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The kneeling body presented to Alfonse is pliable, clay in his hands. He has reduced himself to a mere doll, the halo atop grey hair glowing with his bowed head. Moonlight decorates bare skin in silver. Within his chest, rising and falling rapidly; between fragile ribs and a vulnerable heart left wide-open, Zacharias cradles Polaris — the jewel that holds the skies in place, the northern star that the heavens revolve around.
As a consequence, Alfonse’s world is left spinning as he stumbles to the ground, knees colliding against hard rock. There’s a jolt of pain, but not enough to overwhelm desperation as it ravages through all logical thought. His vision flashes white. He cradles Zacharias’s fallen jaw in his calloused hand, and listens to the thunder echo.
He attempts to rationalize. “Zach—”
“No.” Zacharias’s rebuke is firm, but wavers from reasons beyond his resolve. “I believe my request was made clear.”
Alfonse sees kaleidoscopes in his vision: shapes that he can’t comprehend and colors that have saturated beyond reality. He feels a firm grip pull on his arm, leaving indents from the hold digging into flesh. He swears that the summer breeze leads him forward, closer, until the gravity of the North Star grows to be overwhelming: Alfonse is a mere moth to the violet light in Zacharias’s eyes, to the impassioned flames that run through Zacharias’s blood.
But to submit, Alfonse recognizes, is to accept the fate they have predetermined for themselves. Alfonse does not believe that he himself has the strength to pursue this future, but Zacharias has always been stronger than Alfonse will be.
“I know you continue to plan alternate pathways, but it remains futile.” Zacharias remains expressionless, but Alfonse catches the smallest downturn of his lips into a slight grimace. “In the end, I will be the one to die. Whether you accept that now, or when the time comes for you to kill me, I leave it to you.”
Alfonse releases a low breath. “So long as hope persists, we can find another means of stopping her.”
“Our time is limited. This is a risk that will only heighten with time.”
“Our time is limited, but not zero. We’ve taken risks before, you and I.”
“It’s different. Don’t you recognize the only pathway? What will you do, Alfonse, if Embla is able to prevail in my body after Veronica takes the only Key? We have a decision to make: whether we keep the true heir to the Empire alive or whether we remain selfish in our own desires,” Zacharias counters. “You will have to kill me. I have no hope in seeing this conflict through alive. The only hope I hold is in the peace you will find after my death.”
Alfonse falls silent. He looks at the taut muscle of Zacharias’s body — he is a rubber string, ready to snap at any moment from years of fraying threads. Zacharias shifts closer into Alfonse’s space; he traces Alfonse’s hollowed core with a hesitant hand. He presses soft lips to Alfonse’s cheek, and Alfonse starts to feel his own restraint waning. I cannot submit.
He refuses to cry now. To cry would be to submit. To cry would be to mourn for a soul that still had the time to live. But Zacharias’s peppered kisses trace down his face, to his chin, to his neck, in the exact pathway that Alfonse’s tears will take. Alfonse runs a hand through Zacharias’s hair, stifling his trembles. I cannot submit.
Perhaps Zacharias hears his hesitance from the charged static in the air, because he pauses shortly afterwards. Zacharias lifts his head and places himself such that their foreheads are against each other. The air they breathe in and out must be shared now. Alfonse feels the heat of Zacharias’s breath on his lips — it is suffocating, dangerous, sorrowful.
I cannot submit.
“You don’t have to worry,” Zacharias murmurs. “Relax. It is just you and I.”
I cannot submit. “When will you learn to put faith in me?”
“I already have. I always will. Tonight,” his hand runs up Alfonse’s back, “I trust you to remind me that the hurt I’ve inflicted upon you can be forgiven. I trust for you to forgive my sins before death reaches me soon. Is that acceptable?”
Alfonse’s breath hitches from the sparks along his skin. I cannot submit. “You’ve never hurt me. You’ve done more for me than anyone else I know. There are no sins for me to forgive.”
“You speak lies — thus, my question still stands.”
“You can trust that I will search all nine realms for a way to free you.” Alfonse watches fog overtake Zacharias’s long stare; he’s difficult to read now, unlike the vulnerability he provided just moments ago; he’s Bruno once more, with a mask to conceal all expression. Alfonse swallows. “I will do anything to ensure our continued living — together in unity. Trust me, Zacharias. Let me think for a moment longer.”
Zacharias shakes his head. A flicker of uncontrol sneaks out as heat seeps into his voice, only to drain itself out. “What time do we have left to continue being afraid? You… you have slain Death herself, so there is nothing for you to fear.”
“This is different, though—”
“Alfonse.”
The urgency is what succeeds in interrupting Alfonse’s spiraling train of thought. Zacharias husks his name like he’s afraid to ruin the sanctity of it. His breathing is rushed, frantic. Alfonse feels the hands along his back dig themselves further in, as if ready to pry Alfonse’s soul open; he feels marks of red imprinting themselves on exposed skin.
The realization hits him then: Zacharias is slipping. Zacharias is scrambling for the cliff’s edge as he claws away against pointed shoulder blades. Zacharias peers into the endless night where he is destined, where solitude awaits, where silence prevails.
Zacharias is afraid.
His mask continues to hold, however, refusing to betray him. The only sign of weakness emerges as his next breath shakes, as his next words emerge as a plea: “I cannot… waste time second-guessing myself. Please, Alfonse.”
Alfonse hesitates; he stumbles over his own thoughts; he falters, he falls, but— I cannot submit.
“Please. Show me,” Zacharias leans himself further against Alfonse, distress sinking further into his bones, “how we could have lived without Embla’s interference. Let us live tonight, exactly how we had once dreamed. If there are only days left in my life, I want to know what it feels like to be alive.”
To be loved, Alfonse hears. The floodgates tremble as Alfonse’s sentiments build behind them, crashing like uncontrolled waves. I cannot submit. I can’t.
“Please, Alse,” a crack, “show me I belong with you before I go.”
Submit.
There’s water leaking from the gates, droplets of raw emotion and desire breaking free from the faithful logic controlling them. Alfonse’s vision blurs and stings. He doesn’t disagree with Zacharias’s sentiments. Focus now eludes him: he peers into the violet abyss ahead of him, eyes that convey such conviction and doubt and absence, and sees the approaching threat of scarlet. He runs his thumb across Zacharias’s cheek, feeling flesh that will eventually grow cold and stiff in front of Alfonse’s own eyes.
His stare is captivating. Zacharias draws him in through his mere existence, Alfonse realizes. The colors of the universe sing to him when the duo find each other in peace; the world is more beautiful when they stand together at its edge. Alfonse feels the pulse under Zacharias’s flushed skin, fluttering. Zacharias’s gravity is overwhelming, and Alfonse finds himself struggling to draw breath as his own heart continues to be pulled toward the dead man walking.
Submit. Submit. Submit.
Zacharias shuts his eyes. It’s then that Alfonse braces himself for the night once he presses his lips against Zacharias’s; he hears a snap in his mind as the floodgates break. It’s frantic, clumsy, messy as they grapple for each other, fueled by raw despair for what is to come, but Alfonse knows he’ll hold no regrets once he tastes Death on Zacharias’s tongue, sweet and dreadful.
Sharena will be the first to scream.
You’ll hear “Zacharias!” across the field before you can even process what you’ve done. You’ll look at the golden sword you’ve put through his limp body and see as a warm smile emerges on his lips. You’ll watch as the crimson dribbles down from your blade to water the barren grounds. Your hands will start shaking as you let go of your sword, because it is only now when the magnitude of your own crime, your own incompetence finally reaches you.
He will feign confidence as he says goodbye. You’ll notice that the corners of his lips occasionally flicker upwards in pain, but he will hold steady in his pretending. He will be a beacon in the night, the only voice that captures you fully; the chaos will dissipate into muffled echoes in your mind. The fires of war and the full moonlight will bow to the gold piercing his abdomen, harsh and blinding. Your knees will buckle as you stand taller, feigning ignorance. You will want to collapse from the weight of sorrow that burdens your shoulders, to sink into the underworld where you belong.
Because you weren’t successful in finding a cure for him, he will die to your hands. Because you couldn’t think of an alternate plan where both siblings could be spared, he will die to your hands. When he pulls out the sword and collapses, you will stand frozen and grounded to his blood. It will stain your boots in permanent rust. He will apologize once more before drawing his final breath.
He doesn’t and will never understand — he has never needed your forgiveness. He had never hurt you to the same extent that you will hurt him. Do you think he will forgive you in death?
How does it feel, Alfonse, to know that staining your hands is the shattered spirit of a man who should have never trusted you with his soul?
The Yggdrasill Key fit perfectly in the palm of Alfonse’s hand. It was a fruit — odd, Alfonse thought, for such an extraordinary item to appear so insignificant. As soon as he felt the weight of the berry, the power of light overwhelming in Alfonse’s hand, he turned to look at Zacharias.
Zacharias, who stared at the outstretched palm with widened, glossy eyes. Zacharias, who held foreign hope and skeptical disbelief in his growing smile. Zacharias, who finally let his own shoulders relax from permanent tension at the thought of freedom standing mere steps away. Alfonse knew that Zacharias was already planning, as he typically did: Alfonse watched gears turn within his brilliant mind as Zacharias stewed in pleasant silence. Was it thoughts of the future that streamed through his mind? Did Zacharias, too, realize that they could enjoy life together again?
“Thank you, Lord Askr.” Alfonse returned his attention back to the conversation, bowing his head in gratitude. “With this, we will finally stop Embla from spreading her darkness.”
Askr hummed. “It is my greatest pleasure. But a word of caution, Alfonse.”
Alfonse paused. Askr’s voice had dropped to a low drawl, which carried with it the lingering tone of caution. The god himself, even in times of danger and pain, had been nonchalant since Alfonse had met him; the change in demeanor, even if slight, started to bring fear within Alfonse’s gut. He raised an eyebrow, beckoning for more.
“Humans have… attempted to slay Embla previously. It is, I believe, part of why she harbors anger towards Midgard, but also a significant part of her paranoia when it comes to war.” Askr gestured at the Key. “You can feel the strength, no? The smallest bite of the fruit is enough to subdue her. I am certain she will discover your possession of it when she enters your vicinity.”
Alfonse’s hand wrapped itself further around the warmth of the fruit. “If that’s the case, how are we supposed to engage in battle with her? I assume Embla would prefer to be distanced from the Key.”
“Well,” Askr’s smile fully faded, instead replaced by a deepening frown, “I doubt she will avoid the Key.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Zacharias interjected. “Embla could weaken both the Emblian and Askran forces with her darkness until all of us meet our collective ends. There is no need for her to show herself if she knows we have the Key, and then it is as well as useless to us. Is there a way we could hide the Key’s power?”
Zacharias’s voice was still hopeful — good, Alfonse thought. It was nothing compared to the growing anguish in Alfonse’s mind, as he realized that there must be a catch to this plan that initially displayed promise. Alfonse continued to stew in his own concern as he tried to look into the unreadable mist of Askr’s mind. Was fate truly so cruel as to give Zacharias a path toward freedom from his curse, only to make it near-impossible to achieve?
“We cannot hide the power. But once she promised vengeance against the humans, she started to be… cruel. The betrayal was hard on her, you have to understand; she was not like this prior.” Pain flickered across Askr’s face, fleeting. “I believe she will pursue you and the Key in an attempt to make a fool out of your group. It is easy to outsmart the Key when you know of its presence: she will leave the body before it takes effect, therefore rendering it useless.
“And,” Askr continued, “so long as there are royals that continue to carry her blood, she can continue to survive through them. You must ensure that all of her vessels are accounted for by the Key, but she will only grow more suspicious with each attempt. When she is pushed to the edge, I would expect the worst.”
Nausea stirred within Alfonse. “Zacharias, are there more besides you and Veronica?”
“No.” He was quiet now, his whisper tinged with sorrow as reality settled in. “Only the two of us.”
“Askr,” Alfonse struggled to take a breath, “do you think we can successfully fool her twice?”
Askr paused, contemplating — Alfonse realized that if Askr was thinking about it instead of providing an easy, confident answer, then his true response was likely more negative than they needed it to be. He felt the weight of the world sinking into his hollowed bones as he forced himself to remain upright, to refrain from collapse. The road was longer than they had believed. Alfonse could already see the fork in it, bleak as it stared him down.
(Then, what would you choose, Prince of Askr? The political stability of Embla? Or the protection of your own, weak heart?)
Eventually, Askr forced a grin, placing an apologetic hand against Alfonse’s shoulder. “I hope so.”
The dirt underneath their feet is mocking, Alfonse thinks.
While he peppers kisses across Zacharias’s nape and pulls at supple skin with his teeth, Alfonse is all too aware of how Zacharias digs his shoulders back into shaven bark. While Zacharias’s cheeks glow a striking crimson, Alfonse only sees the stark contrast against the greenery. While Zacharias graces the silence with his soft moans, keeping a quivering hand across his mouth, Alfonse can hear every bird and cricket within a grand radius as they listen in on their depravity. He forces his head away from Zacharias, instead keeping it burrowed in his displays of affection, in a trail of raw bites and marks.
There is no coordination with Alfonse’s movements as his hand trembles along the length of Zacharias’s cock. He leaves excessive drool and spit along his path. It’s clumsy, if not sloppy. Frankly, Alfonse is not sure as to what he is doing beyond trying to conform reality to his imagination, but he cannot afford to linger on the uncertainty now — to stutter in his movements would be to waste time that Zacharias treasures.
(His fate is set in stone — but it cannot be. Not yet—!)
Alfonse swipes his thumb over Zacharias’s tip, smearing leakage onto his own hand. There’s a faint satisfaction accompanying it, as the knees of the other man buckle and jolt from the sharp sensation; so this is what he has missed out on.
(What could life have been if this curse didn’t strip it all from us?)
The warmth in his core spikes as he takes the full sight of Zacharias in — Zacharias, lost to his own pleasure as he tries to hide it, the strain visible through the tightly-shut eyes and growing beads of sweat. The thought strikes Alfonse then: why are they trying to be so careful, if this is the last time they’ll have each other?
Another stifled groan is a bittersweet melody to Alfonse’s ears, but it struggles to reach him through the busied thoughts and white noise in his mind. He realizes, now, that he needs it louder. It doesn’t matter where they are or who can potentially hear them — he craves being enveloped by the sound of him. He will treasure it during nights when grief will strike its hardest at his emptied chest, when he shuts his eyes and can no longer see understanding violet clearly within them.
Haze glazing his vision, he takes Zacharias’s wrist and pushes it away from his mouth. “Nobody is here except for me.”
It’s uncanny, almost comical, the way Alfonse reaches for rationale as if it is second nature, even in times like this; and Zacharias catches it too. He scoffs in return, face deepening further in color. “Y-You’d strip a man further of his dignity?”
He doesn’t know how to answer that. To Zacharias, does it feel like he has lost dignity somehow by doing this? Alfonse feels rewarded; Alfonse feels grateful for being handed this trust with his body; Alfonse feels guilty that they barrel closer to their fate of eternal separation with no other pathway in sight, and craves a way to display his remorse. Thus, instead of providing a response, he lingers on it instead and holds his own ground, pinning the loose wrist in his hold against the tree.
You will have to remind yourself that she knows the plan. However, Veronica will carry fire in her gaze as she prepares to face you in combat, hurt infiltrating her voice. She will ask again, just to confirm — were you the one who killed her brother?
You will nod.
For a moment, she will not need to feign hurt for Embla. Her lower lip quivers as she comes to terms with your bloodied hands — that, you know, is not replicable. Scarlet will deepen in her irises as they burn with betrayal, with injustice, with vengeance, before they are dulled by the wash of tears. She will refuse to cry, just like yourself, instead blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to drain the mourning collected. The night swallows her whole in its despair, shadows providing comfort to her injured soul.
You will look up, unable to watch her processing. You will search the night for the solace that remedies the vast abyss you hold within your chest. You will shut your eyes at her quietest hitch of the breath when you realize that the North Star can no longer be seen through the fog.
The North Star that you killed.
The trek home was silent beyond the twinkle of drizzling rain. A glance over at Zacharias, and Alfonse watched thoughts brew behind those clouded eyes. He was always a strategist at heart, whose mind spiraled with endless ideas far faster than Alfonse could keep up; and while he had once treasured such brilliance, Alfonse only felt the bitter settle of dread at this round of planning.
His hand fumbled for his pocket. Trembling fingers wrapped themselves around the Key, feeling its disquieting warmth in his palm. He needed to keep it with him, he realized, instead of placing it in Zacharias’s hands — because Zacharias would not hesitate to lay down his life for Princess Veronica’s, because Zacharias would never consider taking the Key if it meant Veronica had even the slimmest chance of falling. At least with Alfonse holding the Key…
He scoffed. He would force the Key into Zacharias’s mouth? He would beg, plead, threaten until Zacharias preserved his own life? It was difficult to stifle the snickering as he considered his possibilities. How fickle it all was. He felt his hope for the future close itself off, shuttering its doors as only regret dominated: Alfonse should have searched sooner, harder for this cure.
Instead, they were here: cure in hand, albeit too late for it to grant Alfonse the peace he sought. Zacharias would have his mind set on sacrificing himself, Alfonse knew, to ensure Askr and Embla were able to find long-deserved peace — no matter how Alfonse tried to shift him away from the possibility. What Zacharias did with his life was not for Alfonse to dictate.
He was staring now for moments too long. Did Zacharias always look so troubled when stuck in his own mind?
“Zach,” he called softly. “Look at me for a second.”
Shock flickered across Zacharias’s eyes, mirrored in Alfonse as his request escaped him. Had he truly called him by a nickname in front of their group — one that had been reserved for tender murmurs between the duo? Just as fast as it had appeared, it was soon replaced with a sternness as his mind returned back to duty.
Alfonse watched Zacharias tilt his head, beckoning for him to continue.
“We’ll find a way for both of you to take the Key.” He struggled to stave the waver from his voice, instead attempting to flood his own words with determination that he so desperately lacked. There was no belief, but there had to be — so he was now stuck mustering it from hollowed promises. “We’ll ensure everyone makes it home at the end of the day. It must be possible to slay Embla without requiring a significant loss from our world, despite all that Askr implicated.”
Only silence followed, beyond unrelenting droplets as they continued to tap along their weary shoulders. Zacharias’s expression shifted from one of focus to one of confusion, before settling on sorrow for a fleeting moment. Then, a smile, as Alfonse wished for Zacharias to return the mask to his eyes; because then, Alfonse could disregard all but the reassuring beam that emerged at the end of his thought.
“I would be content if my life ended here, knowing that it had been made useful to you.”
It was then, when Alfonse felt his own stoicism come crumbling down: it had only been a glass house all along, built in haste to protect himself from stark reality. He didn’t need Zacharias to be made useful, instead craving for his warmth to remain by his side for all of this eternity and eternities beyond that. Did Zacharias only see himself for his logical purpose instead of his emotional ones?
Alfonse had to prove otherwise — that Zacharias held a stronger place in his heart than he seemed to believe. And for that, Zacharias needed to emerge victorious in this war against Embla. Zacharias needed to be alive.
There must be a way to save him.
Lips parted into a soft oh as he trudged onwards in the dirt, no longer trusting himself to speak. Perhaps his sudden inaction had startled Zacharias more than Alfonse had desired, because Alfonse felt an arm wrap itself around his cloak, pulling their fatigued bodies together in a tight embrace. It held little reassurance to the brewing storm in Alfonse’s mind, clouds impermeable to Zacharias’s radiance — and like a selfish fool, unable to maintain his calm for Zacharias’s sake, Alfonse let the tears staining his cheeks drip down toward his chin with the rain.
Static floods through Alfonse’s vision. His body shudders with the pleasantries of release. Matted navy hair tilts back to ground himself, scalp pressed against the same tree Zacharias had previously bound himself to. He inhales sharply. A hand grips tighter at Zacharias’s head, nails digging into skin at the blissful warmth on his length.
Zacharias is still relentless, merciless. His head continues to bob throughout the orgasm, lips brushing against the disheveled hair of the base; his tongue swipes against the tip as it continues to spill, as Alfonse continues to tremble from the stinging sensitivity that burns his core. Zacharias does not consider stopping even when there is nothing left for him: he takes Alfonse’s cum like it is ambrosia, a cure to the fear that ails him, and silently pleads for more.
It is all too much. Alfonse does not deserve such treatment from Zacharias.
“Zach,” he breathes.
Zacharias doesn’t respond. He holds one hand on the back of Alfonse’s thigh. At the name, the touch creeps upward to his hip, framing the sharp bone with a tender touch; and Alfonse shuts his eyes at the heat. Zacharias is always one to give everything in exchange for very little — what did Alfonse do to deserve this love?
“Zach.” More frantic now, strained as he pushes his plea out through the haze of pleasure. “That’s… that’s all.”
What is it that greets him when Zacharias finally pulls himself off, when Zacharias looks back up at Alfonse with a widened stare and arms placed placantly by his sides? It is concern, and behind the concern are all questions that Alfonse can already hear. Why stop now? Did he make a mistake? Is Alfonse starting to regret the night that Zacharias had pulled him into? Why stop, if this is the only night they have to hold each other like this?
Alfonse slides down to his knees, hand reaching out to wipe the spittle off with his trembling thumb. “That felt good. Perfect.” A memory I will cherish. He presses a soft kiss to the side of Zacharias’s lips, tasting the faint salt of sweat. “Thank you.”
“Thank me?” Confusion flickers across his eyes, before it dissipates with a shake of his head. “You were the one who saved me, Alse. You catered to my whims, my desires. You promised you would always be there for me, and you have done nothing but deliver endlessly even as my allegiances wavered. This is the least I could do, before — well.”
“No,” Alfonse tries again, but his voice is weak, “we will find another plan.”
“No. We won’t. There is no other plan. Death looms over my shoulders and I,” he hesitates, “I am accepting of its presence. You heard what Askr had said. I know you were thinking the same as I, when he presented the caveat — I know you have been thinking of a second plan since then. Have you found success? I have yet to.”
Zacharias is right, as always. Zacharias reads Alfonse like he is an open book, just like how Alfonse is able to parse through Zacharias’s mind with ease. Alfonse feels what little resolve he has left draining from him. No matter what roads are available to him, all of them point at Zacharias’s sacrifice. That is what he deduced; that is what Zacharias deduced; that is what they both agreed upon, even if Alfonse met the plan with significant indignation.
Alfonse looks down at the grass, at their barren skin in the moonlight. When he looks back at Zacharias, he sees resilience, brilliant and beautiful. He sees affection, impassioned and inflamed. Underneath it all, he still senses fear — Zacharias will always be braver than Alfonse could ever be, too, to face his own demise head-on.
Are there truly no other plans or possibilities? He tries again, but the answer is clear as it pushes past his denial.
Alfonse draws himself close to Zacharias once more, torso against torso as he wraps his arms around. This is the end. A barrage of kisses — desperate, fervent, hungered — between the two, and the night continues from where it was briefly left off, as if their conversation had never happened.