The words on Valentine’s body are easily covered, scripted in beautiful cursive curving along one rib. He often thinks about who they could belong to, this strange juxtaposition of beautiful handwriting and an incredibly crass nature.
Hey, looks like we’ve got someone new to beat on, right pretty boy?
He’s not sure what it means. He’s not terribly athletic, though he’s very flexible and his stamina when he runs is admirable.
It makes up for the fact that he’s dying slowly.
He’s a prophet, and each new prophecy leaves him weaker, saps more of his strength. Each time it takes longer to recover.
Oddly enough, though, his soul mate dies first. He feels the searing pain along his rib as he feels the swelling build of pressure and pain in his skull, and his soul mate dies as he prophesies. Once he’s been carried to bed, the blood carefully cleaned away from his nose, and a cool, wet cloth laid over his eyes by his sweet, attentive sister, he pushes aside the drape if his short chiton. The words along his ribs are seared black, instead of the soft purple they had been, and he’s not sure how he feels.
“At least I know I’ll see you soon,” he says, voice hoarse and sore.
He dies three years after his soulmate, the gift of prophecy overburdening his brain, the delicate pathways of blood rupturing. He’s barely twenty when he stands before the King and Queen of the Underworld and they name him a Specter, a soldier of the Underworld.
Celestial Wailing Star Harpy Valentine, in the service of Celestial Savage Star General Wyvern Rhadamanthys.
He’s given quarters, and a training schedule, and when he shows up, a man with soft white hair looks at him, grins, and cracks his knuckles.
“Hey, looks like we’ve got someone new to beat on, right pretty boy?” He says with a smirk. Valentine smiles, batting long eyelashes.
“I’m glad you think I’m pretty, but really, what were you doing that you died before I did?” He asks curiously, because being a prophet is a deadly vocation. The white-haired man’s jaw drops open, and the woman behind him cackles with racous laughter. “I’m Valentine, what’s your name?” Daringly, he steps forward, pressing a kiss to the taller Specter’s jaw, before kicking his knees out from under him. The other man groans from where he’s been dumped in the dirt, and stares up at him with wondering eyes.
“Sylphid.” He replies.
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