But that was hardly the worst part. The most grievous, horrifying part of the nightmare was the blood. At first, the feasting hall was pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Slowly, scarlet fingers would touch everything. The ceiling, the walls, the tables, himself. He couldn’t escape it.

He also couldn’t escape the unseeing eyes of those who paid the cost for such a feast. Their lifeless corpses drifted so peacefully in the sea of blood that swept the halls. Virgil would try to get closer, fighting against the burgundy waves that kept him back. Just as he’d almost reached out, three hands would clasp onto his.

“How could you—”

“We thought better of you—”

“It’s your fault!”

The words would leave his lips before he could stop them. “N—no, I didn’t, I swear!”

The blood then rose up to his torso, his neck, his whole being. Until he drowned in it, his lungs filled to the brim with the crimson liquid. So, needless to say, the thought of eating gradually became nauseating. No, not just that. Bile would rise in his throat at the mere sight of it.

Virgil’s hand tightens around his quill. So, to answer the question of “Is Virgil hungry?”—no, he is satiated enough to last a few days without food. Yet, refusing food would not be auspicious to his cause.

He allows himself to glance at last to Patton, who has remained there silently all this time. He does have to wonder what His Eminence is thinking.

His Eminence may very well know he is wise to his tricks. It matters not in His eyes whether Virgil thinks this is reality or that he knows this is an illusion. His Eminence wants Virgil to grow comfortable in this farce. He wants Virgil to remember what how it feels to eat plentifully and be surrounded by those who you care and trust intimately. So that when the time is right, His Eminence can threaten to starve him once more of it.

His Eminence’s cold breath practically tickles his ears, “My hellhound, I know you’ve been trained well, but aren’t you tired? Just tell me what I need to know, and you can stay here forever where they will always always love you.”

Virgil clenches his eyes shut, his shoulders scrunching up. He is a spider, not a fly. He does not fly unknowingly to his demise. He is ever patient, ever knowing of his demise. His Eminence must not know the difference. He cannot know. If only for Virgil to spit in His face one last time.

“Virgil?” A voice asks, not from behind but in front of him. Patton stands there, holding a plate of food. Had that plate existed all along? Virgil does not know.

What he does know is he nods his head. He eats each morsel of food, ignoring how each bite brings a metallic taste to his mouth. Not-Patton is delighted by this. He knows this because of the way the eyes widen with slightly raised eyebrows.

“Good.” Patton says, taking the empty plate from him when he is done.

Virgil forces his lips upwards. It’s more of a grimace than a smile. He doesn’t quite expect the reaction it would bring from Not-Patton. He looks back at Virgil with moisty eyes. He gives him a nod before stepping away.

Virgil does not even begin to try and parse what that means. His exhausted mind begs nothing more for rest. He does not want to rest. He wants to stay observant and aware of His Eminence.

But he’s known for a long time it matters little what he wants. So, it is little surprise that he does not get what he wants.

Part 4: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

Virgil does not dream. Or rather, he does not always dream and if he does dream, it usually flits from his memory like vapor. Still, it is unusual for him to not retain at least the distant remembrance of dreaming. He is unsure what to make of this. Is this another way of His Eminence fucking with him or is this a sign of his Ether has truly dissipated from his being?

Of course, those who lack a connection to the Ether can dream. It is an experience not solely limited to the Ether-Blessed. But it is common for Ether-Blessed to have vivid dreams, sometimes even prophetic visions. Virgil has only experienced something close to déjà vu, details that are achingly familiar for no discernible reason.

It is not something he dwells on too long. His energy is best spent on weaving his web and finding ways of fooling His Eminence into thinking His own web of honey-vinegar has entrapped him.

He still will not talk, of course. He already gave into communicating selectively nodding or shaking his head, he won’t give His Eminence anything further than this. Yet he will go along with the actions that do not pose any threats to the others’ wellbeing.

Eating is one of those things. His Eminence does not withhold it from him in return for Virgil to speak. Rather, no matter what forms He takes, He insists Virgil eats something, even if it just a few bites.

“Please Virgil, you don’t have to eat everything.”

“Virgil, my stormy knight, you need your strength if you’re going to be able to best me in a duel again.”

“I know you may not feel hungry, but it is imperative you eat a little to help nourish your body.”

It is a strange reversal that makes Virgil sick to his stomach more than anything else. Several times he has actually retched up the contents of his last meal. His Eminence never berates him for wasting perfectly good food. He doesn’t even force him to try and consume his own vomit as a punishment.

Rather He offers nothing but gentle, cloying words, reassuring him that he did no wrong for being unable to hold down his food.

“It is natural,” He says in Logan’s voice, as He cleaned up Virgil’s own mess, “for someone in your state to have these issues. Your body is relearning what it is like to have a stable supply of food.”

Virgil’s stomach threatens another dry heave at that. His Eminence practically laid out his whole plan right there and then. He wants Virgil to be reacclimated to how it feels to be adequately satiated. So that when the illusion shatters for good, Virgil is all the more desperate for food and comfort and love he can’t ever receive.

It is yet another thing Virgil tries not dwelling much on.

The food is just the beginning of His Eminence’s plans. The next thing His Eminence insists upon is taking short walking circuits around the Prince Quarters. “As part of your recovery, you should walk a little each day to regain your strength,” His Eminence says in the slow methodical measure of Logan’s voice.

It is not the first time His Eminence has forced him on his feet, forbidding him to lay down and rest. He’d walk back-and-forth like a caged restless beast. If he attempted to do so little as to droop his head, chains like thistles would dig tightly into his skin. He walked and walked for what had to be hours—perhaps even close to a full day. Eventually, his feet lsot all sensation as streams of scarlet flowed from them.

It is not like that at all this time. Virgil wishes it was. He craves it, even—for it is an easier pain to bear than His Eminence’s alternative punishment.

This time, His Eminence phrases it in such a way as to suggest Virgil has a choice in the matter.

“It is important you don’t overexert yourself, we are attempting to help your recovery, not hinder it.”

Of course, Virgil doesn’t respond to this. He looks at Not-Logan, tilting his head just the slightest in acknowledgment. Inside his brain, he contemplates hitting His Eminence with his journal. It’s been a while since He equipped Virgil with a potential weapon. If he hit His Eminence in a vulnerable spot, could he neutralize Him enough to escape?

Virgil can’t do it. As His Eminence puts it, he must recover his strength before he could even contemplate such a thing. The only thing he can do, is to go along with His Eminence’s plans for now.

So Virgil doesn’t fight it when Not-Logan offers him a steady shoulder to lean against. It is pitiful, really, how much Virgil is reduced to a wheezing wreck within a few strides.

“Virgil?” Not-Logan’s grip tighten around him. Virgil’s lungs involuntarily seize up at this, bracing for impact. Will it be a knife shoved into the crevices of his ribs this time? Or a cat o’nine tails raked across his sternum?

No, it is steady arms that lift him back to the bed.

“Deep breaths, your lungs need more air than they are currently receiving,” Logan tells him, “It is alright, as I have said your body needs to take it slow. You did well for your first steps since—since beginning your recovery.”

Virgil almost flinches with that last sentence. He knows this isn’t his Logan—his Logan would never stumble his own words. As the Crown Prince’s advisor, the man is one of the most poised speakers in the kingdom. His words are always so methodical, so thought-out.

Virgil has heard His Eminence put on Logan’s voice before. He has heard Him beg and scream and cry in Logan’s voice. Somehow, hearing Logan’s voice break this time is not like before. It’s like the distinction between a shattered vase and a shattered cup—the same result but different.

A hand is offered towards Virgil. The hand is reaching down towards him, encased with gold and etched with elaborate carvings. “A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, rising shadow of Taran,” A voice as volatile as volcanic magma amuses, “what drives you, boy? Power? Wealth?”

The child that was once Virgil shakes his head. No, no. What desire would he have for power and wealth? Especially when those are only things that bad guys sought after. He didn’t want to be a bad guy.

“My mother,” A pitiful child warbles, “I want to avenge my mother.”

“Oh?” The gold gauntlet takes hold of his hand, “A noble sentiment for a shadow such as yourself. Do well in my service and I will grant this desire of yours.”

Virgil should’ve yanked his hand away. Why can’t he yank his hand away?

“Virgil, may I hold your hand?” A blurry hand reaches towards him, unadorned with any gold gauntlet. A hand unblemished from manual labor like that of a Noble.

A hand too similar to others offered up to him time and time again. A hand that promises comfort and security and vengeance yet holds all of that at an arms-length. Close enough for Virgil to think he could have it all if only he reached far enough to grasp it.

They say madness is attempting the same method time and time again and expecting different results. That’s not the entire truth. What His Eminence knows is that you repeat the same method time and time again until an individual delves into madness from the inanity, resulting in the desired outcome.

With a wheezing breath, Virgil chooses to grasp this hand. Not because he expects anything different, but to make His Eminence believes he does.

“If we’re going to go through this, there’s a few rules you need to promise me you’ll abide by.”

“Such as?”

“Rule 1, outside these walls—you’re not the prince, you’re a lowly commoner. You have to believe that, because otherwise nobody else will believe that.”

His Eminence takes hold of his hand, guiding towards His own chest. Through velvety fabric, Virgil can feel the rise and fall of His Eminence’s lungs. It is a slow, even intake and exhale of air accompanied by a slightly quick heartrate.

“Try to match my breathing, breathing in and releasing in long intervals,” Not-Logan instructs, repeating similar words of before. This must be His Eminence’s new way of mocking him; reducing him to gasping like a fish without water and then “rebuilding” his strength by gradually giving him drops of water.

Virgil vastly prefers the old method over this farce. Still, he follows along until breathing becomes an afterthought.

“Good,” Logan says, as if praising a dog, “That’s good Virgil, I—”

There is another hitch in his voice, a hesitation that doesn’t belong.

“Virgil, please do not be discouraged by today’s events. It may take time for your body to find its strength to walk on its own again. Myself along with Patton and Roman are here to aid you, but you must not overexert yourself, understand?”

Virgil stares at him, examining every miniscule detail of his solemn gaze. This Logan speaks to him as if Virgil is an intellectual equal. It is not the soft, downy words of Phony Patton or the brittle, muted words of Roman. It is so close to how the real Logan would say in a situation such as this.

That’s the unique trait of Logan Golic; he treats people, noble or commoner, with the same amount of dignity and respect. He never assumes one’s intellect based on their circumstances, even if one is a former Shadow. He treats one according to how they treat him in return. Like Patton, he has earned his own opponents and allies in spades over such convictions.

It’s close to the real Logan, but not quite. Virgil’s Logan is reserved in his emotions—hiding them in long-winded lectures and subtle acts of service. The most emotion he elicits is during passion bouts of debate in Royal Council meetings. It might kill the man if he displays the slightest quiver of uncertainty in his voice.

For now, for His Eminence and for his own sake, Virgil allows himself to believe those words. He nods in acceptance, meeting His Eminence’s eyes.

The Logan-lookalike releases his hand, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Alright, then. With this understanding out of the way, do you require any substance?”

And so, a cycle begins anew. In addition to urging him to consume food daily, each morning and each evening—His Eminence has Virgil walk. Not enough to bleed or to cause an ache in his lungs. Just a few steps at first. Then a few more and a few more. It is insisted upon Virgil he has the choice of stopping at any point. Virgil always keeps going until he is instructed to stop. When he isn’t walking, Virgil spends his time sleeping and drawing in the journal. Occasionally Not-Logan will read him excerpts from whatever book he is supposedly reading.

His Eminence has taken on the appearance of Logan most recently over Patton or Roman. Virgil does not ask, of course, why this is. He is still informed nonetheless, as to the reason that His Eminence wants him to believe.

“Both Roman and Patton have been required to attend to their duties as Crown Prince and Court Mage,” Not-Logan tells him during one of their walks, “they do severely miss your presence.”

Virgil does not know what to make of this. As advisor to the Crown Prince, Logan has a formidable number of responsibilities himself. In the guise of Logan, His Eminence certainly pretends to do scrollwork while keeping Virgil company in the Prince’s Quarters.

But why Logan over Patton and Roman? It is not as if Virgil has not shown vulnerabilities in front of the others. If anything, he has shown a higher degree. Is it yet another way of luring Virgil into a false sense of security?

In any regard, it is useless for Virgil to contemplate on this. It is not as if he will ask His Eminence, nor will His Eminence give those answers freely to him.

This cycle continues tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow—creeping in a petty pace that would seem to last all of recorded time. Virgil has long since given up keeping track of time. Even in the journal, where he could conceivably create a coded calendar, he does not try. So, he cannot say how long this cycle lasted. It could’ve been a few weeks. It could’ve been a month or two.

All he knows, is that it ends with a question: “Would you like to accompany me to the library?”

In the end, he cannot find himself too surprised by the question. It is a similar question asked by both Patton and Roman. An invitation outside his cell and to a specific favored spot of His Eminence’s face of the day. It is an illusion of freedom, of choice. A taunt to show how complex His Eminence’s illusions are.

Out of the previous two, Virgil accepted one and declined the other. His Eminence had been of so gracious to not punish Virgil for refusing the second. Virgil expects not the same leniency. This is fine, for Virgil has been awaiting this opportunity to occur again.

May it be that the Ether has abandoned his soul, Virgil will see through His Eminence’s illusion. Even an Ether-Less can peer past an illusion if they know what to seek after. His Eminence has likely been gathering strength to push the boundaries of the illusion past the Prince’s Quarters. Virgil can be the mosquito to His Eminence, a tiny yet distracting pest.

And although he could hardly admit it to himself, Virgil wants to see something beyond the four walls of the Prince’s Quarters, even such something was an illusion to trick his eyes.

Even so, Virgil delays his response. He draws lines in his journal, some neat and parallel, others loopy and perpendicular. They scatter the page, containing no meaning and no beauty.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Logan. The faux advisor watches him quietly in turn, not a hair out of place. His Eminence appears to be content awaiting for Virgil’s response. It is unnerving. By now, his Logan would’ve fidgeted with his spectacles, clearing his throat in ill-concealed exasperation.

This Logan’s hand rises to his spectacles before it falls at the last possible moment. As if deciding against its last minute for some reason. A crack in His Eminence’s method acting, perhaps? Not as if such a detail matters greatly to Virgil.

Slowly, he sets down the reed pen within the pages of the journal. He closes it shut, the action causing a faint thud. Fallacious Logan’s eyes meet with his own. With a shaky finger, Virgil raises his hand towards the door and nods.

Logan is at his bedside at once. Virgil has to restrain himself from recoiling at this. The Royal Advisor had been several lengths away at a desk. How had he appeared so aptly at Virgil’s side?

Not-Logan offers his hand towards Virgil. He clears his throat. He does so several times, hints of syllables seeping out, yet no actual words coming to fruition. Another thing so uncharacteristic of Virgil’s Logan. He is not sure if he’s ever seen Logan be at a loss for words. Then again, His Eminence has always struggled the most at capturing even the slightest essence of Logan.

Virgil takes the hand, allowing himself to be pulled onto his feet. Logan still cannot seem to speak, instead choosing to tilt his head towards the door. Interlocked, arm in arm, they approach the door. One would think this would invoke some sort of emotion in Virgil. After weeks of being contained within the same four walls, he is now at last leaving it. Although he had the desire to leave it, no emotion seemed to overcome him in the moment. Why would there be?

The outside is still a dungeon, a labyrinth that is nearly inescapable. Even if by sight and other senses it does not seem so. Virgil is not even surprised there is a set of guards posted outside the door. They wear Imaginari crest upon their suits of armor and stand at attention at the sight of Logan.

“My Lord—”

“Come with us to the library.” Logan—His Eminence requests in a brisk tone.

“Yes, my lord.” The two bow their heads. They fell a respectable distance behind Virgil and Logan. A respectable, impressive distance given the slow, stumbling steps of Virgil. He regained much mobility since His Eminence first started this farce, yet nowhere near his agility of before. Ironically, he may always remain a shadow of his former strength.

He does not linger on those thoughts. Instead, he keeps his head high and his eyes sharp, ready to tear into the slightest cracks of the Illusion. The castle is different than that night Roman snuck him out to the Gardens.

For one, it is daylight—casting everything in a luminous, golden glow. Another, it is more desolate than the one he knows from his memories. Yet even so, he knows these winding hallways. He once haunted them both day and night, long ago when he couldn’t sleep due to nightmares of a different kind.

Hallways are one thing. They are something simple—something easy to weave into an illusion. The Library is something less so. It is not in any ordinary library. It is catacombs upon catacombs of knowledge, steeped in Ether protection spells. It is one of the castle’s most guarded treasures. Even in his Shadow days, Virgil would think twice upon trying to trespass inside. Surely something such as it would be difficult to capture within an Illusion?

Virgil knows better than to doubt His Eminence’s capabilities. Even so when he finally gazes into the depths of the Library—something stirs inside of him. The same something when he first looked upon the true Library. Not this fake Library, it can’t be real. It is just his eyes believing what His Eminence wants him to see. The shimmering shelves filled with books upon books jostled in with scrolls and sheafs of parchment.

Not for the first time, Virgil wonders if His Eminence is aware of what Virgil perceives. Is it an Illusion completely crafted by His Eminence or an Illusion designed to feed into Virgil’s perception of the world? It couldn’t possibly be the former; if His Eminence had such deep-seeded knowledge as this, then what would be the point—No. Virgil refuses to contemplate it. He won’t.

Logan taps his shoulder, startling Virgil out of his frantic reveries. “Virgil, you may, uh, pick a book if you’d like.”

A book? Is this a test? Or merely a way of further taunting Virgil with the depths of this cursed Illusion? Virgil’s eyes flicker side to side. There is so many options, so many to choose from. Is there a wrong choice? Is there even a right one?

A weathered, beaten thick book grasps his attention. It pulls at him—physically. He stumbles out of not-Logan’s grasp until his fingers clench tightly onto the book. He slips it out of the shelf, flipping to a random page. He stares at the gibberish swimming on the page—some of close to being coherent but not quite.

“Romulus’s Account of the Split,” Logan murmurs at his side, an odd lilt to his voice, “That is written in Old Imaginari, I can read it for you if you’d like.”

Virgil nods, practically shoving it at him. His heart roars in his ears. He can’t think. What exactly is His Eminence’s goal in asking him to pick out a book? What deceptions is he trying to pull here?

If His Eminence is upset at such impudence, He does not show it. Instead, he guides them to a seating area, and starts reading aloud. The sentences are not fluid, as if His Eminence truly is translating an ancient tongue in real time.

It is a legend, a myth that almost every Imaginari citizen has heard growing up. The Downfall of the last Mage King of Imaginari. Virgil knows how it’s supposed to go. Long, long ago, Ether-Blessed ran through the veins of every Noble born destined to be the Crowned Rulers of the Land. Until, one day—one King decided ruling over the mortal realm was not enough. He wanted to be powerful enough to challenge the gods.

It does not exactly go the way it’s supposed to go. Or rather, there is a name he doesn’t expect to hear.

“This King…borne of what is now the ill-fated House Haldoofse—”

“Roman, we need to go. They’re here.”

“Who? I don’t see—”

“Shh! We go now. Rule number two, remember?”

Virgil doesn’t understand. There are several versions of the legend, why would His Eminence recite this one? His Eminence refuses to even acknowledge its existence. Virgil has witnessed what has happened to those who dare bring mention of it. Even in such an Illusion, one designed to manipulate Virgil into giving up—there has to be some test here. But what is it? And why is his vision spinning as if he spun around in too many circles?

His Eminence reads on—but Virgil hears no more.

#sander sides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #kat writes #platonic lamp

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