Remembrance
Disclaimer: All characters and places etc are the property of Yoshiki Tanaka, KKS and others. No money being made here.
An answer to RB’s
challenge.
The Scene: Narsus first rescued Alfreedo from the clutches of Silver Mask’s hands. Remember that scene? How fortunate for the Mrs-Narsus-wanna-be who came close to losing her hide. Remember that remarkable comment Silver Mask/Hermes made about if he’d had such a man by/on his side?
The Challenge: What if Silver Mask had caught Narsus that day? What happens?
Shounen-ai angst.
“I have been here before
But when or how I cannot tell.”
- Hisoka ~ Norwareta Tsukiya no Kioku
There is a
thick layer of mist settled over the city of
It has been a long time since the King’s Strategist has gone walking through the city, or so he thinks to himself from his vantage-point at a high-arched window. With one hand resting on the sill, attention directed beyond the palace walls it could almost seem that Lord Narsus is little changed. Yet, gone are the days of white silks, like a flash of hope on the horizon, so too with his long hair that artfully caught the breeze. These days Narsus wears black, plain and unadorned, save perhaps for the flash of silver at his wrist; perhaps a bracelet or a slave chain. His hair is short now, shorn at the sort of length that Daryoon had kept his own, somehow abruptly in keeping with his pallid complexion, tan long faded.
It has been such a long time since he has been outside, so very long since he’s had the energy to walk these deserted stretches of corridor even. It was years ago, how many he can’t remember. How long has it been?
A passing servant approaches at Narsus’ beckoning.
“How long has it been…” He begins, faltering. “There was something… something happened. It was important.” He looks at the servant earnestly.
“Nothing has happened, Lord Narsus.” The servant replies soothingly.
“No. That’s not right, there was something… I remember.”
The servant waits.
“I remember… something. No. I should remember something but… but I can’t.” Narsus puts a hand to his head, drags his fingers through his hair.
“I used to keep my hair longer…”
“And then you cut it, your lordship.”
“Emeralds…”
The servant looks on.
“Always emeralds… He said they matched my eyes.”
“He, your lordship?”
“He… I can’t remember.”
And the servant gently takes hold of Narsus’ arm to guide him back to his secluded chambers.
“He… was…”
The short walk back to Narsus’ chambers is uneventful, in dispersed with his incoherent mutterings that the servant politely ignores. Once behind closed doors again the strategist gravitates towards the windows once more. Still, there can only be seen the faintest shape or shadow of the city, blanketed by the now almost eternal mist. Briefly, Narsus considers the possibility that it isn’t mist at all, that there is some ghastly, never ending pyre that produces such fumes and for some reason that stirs another memory. He remembers a pyre, a small one, the type to hold the body of one man. A funeral pyre then. And for some reason, through the choking smoke and the brightness of the flames he can hear screaming, for some reason this memory is encompassed by a shattered voice. Someone screaming, cursing, struggling against guards holding him back.
“No! You promised! You said if I helped you… You swore you’d let him live!”
Flames flicker along the wood, catching at a black cloak, licking at equally black armour.
“You promised… You gave me your oath as… as…”
But Narsus can’t remember. He can’t remember whatever it was that he was remembering. He can’t remember whose body is burning; who it is that screams out their grief, who ever it was that made the promise that was broken.
He tried to ask once, who it was in black armour, leading the armies of the King. Someone told him it was Karlan but for some reason that doesn’t sound right.
“Karlan is dead.” He’d said.
“My father died fighting…” Zante had begun to retort.
“Fighting whom?”
“Uh… the enemy.” A somewhat insincere reply.
Narsus had frowned. “Which enemy?”
“One of their Generals.”
“Which one?”
“You should know!” And Zante had stormed off.
“Oh… Should I?” He’d been puzzled by that response.
Still, it didn’t explain the voice he remembered. Someone screaming about promises broken, promises that would have saved… someone.
“You gave me your oath as… as what?” he muttered to himself. And in pacing the room he suddenly found himself distracted by a reflection in a mirror, his reflection. There was something wrong, Narsus was certain of it but for some reason he couldn’t figure out what. Inspecting his reflection in the mirror there was nothing amiss, so why had he expected to see something else? Why, when he was wearing his customary black, did his vision flicker for a moment as if expecting there to be white in its place? Who was it that wore stainless white? Narsus frowned, he was getting confused again. It was the person in the memory who wore white, that person with long hair carelessly tied back, that person who screamed about betrayal. The person from the memory who had betrayed everything that he had once held dear, for the chance to save… to save… someone… But Narsus couldn’t think who.
It was almost frustrating to be remembering these fragments but then he reminded himself, he didn’t have much to do anyway. The King’s Strategist; a weapon to be used in times of war, mostly redundant any time else. Yet something else was tugging at the corners of his memory now, something about a reward, another promise. Something about being something else when the war was over, something… But someone else didn’t approve, didn’t think he was suitable, someone in black armour. Someone who wasn’t Karlan or Zante or… But he was getting confused again, wasn’t he? Because the person who died had someone who had mourned for them, someone else…
“Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if we hadn’t succeeded.” The King had said to him one morning.
“What if…” Narsus had murmured half to himself.
“What if…”
“The kingdom would have fallen into ruin, your Majesty, most probably and besides who else could challenge the legitimate heir?”
“Who indeed.” Came the somewhat self-indulgent response.
And for a moment the image of the sunlight reflecting off a
golden helm flickered in Narsus’ mind.
He remembered a flash of blond hair, a child forced to become a man. Another youth, with an inquisitive smile. A woman: a warrior. A flippant man, with a ready smile. A dark figure, black hair ruffled by the wind: a man, whose blue eyes had pierced his soul.
That man, for some reason Narsus always found himself fixating on that man. Of all the flickers of memory, that one always stood out. There was something… something important. Perhaps it wasn’t just something but someone. But try as he might, Narsus couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much of anything anyway. Even the previous day or the one before. It was so easy to forget. Normally, he forgot simple, repetitive things; like where he was going or what day it was. Yet, for some reason he couldn’t forget the man who so haunted his strange fragments of memory.
Some time ago or what it yesterday, he had mentioned it to the King. Narsus had resolved to confess to what could easily be madness. He had spilled out his memories that could just as easily have been imaginings and strangely, King Hermes had been so very kind about it. There had been sometime akin to pity in those blue eyes, even if they weren’t quite the right shade of blue. And that night, when the King had come to his chambers, his Majesty had told Narsus to close his eyes and pretend that it was someone else. And Narsus had smiled in the darkness, opening his arms to the memory of his dark warrior, instead of a scarred King.
Decidedly not the story I sat down to write, though probably
heavily influenced by the mood of “Hisoka ~ Norowareta Tsukiya no Kioku” from
the ‘Hiro no Tsuki’ Yami no Matsuei soundtrack.