By Your Radiance

July 2017 | M-16 | 9,757 words Characters: Phoenix, Aquila | Trivia, Camellia
Warnings: Violence, suicidal ideation

Phoenix Asphodel, a talented but neglected young prince of the Kingdoms of Asphodel, grows determined to protect his nation from nefarious forces acting within and without — and even within the monarchy. But with his own mental state questionable and only growing ever more unstable, even his purest intentions may bring little but blood-soaked disaster...

By Your Radiance

From where do Kings gain their authority, that formless and ineffable thing that entitles their scions to rule? Ask this question across the hundred ancient kingdoms of the West, and you will receive a hundred answers in turn. They were the greatest warriors, and so will be their sons. They were the cleverest negotiators, and so will be their sons. They were heroes, they were geniuses. They were chosen sages of incontestable wisdom, they were anointed guardians of holy artifacts. And so the reasons go on, innumerable, though essentially identical: from naturally inheriting the duties and excellence of their mythologised forefathers.

But, it is only for the house of Asphodel, the monarchs to whom every western lord swears fealty, that the answer is truly ‘by the blood’.

Through the veins of house Asphodel runs the same godly ichor that the Demiurge himself once bled, bridging the mortal and the divine by simple pedigree. “God has given sons to save us!” some cried. “Governors from lost Heaven!” went others. Were a claim to godliness their only power, however, time — alongside inevitable ambitions, discontents, and familiarity — would have surely eroded the Asphodels’ rule. No. What kept them King was the miracles.

Their blood is not just a symbol; it is a genuinely miraculous substance with astounding supernatural properties. To the living, it is a quick, lethal venom. To contaminations, dirts, diseases, and poisons, it is a ruthless cleanser. But to the soul, it is succour — for it is only by an ablution in the blood of an Asphodel that a soul might be purified of rot.

That horrible rot! Rot is the curse upon the world that twists all dead souls into unthinking monsters. Nobody except the vassals of Asphodel know any peace from the rot, which turns one poor coffin into a townwide massacre, and forces families to murder corrupted mockeries of their loved kin. The pain of the transformation to the dead, too, is excruciating. But a single drop of Asphodel blood — and the soul calmly rests, in the relaxed sleep of a coma, eternal, unchanged, painless, and pure.

It is to this blood alone that a hundred ancient lords pledged their loyalty. A life in service for a death in peace. For 600 years, the house of Asphodel presided without any particular challenge or incident.

Peace came to thrive. Prosperity soon followed it. These twin hedonisms felt eternal.

They were not. Their unwinding began with Gallus.

The Crown Prince, soon King, Gallus Fidelis Peredur Asphodel.

Gallus was not a dumb man, though he was an irresponsible one. He loved his friends, loved his family, loved to eat and hunt and play and fart and had great rolling laughter that would light every nook of the room. He was ruthlessly friendly, would often mingle with commoners, and seemed to exist for merry adventure. The duties of princehood or kingship never constrained him. With decadence being the fabric of the era, the Kingdom was rich and productive enough to essentially run itself. So Gallus’s days were ones of studying princeship only to the minimum of what his parents demanded, then bolting out the palace like a dog off its leash, getting into misadventures, returning to the palace at evening, and partying well into nightfall. Sunset. Sunrise. Repeat.

It was in this manner that he made many friends, with two of particular note. The first: Toreas of Lacren, a proud and dutiful squire from a distinguished noble household of knights. The second: Faron Whitewood, a homeless guttersnipe urchin who lived by petty theft and pickpocketing. Toreas was more proper, but Faron was more wild and exciting. The intriguing social gap exhilarated Gallus for the sheer difference between his and Faron’s worlds. He and Faron soon became close companions, with Gallus eager to dabble in illicit circles that princes typically never touched, and Faron shockingly sincere in his plain loyalty and liking of Gallus.

Through Faron, Gallus discovered an underbelly in Asphodel rife with concerning practises. Drug rings, kidnappings, rumours of regional lords bending to bribes from thugs or exempting suspicious organisations from taxes. This worried Gallus, who was eager to act, but recognised recklessness could be self-defeating. If he went in, sword raised, to personally execute all these scattered miscreants, it would be a gross overstep of his authority on the regional lords. The most he could do was alert them to impropriety and trust them to manage it themselves. Given that some were complicit, though, this would not work as a flat answer. Further, as Faron advised, the first whiff of trouble would send the ne’er-do-wells scattering to regroup elsewhere. These were quite organised rackets, and tenaciously cowardly ones, too.

Rather than try to destroy them, Gallus contemplated the possibility of controlling them. If he could defang their worst practises, rein in their scope, and hoard up their profits and products for himself, he could minimise their impact substantially. Moreover, if he could use these groups to pressure certain lords in secret, he could bypass a lot of faffing and political meandering to get whatever things he may need done, indeed done. Sort of like mercenaries. Just sneakier. And shadier. And free. Either way the prospect was tantalisingly lucrative.

Eventually, over decades, Gallus and Faron reshaped this national underbelly. Groups were syndicated. Their contracts, regulated. Semblances of legitimacy and honour grew within certain factions, who would autonomously destroy or absorb their freelance competitors. There came codes of thieves, codes of assassins, codes of smugglers. The coordinator of this underworld, mediator of disputes, and broker of contracts was Faron Whitewood — now a very rich man, and welcome in court as minor nobility.

Toreas, witness to this, was appalled. It disgusted him that Gallus would legitimise criminality rather than stop it, and he found it insulting that a common criminal would ever be raised into nobility for, well, being a criminal. Though he tried to discourage Gallus from the scheme, he failed. Fuming, and feeling too betrayed to stay at Gallus’s side, Toreas dismissed Asphodel as corrupt and left the nation, soon becoming a mercenary for the traditionally hostile country of Ordanz, instead.

It was a painful rift for Gallus, but not one he could mend. He pushed Toreas out of his mind, returned to the court’s raucous parties, and raised his shining goblet with a smile.

Gallus soon met and married his lover, an uncontroversially high-bred woman named Rhea. She was quiet and gentle, with a slightly anxious seriousness that counterbalanced Gallus’ more rambunctious demeanour. Still, it was with confidence that she ascended into her new position, and with trust in Gallus’ control that she accepted most of his questionable dealings. Though she could be either when needed, she was more eagerly a wife than a politician, anyway.

Within the two years of Gallus’ parents dying, and of Gallus himself consequently becoming King, he and Rhea produced two children. Their heir and firstborn, Aquila, then a daughter, Columba.

Aquila plainly took after Gallus. He was fiery and prone to adventure, very charismatic and personable. But he was also devious. He enjoyed mocking others and deceiving them, enjoyed misbehaving while knowing himself untouchable. Alongside Faron’s twin sons, Morgan and Mason, he pushed limits — bad limits. But between the smoothness of his tongue and quickness of his wit, people rarely realised just how great a delinquent he was, much less that he’d ever been cruel.

Columba more mirrored Rhea. She was quiet and composed, with great empathy and compassion for life. But she was bitter. She resented Aquila’s manipulations and hooliganism, his filial warmth towards her be damned. Her father’s cavalier attitudes grated at her, and she loathed Morgan and Mason as thugs. The silent expectation that she marry one of them — likely Mason — revolted her. Court was a crucible of vipers. Though only one step removed from the most influential position in the country, she felt herself impotent to change, fix, or escape the dark veil inexorably weaved into the monarchy’s practises.

And that was where Gallus and Rhea stopped. To birth children from the miraculous bloodline of Asphodel imparted an immense strain on mothers outside the pedigree, shearing their souls into pieces. Some queens would be bedridden after siring only one heir. In Rhea’s case, after Aquila and Columba, she could no longer walk and suffered from epilepsy. But her mind was still sound, her physical health was still good, and her energy levels were still high. She could live a long and still quite satisfying life, she and Gallus discerned, provided they had no more children.

Everything would have been fine.

Except that 16 years later, with little joy, Rhea once again became pregnant.

All Phoenix knew about the circumstances of his birth was what the photo albums testified. Pages upon pages of smiles — where his mother playfully fussed with Aquila’s hair, or of Columba guilelessly laughing at some joke of her father’s. His siblings’ growth had been catalogued so extensively, that if each photo were bound into a flipbook, their transformation from toddlerhood to adolescence would be practically seamless.

Then it stopped.

The curtain was one last snapshot of his mother. She was wearing a white sungown as she gazed over the lake from the garden balcony, smiling, but without the joy that teemed from the previous photographs. Despite the bright sun and blue sky, a quiet sense of doom lingered between her crooked lips and wet eyes.

Phoenix imagined her hopelessness only ever got worse, given that was the last photo.

Well, to call it the last one was not quite correct. It was simply the last natural one, where someone had spontaneously decided the moment was precious, and wished to hold and revisit it the way that Phoenix did now. Everything afterwards was purely official. Once a year at the beginning of the first month, one formal photograph of the Royal Family, posed to the aesthetics of the nation’s most esteemed photographers.

One: himself as an infant in the arms of his father, whose strained smile went uncomforted by the conspicuous void beside him. Aquila and Columba were in front, where they couldn’t see.

Two: himself now in Columba’s arms, with her and Aquila’s shoulders cradled by their father. Aquila looked to her with a sly grin that she didn’t return.

Three: himself standing at Aquila’s feet, grasping the tail of Aquila’s coat. Aquila grinned helplessly to their father, who wasn’t smiling. Columba was gone.

She had killed herself that winter. Phoenix found her note hidden in his room come spring.

She wanted him to resurrect her, it said.

This was a more obscure power of the royals. Unlike the unique properties of their purifying blood, the ability to manipulate the bonds that tied dead souls to matter — tying them back into some vessel — was a common trait of occult magicians and witches. The stories of how such practitioners used it, or more often abused it, were horrible. Resurrecting dead children in the bodies of goats and returning them like that to their parents. Souls bound to inanimate objects — plates, chairs, mats, dustbins — that could perceive people using them, and perhaps feel pain if made to, but could not move or scream in any way their inadvertant torturers would hear. Or the more conventional practice of enslavement; binding souls as familiars under torturous geas that would inflict agony should they disobey their witch. It was all called soulsmithing.

The art itself wasn’t inherently evil, but its pitch-black reputation fouled any thought of it. The royals, though they vowed to use it responsibly, were often not above surreptitiously resurrecting their friends or allies. The scandal if anyone knew would be immense. Fortunately, these occurrences were sparse enough, and secretive enough, that no drama had yet come of the practice.

Phoenix, at three years old, was already an unmatched soulsmith. If something was theoretically possible to be achieved with soulsmithing, Phoenix could do it with ease. It was almost a game to him, and he may have treated it as such if it weren’t so inherently serious. Witches who had studied all their lives would pale before his talent. And so did Columba.

She wanted him to resurrect her, the note said. She wanted a new body that would free her from the pressing obligations of her family, and particularly from the obligation of marriage. Her old body had been thoroughly destroyed in the process of her suicide, so that if Aquila or Gallus had any ideas, that vessel wouldn’t be an option.

As it was, though, they had no ideas. Aquila accepted the news soberly even after Phoenix revealed the note, interred her soul in the national crypt with all the other dead Asphodels, and never touched it again. It was around this age that Phoenix was old enough to remember these things with clarity.

So there was little need to reference the albums, past that point. They all melded into the same composition anyway. Aquila in the middle, then Phoenix and their father on opposite sides of him. Inevitably.

Though his father never raised his voice or said anything unkind, Phoenix knew Gallus hated him. Whenever Phoenix entered a room, Gallus would shortly leave. If Gallus and Aquila were going on an outing, Phoenix wouldn’t be invited. Court, where Gallus spent his time socialising and partying, was completely forbidden. Gallus never spoke to Phoenix, or even went near his section of the house. Dinners were so oppressively silent that Phoenix learnt by age 5 to just eat in his room. He had that sort of laissez-faire freedom, where he could do anything he wanted — provided his activities never overlapped with Gallus’, and the illusion of Phoenix’s non-existence was maintained.

Really, most people in the house didn’t like Phoenix. Though he was young, he was smart, rude, and mean. He often accused his caretakers of incompetence, and because of his obviously advanced mental development, never bonded properly with peers. He fussed over little things and quibbled about flaws. The fact he withdrew into solitary pursuits — reading and piano — if left to himself only crippled his social skills further, until it became a truism that there was no point approaching Phoenix, unless mandated to by some job, task, or chore.

Aquila was the exception. Though, it wasn’t that Phoenix treated Aquila more amicably so much as Aquila was just ridiculously patient. He would find activities for himself and Phoenix to do together, urge Phoenix to pursue his hobbies, drag him out of his room, listen to him when he wanted to speak, and routinely check in on him. But the obligations of princehood limited Aquila. Whereas Phoenix had almost no expectations placed on him to ascend, Aquila did, and with age he’d come to regard those obligations seriously. Still, even though work made Aquila frequently unavailable, it was Aquila that Phoenix leaned on whenever he wanted help, guidance, or company.

From the outside it just seemed Aquila was indulging a bossy little brat. Aquila’s friends, that being Morgan and Mason, often bullied Phoenix whenever circumstances put them in each others’ presence. With Morgan it was always sly little comments addressed to no one, things that were worded neutrally but spoken like insults. With Mason it was more direct — shoving, harsh noogies, chinese burns. He’d laugh about it as fun boyish roughhousing then just flat call Phoenix a dipshit. Phoenix feared them, particularly Mason, and though tattling to Aquila stopped the worst of it, the anxiety that Mason would one day randomly drop-kick him over a fence never truly abated.

Though uncomfortable, it wasn’t unlivable. Provided he kept to his own business and repelled malicious sorts quickly, he could get by with little drama or trouble.

So that’s what he did, for 11 years.

But trouble, of course, found him anyway.

Rest in peace to Morgan Whitewood, dead by a dagger through the heart from a bungled drug deal. Fish your blackest shawls from the closet and ready your white flower-petals to sprinkle the cathedral. So sad, very sad, how sad a funeral would have commenced — were Morgan not the brother of Mason Whitewood, and were Mason not the closest, oldest friend of the Crown Prince Aquila Asphodel.

“Resurrect him! Please,” Mason begs, and Aquila agrees on the condition that Phoenix does it instead. Phoenix is a better soulsmith than Aquila, and since Morgan is a VIP, Aquila wants to ensure this operation goes perfectly. Though displeased, Mason concedes. Phoenix will resurrect Morgan.

Phoenix does the operation on Aquila’s request and successfully resurrects Morgan. However, being that Phoenix has some heavy preconceptions about Morgan in comparison to the more loudly vitriolic Mason, he accidentally twists Morgan into a more compassionate person than he originally was. Morgan can no longer feel comfortable operating in underworld business, and after a huge fight with Mason, decides to leave the family and settle down for a more modest life.

Mason is livid and correctly surmises that Phoenix perverted his brother’s soul. He incorrectly surmises that it was intentional. Already Mason hated Phoenix for the burden he was to Aquila: a toxic, thorny wooden spoon award for the death of his mother and sister. Moreover, Aquila had grown distant since Phoenix’s birth — Mason suspected he never got over the loss of his mother and compensated by spoiling Phoenix and avoiding everyone else. It wasn’t healthy. And he would admit, having always fancied himself as Aquila’s closest equivalent to a brother, he was jealous. Though, he could suppress most of his irritation, if Aquila desired it.

But this perversion of Morgan is the last straw.

Mason goes behind Aquila’s back to plot Phoenix’s disappearance. He advises Gallus that if Phoenix could be sent to some shady district of the city, that’d be peachy. Gallus opts not to ask questions and indeed informs Phoenix about a concert happening in that district, which could be up Phoenix’s alley, or inspire him in his piano compositions.

The unprecedented attention from Gallus shocks Phoenix, especially being that it’s attention pertaining to his personal interests. Though he feels some suspicion, he clings to the hope that this might be the first sign of his father accepting him. He decides to attend.

Before he can leave the palace, Aquila catches him. Phoenix tells him where he’s going, and Aquila is likewise shocked that Gallus proactively talked to Phoenix. He’s happy about it but uncomfortable with Phoenix going around town by himself — however, Aquila has court business and can’t accompany him. He knows that assigning an actual honest-to-god bodyguard will freak Phoenix out, and decides to assign a young squire named Todd, a boy just a little older than Phoenix who is proficient with swords, to be Phoenix’s chaperone.

After introductions, the two depart for the concert. All through the trip, Phoenix nitpicks and bemoans his father’s terrible management of the city whenever he spots any slight imperfections in infrastructure — like a blacked-out streetlamp, or a crack in the sidewalk. Todd tries to keep positive and entertain Phoenix’s bitching, and something close to rapport soon arises. Phoenix almost never leaves the palace, incidentally, so it’s a great thing Todd’s here, otherwise Phoenix would’ve gotten lost and never found the district!

They attend the concert. Phoenix is scandalised by what he hears. This music is horrendous! Who let a baboon sit at the piano stool! That ape is mutilating this concerto! Fed up, Phoenix storms on stage and demands that the pianist leave before giving a grand apology to the audience for being subjected to that abortion. Clearly, some managerial fool has mistaken a novice for a virtuoso. By royal decree, this concert hall is to refund everyone who was swindled out of money for this tripe.

Chaos and confusion spread through the hall as people question what is happening and if this is serious. The pianist angrily calls for guards to remove Phoenix from the stage. Phoenix mocks him for trying to overturn what is obviously the word of Phoenix Asphodel, second in line to the throne. Then he sees the blank reaction throughout the crowd, and the horrifying realisation dawns on him that nobody here knows who he is.

After a round of disbelief and some logical 2 + 2, people realise that this must be legitimate. Phoenix has the albinism characteristic to the royal family, his age does correspond to the Queen’s decline in health, Todd corroborates his heritage, and there was news a decade ago that another prince was born — though without a face or name to place him, most commoners simply forget about him unless explicitly reminded. An awkward moment unfolds as the hall officials attempt to comply with Phoenix’s orders to refund people, but are too baffled by the sudden existence of the second prince to compose themselves. Phoenix recognises that he seriously messed up and decides to play a few pieces as consolation — a decent performance is the least the audience is owed, after all.

By the time he's done, people have fainted from ecstasy.

The concert's over. No one is going to dare suggest that their work belongs on the same stage as this, or let their fingers tarnish the keys of this newly-consecrated piano. Satisfied that the people's needs have been met, Phoenix collects a stunned Todd and leaves.

Shellshocked from the performance, Todd fails to keep suitably vigilant as they make their way back to the palace. A gang of thugs jumps them without warning — unprepared to draw his sword, Todd has to intercept a blow meant for Phoenix with his body. At least five people descend on Todd as the melee escalates. Before Phoenix can think of how to respond, a heavy fist plunges into his temple and he blacks out, unconscious.

Phoenix wakes up to find himself blindfolded with his hands and feet bound – he has plainly been abducted. He senses that he is moving, or rather, that he is in some kind of moving vehicle, either a wagon or a carriage. The captors inform him that this is revenge from Mason, and his life is going to be hell: they’re selling him to slavers in Ordanz, who will be ecstatic to get their hands on a prince of Asphodel.

Todd is still alive and has also been captured, with the captors using him as a hostage to force Phoenix’s obedience. They continue on the road for a few days, until the captors force the two off this vehicle and onto a new one and they're handed off to another group of abductors. It dawns on Phoenix that they're being sent along a railroad for human abduction. This is an organized system, and Mason knows about it, meaning Aquila surely knows about it too.

This new group of captors defies the terms of their commission and bleeds Phoenix, since just one vial of his blood is worth millions of dollars. Several days of this treatment leaves Phoenix woozy, but the abductors are eager to continue and get as much as they can before they hand him off for the next leg. A fight breaks out among the captors when they consider abandoning the job and running away with him for themselves, and though it resolves after only a minor scuffle, it means the captor bleeding Phoenix is wounded, agitated, and clumsy about doing the work. A few drops of Phoenix's blood enter one of the guy's open wounds, and the poison kills him within the minute.

Phoenix realises what happened and uses the bleeder’s knife to cut himself out of his bindings and remove the blindfold. Though bleeding and dizzy with anemia, he composes himself enough to see he is inside a large wagon-carriage. The vehicle is parked, to ensure the bumps and potholes along the road don’t make them spill and lose some blood. Todd is in another corner of the carriage. The other two captors are absent, taking a break outside while still steaming from the fight.

Phoenix quickly frees Todd. Being that they’re both too weak and injured and young to fight adult opponents, Phoenix cracks the reins to get the horse moving, leaving the captors behind.

Phoenix deduces that they can't keep following the road they're on. It'll just lead them to the next checkpoint on the railroad. Instead he steers them on a divergent course into the middle of nowhere, open plains of dry, yellow bush with the sun blazing overhead.

There are no landmarks. Their travel brings them no closer to anywhere, and they're chipping through their small supply of food and water. The sun blares down, the air shimmers in the heat. Phoenix's eyes and skin are sensitive to sunlight and he quickly develops burns. Combined with his anemia, he's flagging, hard.

Todd tries to forfeit a portion of his food and water so Phoenix can have more, but Phoenix refuses since Todd needs it too. And though they have canteens of water, there's nothing for the horse. They fail to find any sources of water along their path and after a handful of days, the horse collapses from dehydration, leaving them with two choices: stay put with the carriage, or keep going on foot.

Phoenix, terrified that the captors might be following the tracks of their carriage, decides to set out on foot. They get far enough to spot what looks like a hamlet in the distance – and though they redouble their efforts, Phoenix cannot keep going in this sun. He instructs Todd to continue to the hamlet while he stays here, in a marginally shaded area.

Phoenix boils under the sun for hours while he waits for Todd. His head aches, his mouth is dry, the cuts from the bloodletting still hurt. The gusting wind fans him with hot, smothering air.
Delirious, severely sunburned, and starting to hallucinate, Phoenix looks to the sky and wishes this fireball could cut short the suffering and kill him already.
He meditates on his wretched existence. Far more people would be happy than sad at his death. He cannot think of a single person whose life he benefited.

If this was going to be his life, why was he even born?
Perhaps the most laudable thing he can do is disappear, and rectify the mistake of his existence.

The onus is on the world to justify why everything led to this. Show him what good he's for, explain the purpose of Phoenix Asphodel, and perhaps he'll reciprocate this deal.




Fire sweeps over the horizon.




The dry bush catches alight in the heat of the sun and coasts on gales of wind. Clouds of smoke swallow the sky, lit bright red by the flames. The blaze engulfs the hamlet, courses over the prairie, and burns further in the distance. With everything cast in red light, it looks like a vision of hell.

Phoenix's duty here is so clear that there's no need to contemplate it. He has to go to that hamlet and purify the souls of the dead. Even with all his pain and the aches and the sunburn and everything else, he trudges as if possessed toward the distant hamlet.

A vulture, its beak bloody after a feast on the dead horse, circles over Phoenix. The greedy thing expects him to fall too. He doesn't. He reaches the charred hamlet, where he claws open one of his cuts and washes the dead souls with his blood. The sense of purpose fades from him once he's done, and he's forced to take in the scene what with all the death and burned corpses. He vomits and cries in despair, before slumping himself over the village well to drink and wash the bile out of his mouth. He leans against the well with Todd's soul in his hands, staring up at the sky, while the vulture waits on a nearby post for him to die.

Phoenix looks at the sky, to the vulture, to Todd's soul. To the sky, to the vulture, to Todd's soul, and it clicks.

The thought of what he's about to do sickens him. This violates the integrity of human life and the sanctity of death. But ultimately he does bind Todd's soul into the body of the vulture and instructs him to find help.

Todd returns a few hours later, deep into the night, with the local guardsmen in tow. The ordeal's over.

After recuperating for a few days in a nearby town, Phoenix is escorted back to the palace. What he did to Todd was profane, taboo, and contrary to all the funerary responsibilities vested in the royal family that define the nation of Asphodel. He turned a person into a familiar. He has acted no differently from a witch.

Todd is refusing to eat. Phoenix agrees with him and poisons Todd with his blood, killing him once again. He later inters Todd in the palace's crypt for a respectful and culturally appropriate burial.

Phoenix learns after returning to the palace that Aquila is absent. Wary that Aquila may be complacent in these trafficking operations, or at least has done nothing to shut down a railroad that he surely knows exists, Phoenix takes this opportunity to confront Gallus about it. Of course Phoenix has to be the one to initiate – Gallus doesn't even show up to welcome him back to the palace, or ask where he's been.

Phoenix busts in on some insipid party going on at court and demands to chat with daddy. He learns from this conversation that Gallus didn't even send out a search party for him, that he was obviously complicit in this affair, that barely anyone even noticed he was missing, and that he has no intentions of shutting down the trafficking ring.

Phoenix loses all respect for his father. He also begins to realize what a precarious position he is in, and how easily he could be assassinated. Justifying it to himself under the pretext of ending daddy's corrupt and crime-laden reign, but really out of terror and concern for his own personal safety, Phoenix decides that he has to kill dad.

Aquila returns. He had learned of Phoenix's abduction and arranged to intercept it at the next checkpoint on the railroad, but Phoenix never got there. Wanting to keep the whole affair under wraps, and aware of Phoenix's supposed location, he refrained from arranging a search party until it was too late to be any use. He is livid with Mason and secretly arranges with Faron that Mason be exiled to Ordanz, which happens. Phoenix knows none of the information in this paragraph.

Phoenix talks with Aquila and reveals his intentions to "end the crime plaguing their country", speaking abusively about their dad and his corruption for allowing this to go on. Aquila defends Gallus and Phoenix berates him, stating that Phoenix himself ought to be the firstborn and ruler, if Aquila is such a sycophantic doormat. Aquila correctly deduces that Phoenix is mostly just shaken and terrified after the kidnapping and receives him patiently, working through his feelings until he breaks down and cries in Aquila’s arms. Things seem mostly defused until Aquila fucks up and references Columba, which reminds Phoenix that oh yeah Columba hated Aquila, largely for being manipulative. He asks Aquila if he's lying, which stuns Aquila, who realises that Phoenix's mental state is slipping. Aquila is then called away to urgent court business before he can do anything about Phoenix.

In a strange state of mind after that conversation with Aquila, Phoenix visits his mom – and walks in on his dad, already sitting there at her bedside. Phoenix turns to leave but dad gestures him in for a strained talk, taking the opportunity to reminisce to anyone about Rhea.

She’s not dead. But she may as well be. She’s been in a coma for the past 11 years.

After a few minutes spent recounting memories with her, Gallus begins to slip and decides to end the conversation with a wooden kind of 'I'm sure she'd be proud of you' statement. Phoenix immediately rebukes him. She would've hated me, liar.

It satisfies Gallus to hear Phoenix condemning him.

Quietly, he begins to speak.

Sixteen years before Phoenix was born, an old childhood friend returned into Gallus’s life by attempting to assassinate Aquila. It was Toreas, working for Ordish interests, who had inherited the legendary blade Kingslayer. Though assassinations on heirs of Asphodel tended not to stick, what with the existence of soulsmithing, Kingslayer is famously infused with an antimagic substance called witchbane. This substance disrupts magic, changes its polarity, or otherwise makes it agonizing for witches to use — and it also worked on the Asphodels.

A single cut from Kingslayer infected Aquila down to the soul. The miraculous, purifying quality inherent not just in his blood, but in his fundamental being, flipped into a hotbox of necrosis. He was not just decaying while alive, but progressively becoming dependant on filth. The degradation was long and slow, but as sure as the months turned, he was dying.

Even if he was resurrected, the infection would remain, and the process would simply repeat itself. Or potentially even spread to the soulsmith.

Aquila would die. But the country needed an heir, and Columba was a girl. So.

Then, not even a season later, Faron, who had gone searching for a cure, returned with a miracle from the Pontifex of distant Kitiven. And it worked.

It had all been a mistake. A horrible, stupid, short-sighted mistake, and not the innocent kind made from humble ignorance. Rather it was the exact opposite. An excruciatingly calculated decision, with hours, days, and weeks of rumination before cementing any commitment, undone by an outrageously bungled foundation. They had not waited for Aquila to actually die.

Gallus looks appraisingly from Rhea, to Phoenix, and says: I am the stupidest man in the world.

And that’s the answer. That’s why Phoenix’s father hates him so much.

Phoenix is furious, but mostly terrified. He berates dad's weakness and irrationality for being unable to separate Phoenix from his own stupid mistake. Phoenix didn't do anything wrong, it's not his fault, and it's not fair.

Aquila walks in on them, sees Phoenix there, and is like god this is not the fucking time for this. He drags Gallus away because he's needed in this aforementioned urgent court business.

Toreas has been sighted in the country.

In the following months, Phoenix puts Plan: Fight Crime and Murder Daddy into motion. Aquila and Gallus are stuck dealing with some heavy political stuff and are occupied, so it's a good time for it.

The plan starts with Phoenix negotiating with mercenary groups to cull gangs and cells of criminal operation. He acquires his information on their hideouts and planned dealings by eavesdropping on court, otherwise by pilfering documents belonging to the Whitewoods or Aquila. He abuses his soulsmithing to collect even more information when he finds himself running short, interrogating deceased criminals after their souls are given to the palace for burial. Overall, the operation is going smoothly. Mostly thanks to one particular mercenary group, a foreign one from Ordanz, that is particularly ruthless about slaying criminals. Phoenix hits it off with the leader of this group, both using aliases and communicating through proxies. The leader is Toreas duh.

Aquila knows this is probably Phoenix's work, and though he does stand Phoenix aside and try to dissuade him, he decides that his immediate priority should be locating and executing Toreas. Toreas is liable to attempt an assassination on Phoenix, and probably came to the country because Phoenix's identity got spread around after that concert. Phoenix's operations with the mercenaries ironically protect him, because it keeps Toreas occupied. In theory, Aquila should be able to command this situation by ensuring Phoenix gets sub-par information, but since he doesn't anticipate Phoenix's abuse of soulsmithing, falls short. He also cannot determine who Phoenix is using as his proxy, again because he is abusing soulsmithing and having the dead do it.

He vaguely suspects but tries to deny the possibility that Phoenix actually intends to kill dad, and is reluctant to tell dad of Phoenix's dealings out of fear that he'll preemptively kill Phoenix.

Eventually Phoenix and Toreas build enough professional trust for Phoenix to move into the Murder Daddy phase. Phoenix's meticulous intelligence network means they successfully assassinate Gallus, despite Aquila's counter-measures.

Phoenix is immensely relieved, but the feeling soon gives way to a sense of hollowness. Before he can determine what that means, the Ordish mercenaries stage a coup on the palace.

Phoenix is caught completely off-guard because he is untrained in politics. Aquila isn't, and frantically attempts to evacuate Phoenix through a network of escape tunnels before the offencive can escalate – all while visibly enraged. Terrified to hear his calm brother suddenly shouting at him, and seeing him reveal an aptitude for disparaging snipes on par with Phoenix's own, Phoenix misinterprets Aquila's intentions. Thinking that Aquila means to kill him in the tunnels, Phoenix takes his ceremonial bloodletting knife and stabs it through Aquila's throat.

Aquila bleeds out in the darkness, gurgling sickly. Phoenix breaks down. His head fills with noise and he feels himself going numb. In a kind of daze, unsure exactly of what he's doing, Phoenix walks back out of the tunnels, with the sounds of combat echoing around the palace, and goes to the piano room shared between him and Aquila.

His fingers slam down on the keys as he belts out an impromptu concerto. It's violent, it's a dirge, it's a confession, who even knows what it is. Time seems to stop for him: despite all the chaos unfolding through the palace, nothing interrupts him for the whole of the piece. He sits numbly at the piano until the combatants find him there, both himself and the keys painted in Aquila's blood. For once he has nothing to say.

The mercenaries succeed in their coup. They have been commissioned by the Seacrest family of Ordish business tycoons, who have been working on claiming Asphodel for years, and spotted opportunity after leaning of Phoenix's existence. An unknown, isolated, twelve year old legitimate heir!? Why hello there, puppet king!

Phoenix is coronated uneventfully. His entire administration and the majority of court is replaced with agents of Seacrest, nobles that Seacrest bought out, and miscellaneous parties who are interested in the fortune. Surprise, Gallus and Aquila had been spending those last few months trying to wrangle unruly nobles and weed out turncoats. They'd been doing pretty well, until Phoenix forced Aquila to divide his attention and unintentionally became the golden goose in Seacrest Enterprises's information network. Everyone around him is an enemy. Phoenix is terrified.

Phoenix is bled regularly, with the proceeds going to Seacrest. Thankfully they have yet to consider his potential use as a necromancer, as soulsmithing is an unfamiliar practice in Ordanz. Fantasies of being killed in his sleep, or poisoned, or any other kind of thing begin to overtake him. His bodyguards are just as liable to kill him as any assassin, if Seacrest wants him dead. He is forced to impose heavy taxes, the majority of the proceeds again going to Seacrest, earning him public disfavor. The laws they're introducing are crippling the country, and priming it for a mass-scale economic takeover by Ordanz.

Phoenix won't stand for this. He needs to turn this around and reclaim his nation. But the solution isn't clear, he's anemic, he's numb, he's scared, he's developing insomnia, he's vomiting his meals, his people hate him, and there is no one on his side.

...Until Toreas, now head of the imperial knights, learns that XxX~GEVURAHS~CADENZA~XxX the eerily accurate underworld informant was actually Phoenix Asphodel. A legitimate prince who, by his own initiative, determined to end the corruption of the throne and overthrew Gallus's reign.

He arranges to speak with Phoenix alone, and while Phoenix is struggling with a panic attack from these incredibly exploitable circumstances, Toreas gets down on one knee and swears sole allegiance to the rightful heir of the throne to Asphodel. Take me as your sword to combat all who oppose you.

However, Toreas has already turned against the crown once. His loyalty only lasts so long as his ethics are entertained. Phoenix instantly fears a betrayal and finds that, even in these dire circumstances, he can't accept Toreas's help.

At least, not in good faith.

While Toreas has his head bowed, Phoenix draws his anthame, pricks himself, and cuts Toreas superficially. The poison from Phoenix's blood kills Toreas, while leaving a clean, warm, largely uninjured corpse – an excellent anchor for a soul.

Phoenix reconstitutes Toreas into his body under literal thousands of geas-conditions to prevent any double-crossing. Toreas, starting to comprehend what he's done, instantly violates his pledge and attempts to kill him. The geas activates before he can even touch Phoenix, but at least he won't die a slave – until Phoenix resurrects him again, under even more conditions. Phoenix gets some of his acidic tongue back as he berates Toreas's disloyalty, and tells him that he expects him to make good on his oath, this time.

Toreas has just created an arch-witch.

Everyone knows that the Asphodel clan was blessed in ancient times, when the bloodline's progenitor, Fidel, reached the bottom of infernal Nix in pursuit of a holy camellia.

The flowers sometimes fall from the god-tree, the sleeping corpse of the demiurge Camille, and are washed up Nix's waterfalls to reach their fated recipient. The miraculous flowers can do anything – quite literally, whatever you wish for.

The details of Fidel's descent are unknown, or at least not logged in history books. What is known is that he returned wielding a sword, the Blade of Heroes, which he named Renderdall after his mentor, who accompanied him but died in the delve. Fidel's veins now ran with traces of the god-tree's sap, and his appearance changed to reflect his divine purity, his hair and skin white as a dove and eyes red as the miraculous camellia.

He unified the warring kingdoms with his wit and swordplay, and took his seat on the throne of the fledgling nation of Asphodel. The holy right to rule was in him, and most acknowledged that.

Though it was hard not to acknowledge it, when his blood carried the unique ability to lay souls to rest. For the first time in history, the dead could know peace – rather than natural, painful degeneration into a monster, or damnation as a faceless shade in the pits of Nix.

But his second ability, to bind souls to matter, cast doubt on him in the minds of some. This ability was one common to all witches, and the technique they used to enslave men as their familiars. Any reprobate who corrupted themselves, lusting for the powers of the demiurge, greedy enough to sacrifice their mind for them, proud enough to think they deserved them, could do this. And always, they could do some other miracle too. Like all things, it varied with the person.

So what. What is so amazing about the Asphodels.

They are just witches.

They were not chosen by god. Were they, and a camellia would have reached Fidel of its own accord. This is a family of thieves who cut open god's cadaver and stole his blood for themselves. See how they struggle to birth children! They have their minds, but are cursed as any witch.

Would be the thinking of a prisoner destined for the noose in Asphodel, so it's a good thing that the person holding these beliefs is Phoenix.

But, too overtaken with fear to comprehend what he's become, Phoenix uses Toreas to eliminate the figures of the administration who most commonly interact with Phoenix. Phoenix reconstitutes them under multitudes of geas-conditions, and in turn uses them to eliminate figures with moderate interaction with Phoenix. And he reconstitutes them under geas-conditions to etc etc etc.

Before the week is over, Phoenix has converted everyone in the palace into one of his thralls.

He overturns the laws that Seacrest made him put in place and turns his attention to bettering the country, when he learns from one of his thralls that there is an ongoing plot among the populace to tear him from the throne. Phoenix's mind instantly leaps to 'it's an assassination attempt'. It's not – he's the only Asphodel left – but it's too late for Phoenix to believe that.

He uses his thralls to weed out the conspirators, executes them, and revives them to interrogate them about their plot. He commands them to round up those who he missed on the first pass, the relations to the plotting getting more and more tangential until practical bystanders and ordinary people are being caught up in Phoenix's unchecked, escalating paranoia.

What follows is called the Tyrant's Reign.

People realize what Phoenix is doing and plan a resistance, this time intending to execute him. Phoenix's insomnia worsens until he barely manages ten minutes a day, he refuses to eat unless he has personally overseen the preparation of the food, and demands that inoffensive passageways or rooms be sealed due to their potential use as an invasion point, all while wishing, in agonizing despair, that Aquila were alive.

The cognitive dissonance between his abuse of resurrection powers and scruples against profaning his brother's death doesn't occur to him. He is terrified of what Aquila might say or think or do, and cannot bring himself to do anything about it. He can't figure out whether he was wrong or whether Aquila really was meaning to kill him. But.

Aquila would hate him.

After all of this, Aquila would hate him.

Somehow that's the thought that leaves Phoenix hyperventilating in tears on the floor. How come something so familiar, the thought that someone hates him, hurts when it's Aquila?

The resistance makes its first move and launches an offensive on individuals known to be Phoenix's slaves. They steal the souls or damn them to Nix to prevent Phoenix from reconstituting them, but it's fruitless – Phoenix commands more manpower, and proactively begins slaughtering towns and villages to ensure their loyalty before the resistance can establish power there. The nation quickly transforms into a 1984-esque breed of hell, with a twelve year old kid as big brother.

Phoenix's mental state continues to degrade. He begins having suspicions about his own thralls, worried that he may have overlooked some method of betrayal while setting the geas, and demands the palace vacated. Streets and valleys run with blood from the constant warfare. The majority of the population dies at least once, with only the most isolated communities safe from anarchy. Seeking comfort, Phoenix goes to the crypt and dredges up the soul of his sister Columba.

Columba's body is long gone, so Phoenix opts to use a different material for her body. He chooses the feathers used in the royal family's clothing and beds, a miraculous material plucked from monstrous birds. They are water- and fire- resistant, overall resilient, and very soft. As a byproduct of the miraculous nature of the Asphodels's blood, a property inherent in their identities, Columba becomes a form-shifting golem of feathers and blood, rather than just feathers. The purifying/poisonous properties of the blood kill bacteria, so decay is not a concern. Effectively this body is immortal.

Columba comforts Phoenix over this time and serves as his only support. Indeed she is very supportive. She is so supportive that she supports Phoenix burning down this rotten country and rebuilding it from the bottom up.

But before it can happen, the tide turns. More and more people in the resistance become witches out of desperation, seeking any means they can to fight back. A hero wielding Renderdall rises and reclaims territory for the resistance. Phoenix loses villages, loses towns, loses cities, until the resistance is here, storming his stronghold, the capital Sebilles.

Columba buys time for Phoenix to escape and urges him to evacuate the country in the minutes they have left. Shortly after her rebirth she is slain again by the miraculous blade Renderdall, failing to secure Phoenix substantial time. Instead of evacuate like she said, a moment of lucidity strikes him, and he contemplates what will happen to the nation once he's gone.

An Asphodel needs to be on the throne. The unique funerary customs of this nation define it.
Anything else excepted, an Asphodel needs to be on the throne.
He can't be the only one thinking this. The revolutionaries's faction is full of witches.
Who can soulsmith.
Without proficiency.



Aquila's soul is still in the tunnels.



Phoenix instantly diverts his course and rushes to the tunnels. He curses himself for having them boarded, wasting far more time removing them than he'd like. The souls in the crypt will be safe behind their wards, but Aquila is shockingly unguarded. Phoenix had been too terrified of going down there to move him, or even touch him. It doesn't occur to him that he himself would also be a candidate for a botched resurrection and enslavement, or could be imprisoned and reduced to a blood faucet.

He finds Aquila. Anyone else would have succumbed to rot by now, but Aquila as an Asphodel is innately purified. His body is perfectly preserved – no bacteria can eat it. But his throat is still slashed open, and Phoenix can't fix that. He can work around it, sure, bring him back in a visibly dead body, but he's not going to. Aquila's expression is grieving.

Phoenix uses the feathers of his coat's ruff and cape for Aquila's body, giving him the same immortal constitution as Columba. This will both work for Phoenix's purposes, and give him an outwardly living, human appearance.

Phoenix chooses to twist Aquila's personality on one point: he makes sure he feels hatred for himself, Phoenix.
Soulsmithing can only do so much to change the innate nature of a person. But this will work to establish a reflexive feeling of disgust, a least.
Very soon, it's not going to be safe to love Phoenix.
He's more comfortable being hated anyway.

When Aquila opens his eyes, and Phoenix sees him scowl the second their gazes meet, he knows that it worked. He smirks in relief while Aquila sits there in shock, horrified at himself. Aquila snaps at Phoenix, what did you just do!? In a tone far more accusatory than he intended. There's no time to explain, they have to leave now. Which is when footsteps clamor through the tunnels and lo, the resistance is here.

They restrain Phoenix, and Aquila can do nothing to stop them. He hasn't adjusted to this body yet, and it's hard to be effective in physical combat when you are made of feathers. The two are separated and Phoenix is stripped, tarred, and feathered. Cheers and applause echo through the city as the resistance drags him kicking and screaming to a pyre, burning in the dim light of sunset, visible to the whole city from its position atop the palace's outer steps.

Phoenix shrieks as the fire rages over him. The flames sear at his skin, the smoke chokes him, the air burns his throat. It's a miracle he can even shed tears in this heat. But god, for all the agony, why can't it go quicker? How come death has to be so slow?

He thinks back to the prairie with Todd, and how the sun burned him then. This day and that day may as well be the same. How torturous it is to be loved by the flame.

The image of the blazing hamlet rises in his mind.
Well, yes. He certainly achieved that.

What a stupid image, though.
What is the purpose in merely destroying.
Something new must come after. A new dawn, a new day, a new sun.

you and i think alike
as expected of two who share the same blood

The ruins of the past are the soil for the future. A bleached canvas awaits the kiss of a brush. A masterpiece that is never composed can never be heard.

and what beautiful music you make
is that myself	rising again in you?

If destruction is to occur, it will be productive destruction. That much he'll assure. If not—

i hear you clearly
your desperation your despair your desire
	above the rabble the riffraff the rout
i hear your voice

—was there anyone whose life he benefited?
Is there anyone who will sit on their deathbed, thinking, thank god for Phoenix Asphodel?
Is there anyone who will look back on his father's mistake, thinking, how wise a decision that was?
Can it be rectified?
Can he still earn that love?

you have earned mine
but that will not sate you greedy child	will it
	never before have i suffered an insult so great
arrogant child	my riposte awaits gain what you desire with you benefactor as i
miserable child	see the light and beauty you are the warmth you cast upon the wretches how flowers bloom by your radiance
merely ask

Through the suffocating smoke, Phoenix sees Aquila on the balcony above, witnessing the execution.

He looks horrified.
Which is the wrong reaction.
Aquila, you incorrigible idiot. Show enough decorum to cheer at a tyrant's death. Excuse yourself from that ridiculous perch and douse me in flammable oils. Liberate your people.
Seeing Phoenix scowl at him the way he always does, Aquila chokes out a disbelieving laugh. His shoulders heave and his face twists in anguish. He's crying.
That's the opposite of what he's meant to be doing Aquila you hopeless, hopeless buffoon how are you so incompetent when there are thousands of examples of proper behaviour parading in this square right in front of you. Phoenix wants to sigh but just gags on a mouthful of smoke.

The pain is fading.
It's nearly over.
Aquila will hopefully recognize what to do next. It's all in his hands.
Nix always seemed a fitting destination for him. He shares its name, after all.

Aquila might not have Phoenix's genius, but he makes a capable ruler.
The nation will thrive under him. He will build something great.
If Phoenix's canvas is moving on to Aquila, then fine. He's satisfied. It's okay.

a poor compromise
truly how politics eludes you
i am spurned do you recognize how it disgraces me
to allow you a fate so deplorable?
it sickens me to think
this happened
in my world
it was meant to be so beautiful
how did i create
something so flawed
you shine with a light that i want to exist
and host imperfections
that i cannot abide
i can fix this
let me take care of you extend your compassion to me

Oh, shut up.
Somehow, just knowing that Aquila is alive makes him feel more lucid that he's been in months.
No, perhaps he won't get what he truly wants. But how presumptuous is it for a fratricide to wish for anything, anyway?

you are blurring your visage fades do i address myself?
i musn't you were someone else
why do we look the samethis isn't correct i was never burned
high executor of human relations luminary phoenix val
valens vaeln
high executor of human relations luminary caph ca

Phoenix's eyelids feel heavy. He doesn't have the energy to resist.
He looks up to Aquila one last time.












And sees the man wielding Renderdall on the balcony with him, flourishing his blade, clearly hostile.
Phoenix screams. Aquila!

Everything freezes still. Nothing is moving. Time has stopped.

A brilliant crimson light scintillates before him, drawing shifting fractals in the open air. The grand sound of symphonic bells soothes and awes him. Warmth fills him, all pain fades away, a strange sense of fulfillment rises in his chest. Transcendence, rapture, euphoria, peace. This must be the lost place they call Heaven.

The face of the most beautiful thing in the world looks down at him with condescending sympathy.

There's no need for talk or hesitation. Phoenix reaches out to the demiurge, who grins.

It's over the second they touch. God disappears and life moves again. It could have been a hallucination, if only it weren't so sublime, and the bells weren't still echoing in his mind, drowning out the rising screams of agony.

The smoke is too thick for him to see anything. Somewhere in the distance, people screech their death knells, wild as pigs at slaughter.

The last of daylight fades beneath the horizon. Phoenix burns to ash.

Phoenix wakes at dawn to carnage.
Which is funny, because he's meant to be dead. Everyone else certainly is.

Corpses litter the ground – hundreds, thousands of them. All are grotesquely wounded, eyes bulging, faces frozen in agony. Many have clawed their own throats, their wrists, clearly mad. Others are twisted with their limbs bent in strange positions. Some have beaten their heads open upon the hard ground. Phoenix feels sick.

Renderdall lies harmlessly on the balcony, its wielder dead. There is no sign of Aquila.

Phoenix turns around to gaze over his city. The streets lie as still and vacant as death. Only the twittering of birds breaks the silence.

Sighing, Phoenix turns again to the palace. He must attend to his duty: to grant the broken dead their repose, until the time of their eventual rebirth.