Warmth pulses beneath their lips as they brush against pale skin, magic humming beneath the surface. They feel the erratic beat of the artery, blood pumping and flowing endlessly within the veins and sending it to the heart where it rests in the body. Teeth scrape against the bared neck, savoring in the small shudder it elicits, before Oz bites down.
The gush of blood is hot on their tongue, sweeter than the spiced wine they drink on a freezing winter night — hundreds of years spent mulling its flavor through the bittersweet days of discipleship to the age of ashen smoke and conquest brought down by their hands. Magic melts in his mouth, much like a mana stone it falls down his throat to mix in with his own powers becoming one.
Yet, in a sense, it could not be any more different.
For stones, Oz takes by force. In the eyes that shake before them out of horror and desperation, they realize in their last moments how powerless they are before the hand that has already claimed the skies as his own, now encroaching on the world at large. They cower and plead and cry in his ears, a grating sound gone with the cracking of their body and the clink of stone falling to the ground.
For Figaro, it is proffered to them with a pull of a ribbon around her neck, lace collar rolling down to reveal snow white skin down to her shoulders, the brushing of ashen blue hair to the side giving way to them. Eyes that flutter provocatively, luring Oz in with as much as her smile and hand reaching to bury in their hair — delicately cared for fingers pressing lightly against their head to pull him closer.
There is nothing to compare how sweet Figaro’s voice rings, muffled at first with the bite of her cherry red lips — drawing blood that paints it even darker — before Oz’s hand cups her face and breaks through with the slip of their thumb into her mouth to let her moan. Figaro’s sharp teeth prick against their skin. While Oz’s thumb holds down her tongue, she sucks and laps at the small drops of blood beading from their cut.
It is only when Figaro is shaking in his arms does Oz stop and pull back from her neck. She is pale much like the silver lands of the North that loved them as their own, but always after these sessions, her complexion resembles that of the moonlight calling her away. Against white skin, the blushing of her face and chest are more pronounced; the scatter of blue waves against the sheets, the bright shine of grey eyes beholden to green, the red streak of blood that drips from the puncture down her heaving neck all stand out to paint Figaro in divinity that cannot be captured in the likes of portraits or stained glass.
Oz pulls out the finger still stuck between her teeth. With the call of magic, they cut their wrist on the same hand and press it up against her mouth. Figaro gently smiles, her blood still on her lips that is melding with his own, before she holds their hand close and begins to suck.
Oz watches intently the rise and fall of her neck drinking him up. More color slowly returns to her face, heat warming up her cold body and magic within her restored by his own. She finishes with a soft kiss pressed to Oz’s wrist, healing it closed.
They still lay atop each other, Figaro pinned underneath Oz, arms wrapped around their torso and head to keep them close. She tilts her head, flashing her white neck still streaked with blood, tempting him further. Oz bends down to lick what he missed, what has always been his, tracing up to the side of her throat, the corner of her jaw, stopping right before mouth.
Figaro’s hand, buried in his head, pulls at the ribbon tying their hair back. A curtain of midnight blue surrounds the two in a cage trapping each other. Oz can feel Figaro smiling against his lips as he bites her in a kiss, wanting to eat her more.
“Ughh… Masters Snow, White. My stomach hurts. Can’t we just reschedule the meeting for another time?”
“I am sorry Fifi, but this is something of the utmost importance for you. We cannot postpone this any longer in the case that you upset your sponsor.”
“Do you at least want me to get you medicine and heat pads dearie?”
“No need then. I’ll just try to push the feeling down and get it over with.”
Contrary to the professor’s words, she grips the marble countertop of the sink to steady herself until her knuckles are bone white. The sink water is running still, washing away the poor remnants of leftover lunch and gastric acid that had left her weak body.
Figaro looks up to see their complexion pallid in the mirror, even under the guise of powder and makeup decorating their face. The black silk suit they’re dressed in suffocates their neck much more than the lab scrubs they were wearing merely an hour ago. Like foreign skin, an uncomfortable feeling envelopes the professor inside and out, wanting to scratch and tear away at skin until it’s raw red with blood dripping into the white porcelain basin, eventually streaming with the running sink water.
Figaro’s reflection stares back at them with a grim expression, nothing like the Dr. Garcia the public thinks of them as. They try smiling in the dolled up way that they do for televised appearances, effortlessly easy and a relaxed snapshot at any angle. But it’s too stark, much too hollow to be presentable as the face of the kind picture perfect Professor.
She presses against sunken eyelids with the heel of her palms until hazy stars form in clusters in the dizzying black vision. Her hands are bone cold and clammy with sweat against the skin of her face.
Figaro doesn’t like this. Feeling any of this. The nerves under their skin buzzing. Their bleeding heart residing in the empty cavity of their chest. The sensation of their muscles running restlessly as all their muscles, tissues, and organs are overworked with each breath taken. Being human has never felt substantial in any way, the fallacy of life a mass of blood and meat and messy contradictions, all equating to a being as flawed as they are.
If the professor could have it her way, she’d be spending her night buried head deep in research until her brain burns numb with lines of codes and mechanics. To have the cool feel of metal at her fingertips, fidgeting at wires and robotics under the dim artificial light of the laboratory for hours on end.
But instead, her evening will be outside the confines of her one haven, complete with the formalities of business and socialites that she is utterly antiquated in.
“It’s inevitable, my dear child.” Snow tuts, as if he could read the professor’s mind, knowing her well enough that he likely has. “But there is merit at the end of arduous tasks.”
White, the perfect mirror to Snow, who knows the professor as much as he knows his twin and himself, follows through a beat second later. “You can make it through tonight’s dinner. And afterwards, we will spoil you rotten as much as you like.”
Figaro’s hands fall from her eyes. She looks down at her two assistroids. Together the pair stand tall beside her, reaching just under her waistline, with a smile etched on their faces too warm to be a simple programmed mechanical response.
Snow’s small hand takes Figaro’s own hanging one to rub circles in the palm of her hand as a soothing motion. White on her other side holds the one not occupied and strokes and squeezes her fingers, relieving the professor of how tight she often grips her hand.
Figaro crouches down to look her assistroids in the eyes, wide, round, and an unsettling shade of gold lending itself to how nonhuman they really are. Wrinkles are bound to form in the creases of her suit hunched over like this. However It's the last thing on their mind as Figaro draws their assistroids into a hug, childishly clinging onto their small backs.
It would be an odd image to the onset of outsiders, of an adult being spoiled by child figures like this. But Figaro has never needed more of the outside world than those that she has built out of metal scraps and love.
There’s nobody to intrude on them, and so the professor lets herself indulge in Snow’s peppy cheerings and White’s gentle affirmations.
After a while, Figaro’s breathing calms down to a point where she feels she isn’t choking. The sound of running water has stopped. Likely turned off by one of the twins while her head was buried in their hold.
“Are you sure you can’t come along? Or ask for Rustica to go in my place?”
Figaro looks at the two pleading. Snow retightens his hug, hand stroking the professor’s back soothing her little quivers. White wipes the brimming tears from her eyes, face in his hold gently squeezing her cheeks to get her to smile.
“We would love to dearie. But there’s no going against what your sponsor has requested. We can’t push it more than we already do.”
“On top of that, between you and Miss Ferucci, you’re the better fit seeing as how you’re the one whose upheld contact and reports. Maybe your charming personality and glib tongue will capture their heart after tonight.”
“…You have to be joking right, Master White?”
Figaro’s brows furrow right in time as White’s hands upturn the edges of her lips.
He finally stops playing with her face to fix up the smudged makeup while Figaro is still close to the ground. Behind the professor, Snow restyles her hair into the soft curls that framed her face, and pats out any wrinkles forming on her suit.
“Hmm, you never know. Humans always fall for the most unexpected of traits.”
“Maybe if you think of this as a dinner date Figgykins, it won’t be so bad.”
A shudder runs through Figaro’s entire body. Coworkers were one thing, but Figaro doesn’t think herself capable of loving another human intimately like that.
The thought of being looked at and touched by another… To confoundedly make mistakes stumbling through emotions of pain and confusion trying and failing to understand the other… All for something as intangibly volatile a concept that love is…
Figaro shakes her head, sick already of thinking about it. Maybe being human is never their strong suit in the first place, already failing to understand the complexities of what makes a person tick. That’s why they look the other way, to robots and AI and assistroids that can be broken down and understood with numbers and data, empirical values that make more sense to process than what they’re currently feeling.
“Please stop imagining such a disturbing scenario. I don’t need their affection, I just need to secure grant money for the next quarter at least.”
“So unromantic of you Figgykins.”
“That’s not a very cute thing for a little girl like Fifi to say.”
“The two of you are just watching too many dramas while I’m away. This is all just a formality I wish I could do without.”
With a final pat down, Snow and White take a step back to let Figaro rise to her full height once more. No matter how many times they do this routine, it never fails to surprise her how the twin’s handiwork transforms her into someone wholly new. Even if she does furiously scrub it off hours later to change back into the lab wear she practically lives in.
A glance at the clock on her phone tells Figaro that she still has time before her appointed meeting. It’s a not so small grief lingering deep inside her that the hour is approaching closer and closer.
Leaving the confines of her bathroom, she sweeps her apartment to make sure everything is in order. Snow and White will tidy everything up while she’s away, but it’s for her own sake of mind that her files and belongings are where she’s locked it.
The door to her apartment automatically locks behind Figaro as she shuts it close. Snow and White follow her steps to the outside of the complex and wait to see her off.
As the automated car pulls around to the front from a command on the twin’s system, Figaro tenses up feeling the anxiety from before arise again. Just as she’s about to fall back again, her two small assistants take her hands to squeeze one more time.
“You will be fine, Figaro dear.”
“Even if we’re not there physically, we will always be cheering beside you.”
Snow and White wave her off as the professor steps inside the vehicle, akin to parents watching their children leave for the first time.
Sitting in the car while it drives itself, or rather her assistroids’ driving it from a remote location, Figaro takes a moment to collect her thoughts.
The professor thinks of their sponsor, an odd entity they’ve been acquainted with only for a few weeks through a correspondence of courtesy emails and one-sided reports alike. Only the bare minimum information of their sponsor was disclosed to her on a need-to-know basis.
Neon lights of the city fly by in the window, dousing the darkened space in splotches of color coming and going. Figaro covers her eyes once more to hide from the blaring rays of light.
She slumps in the leather seats letting her body relax while her mind continues racing endlessly, fueled with nonstop anxiety and countless scenarios of how this meeting could go. All her rehearsed lines replay in the professor’s head like an old recording. She just needs to play her part like before, like all other times she puts on the face of Dr. Figaro Garcia.
Eventually the smooth rolling of the car comes to a subtle stop at its destination. Snapping her eyes open, Figaro straightens up promptly from where she’s seated. One last encouraging message from the twins flash by on the car’s monitor and Figaro feels herself ease a bit, if only just slightly.
The car door automatically swings open beside her. Figaro graciously steps out onto the pavement and makes her way to the grand glass doors of the high-rise industrial building. Her public persona melds onto their face. The professor walks along with a sociable kind of smile.
Only to the few who would personally know the professor would be able to see the strain of muscles in her hands as she desperately clenches them. Or how she maneuvers around the crowds of people to avoid brushing by them, steps light and smooth as if she were dancing a pas de deux for one.
The professor takes quick strides in the gilded lobby of the building, decorum a mixture of sleek modern style with renaissance showpieces on full display. At the epicenter of the upper class district, Figaro feels wholly out of place. Her appearance suited and dolled up fits right in with the high class atmosphere. But internally her insides twist and shrivel up from being casted under the dizzying lights of the chandeliers and gazes of the people.
Figaro manages to catch an elevator ride by herself. She lets out a small breath of relief in the quiet moment of reprieve she has to herself. The elevator swiftly lifts the professor to the 50th floor, as designated as their meeting spot. The numbers on the screen quickly tick by counting up the levels climbing by. Only the sound of the tip of her shoe tapping against the floor anxiously is a second faster.
Stepping off, Figaro finds that no other persons are loitering around the 50th floor. To the end of the hall there is an attending podium with an attendant present. The unnatural stillness of the figure indicates itself to likely being an assistroid. Not an uncommon sight when nowadays the upper class will employ assistroids more than actual working people in their services.
She approaches the server and internally sighs in relief that her observations were true.
“Good evening. I have a reservation for a table under the name God’s Lightning.” Figaro rolls up her sleeve and formally presents the biometric scan tattooed on her wrist as identification. The assistroid takes a moment to scan with its eyes, and after a green light flashes in the rings of its iris, the server smiles back in greeting.
“Dr. Garcia. Thank you for joining us this evening. Your companion has already taken the liberties of obtaining a seat. If you would please follow me this way.”
The server steps through the red oak entryway , directing on where to go. Figaro follows a close step behind, anxiety spiking at the thought of walking by dozens of other guests seated at the restaurant.
But to her surprise, the space is cleared of any and everybody. Even the typical wait staff that would be bustling about serving others is nowhere to be seen. Her sponsor must have rented out the entire restaurant for full uninterrupted privacy. A perk on one hand, not having to be surrounded in public by crowds of people. But it does nothing to suade the dread of having to sit one-to-one with the person who essentially your future rolls in their hands, fate and fortune carried and tossed by a mere whim.
Figaro is led to a secluded section of the restaurant, right by where the ceiling high glass window wraps around the corner. It lends itself to a breathtaking view of the night time city, the distant illuminations different from when she was driving by them. From such a height Figaro could see even the thousand year cherry blossom tree at the center of town, a timeless historical symbol in the face of Vollmond’s ever-advancing technoscape.
The assistroid bows back before withdrawing, leaving her alone with her dinner guest. Figaro’s eyes land on the lone figure clad in a dark suit and white coat standing by the far end table. Her breath catches, stomach sinking and the tension in her head rising.
The figure took on the appearance of man. Yet they were anything but. Their features were definitively sharp, sculpted from the likes of marble yet face marred by eye creases and furrow lines weathered with inevitable aging. Hair, silken smooth and impossibly long yet never seemed to grace the floor, was the color of the midnight never seen under the city haze and neon lights covering the sky. And from the profile that she could see, of eyes that hadn’t turned to look at Figaro’s poor quaking self, held a deep gleam of red that was incomparable to any jewels, flowers, and other objects of beauty cataloged in the hundreds of thousands databases the professor has skimmed the screen through.
They finally take notice of Figaro’s presence. Eyes, red eyes that seize her body with habitual fear, lazily draw to look at her. As a way to avoid shaking hands, Figaro instead quickly bows, hiding all her nerves under the guise of polite courtesy.
“God’s Lightning. Sir, it’s an honor to finally be able to meet you like this.” It was a miracle of how steady Figaro’s voice came out. That even after countless hours of practicing and reciting lines her insides were being shaken and eaten up by stress. She takes her small victories no matter how desperate they were.
“Dr. Figaro Garcia. Head researcher of Vollmond Institute Laboratory.” The voice of their sponsor matches the curt dry one used in the exchange of mails they wrote in. But physically hearing it for the first time in real life, it sounded much deeper than anything she expected. “You may sit.”
On command she steps forward to take her seat right across. Figaro’s eyes rake over the cloth spread of the table, complete with quality cutlery and wares as expected of fine dining restaurants. From the edges of her vision she can see the wrists of her sponsor, extending from his arms and attached to his body, reading his body language from the neck down though indiscernible as he sits still.
Figaro’s gaze doesn’t dare to travel up further, too afraid to meet the unsettling red that bores down on her. Maybe it wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but etiquette be damned if she was already this close to throwing up without even the first course being served.
The professor smiles politely hoping to carry on quickly, too quickly that her sponsor doesn’t dare call her out on any of her manners.
“Sir. I would like to personally thank you again for all your contributions made. Your work and donations have helped-“
“Dr. Garcia.” Their voice cuts her off lip service. “I was under the impression that you were afflicted with Assistroid Dependency.”
Figaro’s breathing stops momentarily. Her hand underneath the table claw squeezes at her wrist, tight and tense with nerves. She continues smiling.
“Well that is true. However, it is a relatively minor and harmless symptom, often common under my line of work. It will affect nothing regarding our meeting today.”
A steady rhythm echoes into empty space left after their words. Figaro’s eyes draw to the source, seeing that slim fingers tap against the table from across from her.
“And yet you have not once looked me in the eyes.”
“…My deepest apologies. However this is-“
“I am not one for small talk, nor do I care enough for it either. I will not force you to play in these meaningless pleasantries when you cannot even make eye contact. Do not fool yourself into thinking that this is anything more than business.”
Figaro is gutted silently. She chokes on her words, gnawing on her bottom lip until blood is drawn. Before her, God’s Lightning sits completely unfazed by his blunt choice of words, slicing through any and all rebuttals on her tongue.
In the back of their mind the professor rejoices at dropping all pretenses. But then is immediately greeted with the panic that this ruins any and all scenarios she had prepared for light socializing. The floor beneath her drops. Unsteady, weightless, and sick to her stomach.
An uncomfortable atmosphere settles between the two. Never before has Figaro been horrified over not having to speak to others. But God’s Lightning isn’t a simple “other” that she can avoid as necessary. He’s the bastard that dragged her, Figaro Garcia specifically, alone, out here tonight, unprecedented by all other forms of contact they’ve had. It’s hard not to oblige the ridiculous request when they’re single-handedly funding her life’s research.
Figaro doesn’t remember much of the meal after that. Dinner is served on her plate before she even realizes she ordered something. The light scraping of metal cutlery against cold porcelain grates on her ears, and food is barely registered in her palette, heavy on their tongue and feeling even more solid as it goes down to settle with the turmoil of their insides.
The only thing that feels even remotely easy to swallow is the wine poured into her glass. Figaro never planned on drinking much. But with a presence as heavy as the one across from her, she doesn’t think she can even make it through the night without her head light bordering the edge of inebriation.
With the gentle sound of silverware being set on the table, Figaro knows by the cue that she can stop robotically shoveling food into her mouth.
“I will be frank with you Dr. Garcia. I am considering withdrawing support from your project.”
“W-what?!”
Glasses shake with Figaro’s sudden movement to stand up in shock. Her already weak body is woozy from the rush of blood flow, but even more pressing is the ringing in her eardrums from her sponsor’s words. Bitten nails dig into the palm of her hands, breaking skin and the smallest amount of blood.
“Apologies for my manners, but I implore you to reconsider Sir. If it’s regarding progress, I have thoroughly sent you reports on a biweekly basis. From the start until now, significant strides have been made and development is still steadily progressing. What is there to be unsatisfied with?”
The silence settling in the space between the two is deafening. God’s Thunder ruminates on his words, each second leaving Figaro to fall further down mentally until they’re desperately grasping at lost thoughts.
“Garcia. You are aware of what industry I control.”
The answer was obviously yes. For as gracious as their donations have been, Figaro could not help but hold both ends doubt and curiosity towards the source, pushing her to dig up whatever she could surrounding them. Weapons dealing, trading and distribution. Confidential technology developments that teeters warmongering. Hands in pockets of politicians and public figures alike. It would be better to ask where the influence of God’s Lightning didn’t extend to.
If Figaro were a better person, the moral dilemma of where their funding came from would haunt her. But dirty money is still money in the end, so she never refused nor pushed for more. It’s not like they’re following ethics to the T either.
She swallows down her thick saliva, nodding quietly as prompted. Her sponsor continues on.
“Then you are aware that there is nothing meaningful for me to gain from this. Potential at first, and possible capital, but nothing I can truly benefit from my end of the deal. I was drawn into this due to your acquaintance with Tiletta Flores in the first place, but she has since retired and passed away. As such, I see no reason as to continue sponsoring y-“
The professor bangs against the table interrupting them before they could finish. The delicate glasses shake even more than the first time before tipping over and shattering against the pristine white table linen. Wine and shards of glass have somehow clung onto the edges of Figaro’s skin but it all feels numb to them.
Out of nervous desperation, Figaro glances at the other through her bangs from where her head was tucked down. She can’t get a read on them. She doesn’t understand what they want, what they’re thinking, or anything about God’s Lightning. Without even getting a word in from her side, this will be over akin to the wisps of a flame smothered out.
Figaro’s thoughts race to say something, anything of substance. What could he possibly hope to gain from this? What was the one thing they were even striving for?
“A child! I can- I can give you a child!”
The sentence flies out of the professor’s mouth in desperation faster than she can even fully process it. The lag catches up, and Figaro fully berates herself for her stupidity.
‘stupid stupid stupid why the hell did I even say that some second sexiest intellectual I am do you understand how that sounds aaaaarrrghh-‘
The corner of God’s Lightning mouth twitches in a minuscule movement, something easily missed to most others but caught by Figaro’s keen eye. Whether out of amusement, annoyance, or complete befuddlement though is completely out of her skill capacity, emotional intelligence something the professor utterly lacks in. (And apparently by the looks of it logical intelligence now too).
The wine glass in her sponsor’s hand, untouched and unbothered by Figaro’s light fuss, is set down softly against the mess of a dinner table. God’s Lightning folds their hands to rest their chin atop. Eyes the color of blood pierce through the professor. Figaro quickly diverts her gaze to the floor again, sweating under the intense pressure.
“…A child, you say?”
“Y-Yes. I don’t mean an actual human child. But rather, um, one of my own personal assistroids...”
Maybe because the stupid idea already teetered over and spilled from her mouth, but Figaro keeps talking, brain formulating plans and conjectures into semi-coherent speech in real time.
“Allow my presumptions, but you fail to see the limits of what this project can achieve. If you are going to continue investing in our- in my research, then I want you to fully understand what my goal is.”
A small moment is taken to pause and let herself breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Figaro straightens her back, eyes steady on the floor. She’s conscious of her words, her voice clear and tone even to be heard for what it is.
“I don’t want assistroids to simply be tools. Or our friends without a question for what they really want. I want them to have a heart. To have thought and free will. Can humanity truly know liberation from loneliness if our companions themselves cannot even dream of it? Just as I want to love my assistroids and be loved by them, in turn I want to teach them what love actually is. Only then can we move forward to a future as equals.”
Figaro’s breath heaves at the end of her words. She can’t remember the last time she’s talked to another human this long. Her heart beats rapidly inside her chest, an uncomfortable thumping that she grips the lapels of her suit as an attempt to calm down.
Across from her, God’s Thunder sits in silence. A second of eons composed of still quiet air, only disturbed by the now hushed huffs Figaro takes to catch breath, stretches between them. Still standing up leaning against the table, Figaro’s legs weakly shake in anticipation, uneasiness deep in her bones and gripping every tense nerve cell in her body.
“Your ambitions are something I cannot fathom.” Figaro clenches her fists, “…but I will give you one week.”
Grey eyes dart up in surprise. They accidentally make contact with sharp scarlet watching her from across, before flinching away on instinct. In that split second, Figaro felt like she could break through the impasse that was her sponsor’s expressions. But she knows herself to be too cowardly to look again.
“I thank you for your grace and cooperation then. My assistant will send an email to you regarding meeting arrangements and pickup.”
The professor’s voice is quietly trembling, overworked from the stress experienced in the past hour. No further response is given on her sponsor’s end besides a simple hum of acknowledgment, but Figaro is fine with that alone.
Figaro draws back from the table to see the mess she’s made and winces at the sight of it. Somehow through all the food scattered and drinks spilled, God’s Lightning remains untouched. She bows with the last of her energy she can dedicate to courtesy.
As she’s about to rush out as quickly as humanly possibly, a sudden thought stops the professor in her tracks. Figaro turns back halfway to call out to the other.
“Ah. Before I set up the assistroid’s systems, I’ll need a name to put under the owner’s ID. Of course I can leave it as your pseudonym, but I recommend using your own name as it helps establish a bond with the assistroid.”
“…”
Not for the first time tonight, God’s Thunder delays speaking. She’s beginning to understand what the man meant by adversion to small talk.
Yet in their short interactions together, Figaro picks up the second of hesitation before he speaks.
“Sir?”
“…Oz.”
“Oz? Oz…”
Figaro’s voice echoes the name, rolling it on her tongue, familiarizing the taste of the syllable said.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, it’s nothing. I’m just reminded of an old fairytale featuring a wizard with the same name is all. …Well I’ll be taking my leave then.”
Figaro rushes out towards the entrance without a look back. Once in the still vacant hallway, she finds the nearest private bathroom before locking the doors and collapsing onto the floor.
A guttural sob escapes her breath immediately. In the quiet moments the professor has to herself, Figaro tries to recuperate her energy reserves to even walk out of the building. It’s only when she tries to hold her head that she realizes the micro shards of glass and wine sticking to her hand.
Figaro picks herself up and drags herself over to the sink to wash out what she can. A glance to the mirror finds that she is still somehow presentable, partially thanks to the dark suit they’re dressed in masking all the stains.
Once her hands are dried, still somewhat tingling but better than before, Figaro pulls out her phone and calls her one and only immediate contact.
“Figgykins? Are you done? How did it go?”
“Fifi? How are you holding up? Do you want us to pull up to the building now?”
“Before all that… Master Snow. Master White. Please praise me like you said you would.”
“Of course dearie. You did such a good job.”
“We’re so proud of you, Figaro. Our precious little girl.”
“Good work tonight. We love you.”
Figaro sighs softly at the voices of the twins, the tension leaving her body from the taught posture it took. She still feels the buildup of bile in the depths of her chest, but it washes away the longer she’s on call with her two little cheerleaders.
“Thank you Masters Snow, White. I’ve just finished up my meeting and am about to head down, but please stay on the line for a little bit longer until I’m outside.” She gently speaks into the other end of the phone.
“Understood.”
The twins talk about the time spent together while the professor was out. It’s easier to focus on their voices as Figaro follows the path she took treading inside. Her eyes are kept on the floor two steps ahead to avoid eye contact with anybody, yet fuzzy head still operating enough to be aware to avoid incoming bodies.
The night’s cool air nips at Figaro the moment she steps outside. Nary few are outside at this time of night in the upper class district, except for a few businessmen and a couple or two keeping to themselves. Figaro manages to spot and flag down her car and heads straight towards it.
The black car door swings open in her presence. She all but falls down into the awaiting seats. This time, the twins are in the car with her, seated side by side right next to where the professor usually sits.
“You did well, Fifi. Allow us to shower you with spoils and treats as a reward for your work.” White’s small hands brush through blue locks of hair, messing it up from its perfect style. Another pair of arms move to remove Figaro’s suit jacket, though they catch at her wounded hand.
“What happened here? Did they attempt to hurt you? With a word, we’ll go back and-“
“It’s nothing like that, Master Snow. I just got carried away on my end.” Figaro cuts off the threat forming in their words. After tonight with the already terrible impression Oz holds of Figaro, she doesn’t need it dropping any deeper than rock bottom.
“Anyways. I would love to go back home and sleep this awful night away, but I need you two to take me to the lab.”
“Did something happen? We cleared your schedule for the rest of the night and tomorrow morning.” Snow asks.
“All your work for the institute was done when you left for the day. Did you forget something back there?” White’s question follows.
“Something like that. I’ll explain when we get there, but all I can say is that plans have shifted, as annoying as it is. I think I’m going to have to stay up all night again, so for now I’ll use what little time I have to rest a bit.”
Figaro’s eyes snap shut before she can hear any of the twin’s advice. The quiet automated driving accompanied by her two assistroids stroking the top of her head lulls the professor to the edges of sleep, worn out from the stress of the evening.
By habit Figaro wakes up by herself when they’re close to Vollmond Laboratory. She rubs the remaining drowsiness out from her eyes and finds that her hand has been completely cleaned and bandaged, courtesy of her assistants.
It was only a matter of scanning her ID to get clearance into the institute. At the deepest ends of the building secluded from the rest is the Artificial Intelligence Research department, where Figaro is designated as head of.
The professor’s steps and her accompanying assistroids are the only ones echoing in the narrow, poorly lit hallway. All the other researchers have either gone home for the night, or are too buried in their own respective projects to even notice her entrance.
At the last door of the hall, Figaro unlocks the entryway to her personal lab space conjoined with her office. The lights automatically turn on in the presence of her movement.
The professor sees that a scattered mess of papers and research materials is left on one of the examination benches, courtesy of Rustica. In comparison, Figaro’s own research portfolio is neatly filed and locked away in her cabinet from when she left earlier in the day. She shakes her head, though a fond smile appears on her face at the never changing messy habits of her partner.
Figaro leaves Rustica’s mess be, knowing Chloe will surely come and clean it up for her later. Walking past it, she makes her way to one of the doors off to the side of the lab and enters the terminal room where all her children are.
In the last row, second to the end rests a child with synthetic white hair the color of stardust. Their eyes closed shut as they lay in rest mode, an imitation to the human habit of sleep yet so realistic it’s indistinguishable between the two.
Figaro’s hand, the one unbandaged, brushes against the assistroid’s round cheek with a gentle touch as if handling something precious.
The lights of the examination room dim automatically as the professor steps out of the examination room.
Figaro’s muscles shake and tremble struggling to carry the child-sized assistroid in her thin arms. Human children were already hefty to pick up, or so she recounted from the tales of fellow coworkers and show hosts alike. (And the vague recollection from a lost childhood ago being lifted up and swung around in play by warm gloved hands, hidden in the back of her mind like a misplaced memory card). A body made of metals, wires, and synthetic fibers wasn’t much easier, adding on more kilos well past what the professor was capable of carrying.
And yet still Figaro tucks the little one into her hold, letting them rest against her shoulder as they quietly dream of stars in their artificial sleep. Her hand sweeps through the strands of silk fiber acting as hair, a glistening white that glows with warmth more than of the inorganic decor in the laboratory.
With small steps, Figaro makes her way to the other entity standing in the room. She can feel her breath unbecoming of her and the ache in her muscles and back as she strains herself the longer she carries the assistroid.
Oz walks in a fast stride to meet Figaro halfway, possibly noticing the professor’s silent heaves. Or more likely that he just wants to have his assistant back as soon as possible. In the not so brief time they’ve been acquainted with each other, Oz’s perception for others well-being is just as much as Figaro’s regard for outsider’s concerns. Which is to say, not that much.
“You can hand over Arthur now.” Curt as always, their tone lacks any sort of social formalities most others would speak to the professor in.
Any form of conversation with the living strains her heart with muddled up anxiety. But if even for a little bit, it puts Figaro at ease knowing she doesn’t have to put up any false pleasantries when speaking with her sponsor knowing they won’t care.
“In a minute. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to hold this child in my arms.”
Her gaze lingers on the small assistroid as a smile involuntarily forms on her face. After another moment’s squeeze, Figaro passes over Arthur to Oz’s awaiting arms. She’s careful not to make any contact, yet their hand gently brushes against hers. Figaro’s heart immediately jumps and she tries not to visibly shake at the brief feeling of touch.
With her hands now empty, the professor squeezes her arm under her lab coat to keep them still. Her line of sight is kept downwards avoiding the means to make eye contact. Especially when the two are still standing so close to each other, not taking any steps to move away.
“A-ahem. Well, regarding the diagnostics report, Arthur is in top condition both internally and ex. I’ve bothered to update her system while I was downloading her cloud data, so she can run things a bit faster and more organized. In addition…”
Figaro continues droning on to Oz updating him on everything about his assistroid’s maintenance. In most cases, the professor would have let Snow handle this, but she had sent him on a separate errand in advance. It was at least easier for Figaro to talk about the technicalities of her work rather than any unrehearsed small talk.
The entire time, Oz made no signs of movement (albeit in her limited vision range of the tiled floor and their shoes) nor was any sound, noncommittal or not, heard. It was difficult to gauge his reaction, but his face has likely not changed from the stone cold expression it usually holds.
“…and that’s all I have to report. My schedule has become a bit busier in the next few weeks with the upcoming AI world conference, so I’ll have to postpone Arthur’s next maintenance by at least a week. Talk with Master Snow about when it would be best for you.”
“…Alright then.”
Figaro had expected Oz to leave just like that then. Neither were the type of person to exchange farewells, so she was waiting for Oz to leave to finally let out a breath.
But, before her brain could even comprehend what was happening, Oz leaned over slightly to cover her ear, speaking with his voice low and deep like the pitchless black night.
“You have my regards. Until next time.”
Figaro’s eyes flicker over accidentally to make contact with Oz’s emboldened gaze. A mistake on the professor’s end. Their eyes held a foreign warmth in the deep red hues, gently, gently setting her heart to flames and spiking rapidly to the point where she couldn't breathe.
Oz wordlessly moves away and towards the exit with Arthur in his arms. Their steps are clean without a sound until he’s gone like city ash and smoke. If Snow later comes to finds Figaro on the ground, clutching at her chest to make the remnant haze of the heat go away, then it’s beyond her to say what had happened.
She tastes like the sea, briny and slightly bitter. But not cold. Heat at the tips of their fingers and tongue and constrict around like riptides burying him deep. Oz’s mouth is heavy from licking and sucking, the feeling of Figaro deeply imprinted upon his lips yet continuously laps to eat her more.
Long tresses of blue hair, dusted at the tips with powder snow melting along the grey waves of the ocean, fall over Oz’s head. Figaro leans over to push herself closer to them even with the space between them nonexistent, melting into each other as one.
Her thighs around Oz spasm and squeeze their head under, yet it is Figaro who is gasping for air drowning in the waves of ecstasy washing over her repeatedly. She is given a small moment’s rest buoying along the sea of stained sheets, before being dragged once more by hands gripped to her ankle and hips.
Again and again Oz sinks into her, pressure ringing in their ears surrounded by silk skin and the scent of sweat. A haze creeps into the corner of their eyes looking from the bottom up at the sea who cries and folds yet never truly yields to them. Pearls of tears bead at the edges of Figaro’s grey eyes, glistening in the light yet incomparable to the shining beauty held within — a distant green star visible even at the bottom of the ocean trenches and wholly unattainable.
Love is born from the depths of the sea and rises to live on land, Venus asunder from men alike yet walking among their footsteps all the same.
Love fills her lungs yet deprived all the same, as easy as breathing water she chokes on the sensation until only emptiness can remain.
Love fills their hands in pools, seeping through the cracks of their fingers and bygone by the time they let go. Left standing on the mirror surface of water, what reflects back is a voidal space of themself alone.
And the sky. The sky who remains present in her reflection from behind and looks at her in front of her eyes and reaches out to hold her wet tear stained face.
In his hands Figaro is shaking ever so slightly. Their foreheads touch, nose bristling against each other, a world existing in the small space between their mouths.
And maybe this is the closest that the sky — that Oz — can ever be allowed to grace the distant sea and even further distant star before it slips out of their hands. But like before (like always) he will scoop her up again to hold in the gentle palms of his hands.
Breaching their distance, Oz kisses her lips. Figaro tastes warm and sweet and salty like the sea. Swallowing her small breaths and moans they deprive themselves of air. They forgo the need to rise for oxygen, too dizzy drinking up love given sliding down their throat and flowing into chest, lungs and heart.
Full of themselves, full of each other, they fall down into the deep end.
There were many reasons why Figaro loved her wife dearly.
One was Oz’s indomitable strength. Their magic powers were enough to shake the heavens, loved by the world who could bend nature to his will at the drop of a single word.
Another was his timeless beauty. Oz was as pretty as one of the twins’ porcelain dolls. Their hair was the color of midnight, long silk strands framing their sharp face and accentuating their even sharper red eyes, desirable as rubies and as heated as blood.
The one thing that Figaro had undeniably adored about her wife though was the subtle changes in their expression whenever Oz desired something. In the eyes of others it would be unnoticeable, but Figaro alone was privy to these details.
Such as the slight narrowing of red eyes as Oz drew his eyebrows together. His thin lips pursing while a rich voice called out her name “Figaro” in a slightly breathless manner. And if he was getting desperate, Oz’s hand would latch on to tug on her, be it Figaro’s coat, her hand, or currently her wavy blue hair tangled in his fingers.
“Haha, it’s kinda cute seeing you be so impatient like this Oz.” Figaro laughs as she plants another kiss on his collarbone. She licks and gives butterfly kisses over the black lily marking her skin until she reaches right below. Then Figaro sucks and bites down on the smooth skin until another mark is made in compliment.
Figaro pulls back to admire how the redness of the hickey manages to stand out against the growing blush on Oz’s chest. They’re trembling just slightly, arms wrapped around Figaro pulling on her to close the distance again. She complies, moving in kissing her wife again. Figaro inwardly smiles at the way Oz opens his mouth so eagerly to be eaten.
Her tongue tastes about every inch of Oz’s mouth it could move in. From his rows of teeth to the roof of his mouth to the back of the other’s throat, Figaro kept changing the angle of their kiss so she could go deeper and deeper.
Being wanted by the Demon King so much so that he’s sucking the saliva right off Figaro’s tongue is such a thrilling feeling it sends heat throughout her body.
‘They’re so cute.’ Figaro thinks once again. And she really means it. Rarely does Oz ask things of her, yet whenever he wants something Oz is so open and earnest about it. Figaro wants her wife to be more greedy. To take everything that she gives him until Oz’s hands and body and mind are filled with only her.
Figaro moves her hand from where it was pinning Oz’s shoulder down to their breast. Her thumb circles the areola before rubbing against the hardened nipple. Oz is so shocked from the movement that they break off the kiss to let out a breathy moan. A thread of saliva hangs between the spaces of their parted mouths, a trail of spit running down the edge of Oz’s pink lips. It sends a shiver along Figaro’s spine seeing her lover shaking in debauched pleasure that she continues to give them.
Red eyes stare back at her with a smolten heat in its gaze. She keeps the stimulation light, only gently stroking the area around Oz’s nipple with the pad of her thumb.
“F-figaro….” Oz breathes out in between gasps.
“Yes? What is it?”
Figaro knows what he wants. Not just from the looks they’re sending her, nor with how wet Oz feels below against her knee pinned between their legs. It’s something that Figaro can always tell with just the call of her name.
And yet still, she likes hearing the socially clumsy Oz tell her directly about their desires from their very own lips.
“I want….” Figaro stops his movements so Oz can speak. He pouted at that. Figaro giggles at how childish her wife could still act at a time like this. She pecks the furrows of his brow as a small apology to smooth it out.
Leaning up slightly so their foreheads could touch, Figaro’s long hair spills from her bare back surrounding the two of them in a curtain of blue. She looks down at Oz with half lidded eyes filled with lust only for them.
“Tell me what you want Oz. Put a name to it and it will all be yours.”
A quiet pause is held between them, the sound of their slow yet rough breathing synchronizing together.
After an eternity counted in tens of seconds, he finally speaks, “I want you.”
“Is that all?” Figaro half jokes, but she also would have liked to hear Oz be more direct.
“I want you to touch me more….”
Figaro starts rubbing him again, encouraging Oz to keep on going just a little further. “And? Anything else?”
“...I want to melt into your skin deep into the night, until the traces of us are no longer distinguishable.”
There it is. Oz’s frankness in their words. Figaro loves that about him because it makes it so much easier fulfilling their wishes.
She kisses the edge of Oz’s mouth one more time as a reward. “Good girl.” She tells them as much.
Figaro moves down to his chest. She takes their nipple between her thumb and forefinger, pinching and rubbing to stimulate it more. With his other breast, Figaro covers the neglected nipple with her mouth and begins to suck on it. Her tongue plays with the hardening tit, flicking it about and scraping it against her teeth.
Beneath her Oz is trembling as their hands wrap around Figaro’s head, fingers tangled in the locks of her hair pulling her close against their breasts. His slight huffs and muffled gasps heat Figaro up only more. She sets about sucking their tit even harder. Her dexterous hand is full kneading and groping the other side, giving it just as much love and attention as she can.
Figaro thinks lightheartedly in her head, as her spit pools and covers Oz’s puffed up nipple, if her wife could possibly start lactating at any point. She becomes dizzy at the thought of the creaminess of their milk squirting into her mouth and running down her throat.
An idea she puts off to the side for another night. Figaro doesn’t want to do anything to Oz’s body that they haven’t agreed to before. But still the thought lingers in Figaro’s head pervading her thoughts. Of how sensitive she can make her wife be that he would start milking and creaming from his nipples alone.
The rise in volume of Oz’s voice startles Figaro. A key indication to how they're reaching their limit soon. She stops and draws back from Oz’s chest, ingraining in her memory how hot and breathless her wife looks now. Oz looks up at Figaro with hooded eyes, still a clear bright red for how dazed they appear.
Figaro smiles at them. She takes one of Oz’s hands still hanging off her to give a gentle, loving, long kiss to his palm in reassurance, before sinking down and tracing along their body until she’s nestled between his legs.
A slightly more peckish, teasing kiss is placed at each inner thigh. She relishes in the slight spasms felt under her lover’s skin as Figaro moves their legs to hang over her shoulders.
Figaro can’t help but smile at the meal so close to her mouth. She nuzzles against their hole, greeting it with a kiss and huff of her hot breath.
“Figaro.” Oz hisses her name in hurry, in desperation, shaking his hips in wanton to provoke her to continue. His voice is laced with so much lust it’s practically tangible, along with the other fluids dripping down Figaro’s face.
“Don’t worry Oz. I’ll take good care of you. Just leave it to my hands.” Or mouth. A rather funny statement Figaro thinks to herself, with the way Oz is left bare bones melting in her arms.
She stops beating around the bush and finally gets down to the grit of it. Figaro gives a lick around the rim of Oz’s ass before inserting her tongue. Oz forgoes holding back their voice behind bitten lips and shaking hands as a loud deep moan spills from his mouth, quivering in pleasure from Figaro finally feeding into their wish to be touched.
Spurred on by his moaning, Figaro continues to eat Oz out. Her mouth is full of the sweet taste of her wife, her tongue similarly filling the space in their hole leaving no space untouched. Oz’s thighs tighten and squeeze around Figaro’s head, urging her to go ever deeper as Oz rubs against her face.
Through the gap between their legs, Figaro looks up to see Oz gripping the sheets until his knuckles are white in one hand, while the other touches himself fondling his breasts, flicking and rubbing against his still hard tits.
‘Oz really is too cute,’ the thought echoes around Figaro’s heat-filled head.
The sight of how shameless Oz currently looks feeding into his pleasure pushes Figaro to touch herself as well with the hand not holding onto waving hips. It’s a messy rhythm in time with how her mouth moves about around Oz’s hole, yet still it heats up and shakes Figaro at her core.
It’s Oz who finally tips over and spills first. Their body seizes for a second, before shaking and spasming as the euphoria of a climax overstimulates their body. Oz’s cum manages to splash in Figaro’s face, and it’s not long before she reaches as well from the perversion of it all.
As a thank you, she gives one final kiss to her meal in gratitude before gently setting Oz’s trembling legs back down to the bed with a light pat.
Figaro’s hand wipes off anything sticky still clinging to her face. She licks it clean from her fingers down to the bone of her knuckles until there’s nothing left. She doesn’t miss the way Oz stares down at her in her act as if he still wants more, lips biting down and heavy pants leaking from his breaths.
Her eyes narrow as she smiles lopsidedly, finishing with an audible pop of her lips off her fingers before moving back up to meet her wife’s awaiting kisses once more. Oz eagerly licks and bites at her mouth, tasting himself off while Figaro hums in happiness.
It’s with slight sorrow that they finally bring themselves to part and breathe. Though their faces are still close enough that their noses brush against each other and their hair is tangled in two.
Oz all but wraps Figaro in their arms, body still hot and sweaty but all parts soft and affirming. They doze off silently rubbing against their wife’s fluffy hair. Figaro can’t help but smile at how he never fails to be cute even as they fall asleep. She tiredly settles into Oz’s embrace, hands holding onto warm skin as if she’s melting into the night.
Oz wanders through the moonlit halls in the dead of night, the lack of sleep clinging to the ends of his skin. For as imposing a figure as he is, Oz’s steps are silent as they make their way down to the first floor of the manor.
As he walks by the sitting room, the faintest noise alerts him to a presence inside. Oz manifests his staff. Even though he can’t use any strong magic at this time of night, it’s sufficient enough to work as a blunt force attack.
He treads carefully through the doorway, being mindful of the chance it was one of the Northern wizards. Who he didn't expect to see was Figaro, leaning up against the glass panes as he rested on the window sill.
The silver light of the moon bathes Figaro in a soft glow. His already pale skin is nearly translucent under the light, the veins underneath appearing faintly if one were to squint. Oz realizes the noises he was hearing was the sound of Figaro’s rough breathing, uneven as he panted as if he was in pain. If not for his labored breaths, Oz would have mistaken Figaro for the thousands of other living corpses he’s seen in his lifetime. Gone was the image of the once strong and noble wizard of the North, a shadow of the man he used to be now in his place.
It wasn’t in his plans to approach the other, intending to act as if he hadn’t seen a thing and carry on his own night walk. Yet Oz’s own feet betray him as he mindlessly wanders over to the man.
When he was a foot's step away from the man, Oz could tell that the other was resting. Though it looked to be a fitful sleep at that. Only half of the southern wizard’s face was lit by the light of the moon, but his expression seemed to be troubled, as if he was being haunted by his own dreams.
Oz puts away his staff and reaches out to him. His right hand cups Figaro’s porcelain cold cheek. It was concerning how chilled his skin felt. The central wizard gently strokes the other’s face with his thumb as an act to soothe him.
Only like this, with the moon as his sole witness could Oz allow himself to be so gentle with the man that looked like he would crack and break at a moment’s notice.
Figaro’s eyes flutter awake by his touch. The brilliant green of his eyes are a bit faded, melting into the storm as they stare back at Oz unfocused.
“Oz?” Figaro’s usual steady voice is trembling with sleep.
“You should head back to your room. It’s too late to spend it drinking out here.” Oz tries to remove his hand, but Figaro cups it in place with his own. He leans into the rough palm as if seeking its warmth, a crooked smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“Are you leaving me again?”
Oz freezes at his words catching him off guard. His face pulls into a frown. The strongest wizard wants to go and leave this helpless man to his own ramblings. Yet it seemed like if he were to go now and ignore all this, he would miss what may be Figaro expressing what his true feelings are.
He bends down to look Figaro straight in the face. The other doesn’t seem to be completely awake. The jaded green of his eyes are shaking ever so slightly and his lashes flutter close in an uneven timing, only to rise again trying to stay open.
Oz speaks to him in a low voice, “I have never left you. Since the beginning, I have always been in the same place, never once coming or going.” He bites his tongue, refraining from adding an unlike you to his words.
The pensive look Figaro wore curls into something more cynical. His hand holding Oz’s own in place moves to wrap around his wrist, bringing it down to his lap and tugging him closer.
“You’re a liar, you know that? The sight of your fading back would have been a familiar sight for me, if we even looked in the same direction in the first place.”
Oz doesn’t remove where his hand now lays. Instead he shifts closer to the man to the point of almost hovering over him. His freed left hand braces the wall as his long hair drapes over his shoulder, effectively trapping Figaro in the space between his arms and the wall. The distance between them is close enough that Oz’s crimson eyes could see how Figaro’s eyes are still not fully focused, doused in the lunacy of the moon and the remnants of his dreams.
“Then face me, as you are and as I am in this very moment. You can see for yourself that our paths have always crossed.”
Figaro huffs. Slowly it breaks into a small, heavy laughter. It doesn’t grow in volume but each breath sounds more wet and pitiful than the last. His expression aches of a pain deeper than the skin, for the old wizard never wore his heart on his sleeve yet all the years of mishaps and melancholy have built up and begun to leak out.
“Be that as it may, they’re twisted, long winded and narrow roads. They’ll intersect and meet at certain times, but never have they gone in the same direction. We have both walked our lives alone, and we will continue to because that is all we have done. You know as well as I do that it would be pointless trying to hold onto each other when clinging to make others stay has never been our forte.”
“As much as we both want to” remains unsaid by the both of them. There are things they want to say to each other, but know the boundaries of speaking it into existence that cannot be crossed. And things they try to tell the other that hold a meaning even they themselves aren’t aware of. This talk is at the crossroads of both ends, but cannot ever cross the limits they set themselves. And yet,
“Is it so wrong to want to hold onto each other now?” Oz whispers in the unrecognizable distance standing between them.
Resignation falls flat onto Figaro’s face. He looks downcast, averting his eyes to the side avoiding Oz’s deep gaze.
“Would either of us even know how to?”
The two of them are silent. Oz wants to deny the bitter truth that rings in the elder wizard’s words. Yet there is nothing more Oz could do to reach out to Figaro when he himself lacks a means to.
Was this how it will always be from now on? Or has their relationship been like this since the beginning? Only now does Oz recognize this uncrossed space created between him and Figaro. It brings about a dull ache that he cannot put a name to.
“...You are not mine, and I am not yours. And yet I wish we were each other’s if only to keep you in my arms for a moment longer.”
Figaro’s smile loosens at the other’s words. His head is still turned facing out to the window. The light of the moon shining on his entire face highlights how tired he truly looks. How both of them feel.
“Dreams can only remain as “if’s” because they’re the possibilities that don’t happen. But that’s why they’re so nice, aren’t they?”
He doesn’t speak any more after that. Figaro’s breathing becomes quiet, even and steady as he drifts back to the sea of dreams.
Oz rests his head on the other man’s shoulder, exhaustion settling into his bones yet sleep still escapes him. He remains as the only lucid one between them, left in the reality that has no space for the two of them as one.
Oz stares at the cold stone laying in his hands. Though it may have looked like the countless thousands of other mana stones he had seen in his lifetime, to Oz it felt rather heavy. It carried the weight of 2000 years, an immeasurable amount of history and knowledge and experience unique to this one life. Yet for all of its worth, the soul that existed in it was long gone, leaving behind only one-sided sentiments that could no longer be received.
He holds the stone up against the sun. Its surface reflects a brilliant green hue in the light. However, tilting it just slightly revealed a shift to purple. A mana stone was unique to each individual existence, and this one was no different. The dual colors were attributed to the wizard’s nature itself. A beautiful prism with sides and faces that even he did not know all about, yet altogether composed the heart of the man.
He holds the stone against his lips, a silent set of words slipping through as if he were praying to it.
Then without any hesitation, Oz places the mana stone in his mouth and swallows in one swift motion.
Mana stones were usually tasteless. However this one leaves a bitter taste in his mouth much like the liquors the man oh so loved to drink.
Oz traces the stone as it passes through his body, eventually settling at his core. The remains of magic fills him to the brim. It was eons ago that he had last eaten a stone as strong as this one, yet once again the sensation of power was humming beneath the skin of his fingertips.
But for as much magic that flows through him, settling and becoming one with his own, there was an emptiness deep inside that could not be filled. A chilling void was in the place of his chest. This heavy feeling weighing on his heart was almost akin to being in the north, the pressure of it making it difficult to breathe like the frigid winds of the harsh snowscape.
He recalls encountering an emptiness similar to this once in the past. When his child of hope and starlight had disappeared from his life, and there seemed no point to a world where the heat from the fireplace could no longer provide the warmth he had found.
However Oz could not claim it to be the same. For this newfound feeling of loss was something that he understood in the back of his mind. It resembled a lost emotion in a long ago era of deprivation. Where the burden of people and wizards alike had become too much to bear, and the peace of stillness he longed for was something that he had to force by his own hands.
Silence and solitude had once been Oz’s only companions, but now he is faced with the fact that they are the only things he has left. There was an empty presence by side that he was forced to become aware of. Because the wavering outline of a hand that held out to Oz in a fleeting sign of affection was no longer in his sights.
The urge to burn it all once more rose in him, like the towns and toys and the troubling things in his life that never stopped piling in his life. But Oz knew it would do nothing to warm the cold emptiness left behind. Nothing was even left for him to set ablaze. The man’s presence had come and gone like a wave in the ocean. His actions, words, and wisdom imparting and pushing for movement in a greater whole of the world, yet it had disappeared just as easily without even a name to attach itself to.
Oz settles down in his chair across from the fireplace, staring blankly as the flames dance and sway. The sensation of the heat from the fire, from the blood and magic running through the veins coursing throughout his body, is a weighing reminder that he is still alive.
It was the way of the North, to fight blood tooth and nail against each other to survive to the next day. Just as customary, to eat another wizard’s stone was the norm, a rule for the powerful who continued to prove their strength against all others.
But even so,
“What a terrible curse you have left for me, Figaro.”
It was as if his final message to Oz was telling him to live. The one person who could connect and translate his words and emotions to the outside was nowhere to be found. Left to exist with only his loneliness shadowing him, he would be stuck in the past in a world that continues to move forward.
“I do not know when I will join you. But you have left for me a lifetime's worth of sentiment that I can do nothing with. If it was possible… I wish to share with you again another 2000 years, and properly exchange with you the words I did not know to say.”
Much like his long gone companion, Oz whispers these words hopelessly aloud in the empty space of his castle. But nary a sound reaches anyones ears but his own. All of it was trapped and lost in the raging blizzard raining against the world outside.
