I remain, dearest one, your most steadfast and ardent seeker, (Sebskully one-shot fanfic)
Summary: Historical correspondences from the King of Halloween to an unknown addressee. Posthumously compiled and entitled by scholars as follows——
Word count: 2221
*This fic is also on Ao3
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To you, beloved one of dreams and thunder,
I know not your name, nor your face, nor whether you truly exist. I know not your voice, yet tonight, when thunder drummed and shook a dormant memory inside me, I scrambled to the windowsill with a speed I did not know my legs were capable of, catching the faint tail of distant light as my hands failed to seize it in time, seize the words you spoke that crumpled to the silence of moist air and stagnant wind, seize the words that I am still certain you have spoken to me in that moment, in the hasty lightning that escaped my grasp. I know not your voice, yet I know I have heard you once upon a dream.
I know not who you are as I begin this letter before even this memory and this urge fade with the passing rain. Perhaps this letter should be referred to in terms of a diary more than a correspondence if I know not who it is addressed to. I have never written a personal record of anything in my sixteen years of life, except quick notes for Halloween preparations, yet the ghost of your existence compels me to write to you.
Or perhaps I am the ghost, for I am writing this with an unfounded certainty that I shall not find you in this realm nor the realm of my memories, that my attempts to sketch your profile and comprehend your words shall all be futile, that I must leave this record behind with quill and paper for my voice and the ghost of my existence shall never reach you in return. I leave these words in a tangible form with the unfounded hope that some day, by some miracle, you would trace your fingers over this paper and realize that it is I, Skully J. Graves, who wishes he could seize your hand beyond the boundaries of space and time and lay his lips there with the gentlest of gratitude to remind you how you have changed him.
Indeed, however brief, the lightning seems to instill a hope in me before it vanished. As of late, I have been discussing with my teachers about plans of traversing the world to spread the Halloween holiday. I aim to set off as soon as possible after my graduation. That is, no doubt, my dream, but it is also selfishness and rashness, for I cling to the hope that I would find you somewhere in this world despite knowing I would not. You must have left me this persisting hope in the brief time you have touched my life, as surely as if you had shown me an image of my future success, though I cannot remember what form that success shall take. If I find you in lightning, I am certain I shall find you elsewhere too. I write this letter despite my unfamiliarity with the practice of writing, despite the clumsiness of my words, not because I do not trust that the afterimage of lightening lasts, but because I worry my memory of such light would perplexingly evade me again.
I await our reunion upon a fine evening. In the meantime, I remain, dearest one, your humble admirer,
Skully J. Graves.
꧁ ・･・ ꧂
Dear one of dreams and thunder,
This is the third day of my journey for Briarland by sea. I have unfortunately realized that being hurtled about by the winds and the waves of a coming storm on the deck has proven rather disagreeable to my constitution, hence I am continuing my research and penning this correspondence in the safe confines of my cabin, all while listening to the music of winds and waves.
I do not recall when I have started to favor the scherzo of storms, perhaps when I had begun feeling your presence in some strange proximity when the skies rumbled. I feel at ease even when buried in research about Halloween I do not know if I can finish in time.
Speaking of, I have, as of late, been granted the position of a scholar of humanism (very, very broadly defined) affiliated with the nation I have last visited. I have, of course, not pursued any further studies after my graduation from Night Raven College as I had set off to spread Halloween immediately, nor have I written any academic publications, but the sovereign of where I had previously stayed took a great liking to Halloween, and made every effort to organize a nationwide celebration. A success of this scale is unprecedented for me. I am most grateful to every gentleman, every lady, every child and every elder who joined in the bright, festive, and lavish celebration. In order to assist my journey, the sovereign generously granted me a scholar’s travel permit and travel funds despite my lack of academic credentials (admittedly bending several rules to do so). I am now able to visit lands I hadn’t been able to before, and my first stop shall be Briarland.
Briarland had been isolationist for most of recorded human history. I have read, however, that they do welcome immigrants from other lands, from which I must conclude that the isolationism does not come from a place of hostility. Such an ancient culture may possess information about Halloween that I must unearth!
A scholar’s travel permit allows me to stay longer in one nation than I previously could. I cannot speak fae language nor do I know more than a slip about fae culture, but I am eager for the time to learn. Halloween belongs to all, despite their respective backgrounds and cultures. I think it can only be achieved if I act with respect and camaraderie, if I show willingness to accept cultures I have yet to learn and spread the joy I receive from Halloween in expressions familiar to that culture. I truly wonder how my stubborn teenage self managed to come this far, and I have an inkling that I learnt it from observing you, from observing how you learn, from wondering what kind of Halloween would bring you joy.
Was that what led me to Briarland the moment I obtained a travel permit? Will it be where I find you at last? Were you from Briarland? Were you a fae? Were you a lover of nature? Were you proficient in ancient knowledge? My endless questions seem never to reach an answer, yet instinct had pointed me on this journey nonetheless. Was it a gift you had left me? This adventure, this strength in my legs to explore? Was it a curse? This blindness, this fumbling through the dark and the storm with no land in sight? Are you someone I can find, or are you a story I had conjured up to battle my own weaknesses, to thrust myself toward things I must learn? Yet I do not have the time dilly-dally in this whirlpool of questions. If you do exist in this realm, I will have a better chance of finding you by expanding my monochrome world. I will find you in the unknown, in neighbourhoods I have yet to visit, in customs I have yet to experience.
I remain, dearest one, your most steadfast and ardent seeker,
Skully J. Graves.
꧁ ・･・ ꧂
Dear one of dreams and thunder,
My heart is young as always but my legs have failed me today. It pains me to waste time when time is my most wanted asset, but many had advised against traveling heedlessly as of late, especially not through a storm.
The less time I spend on the road, the more time for my mind to run. I draft endless new plans for Halloween of course, but my mind drifts, as I become increasingly conscious of the growing ache on my neck when I focus singly on my writing desk, wondering how many years I can keep this up for.
Ten years, perhaps — and that’s a generous estimate — I doubt I can still travel as often at that age. How many more miles can I walk in ten years? How many more orations can I give? How many more hearts can I remain remembered in? Will you be among them?
I have never thought quite so clearly about my own death. I suppose that’s not a thing one thinks about, until one realizes that walking becomes a labor, until what they once pushed through with sheer passion becomes a chore, until one’s body can no longer leap to the height of one’s heart.
And, I suppose, one never thinks quite so clearly about legacy either until then. I have no heir, no disciple, I am but one man. If I die, will Halloween die with me? The notion has been plaguing me since I started thinking. But I know one man can do plenty, for you were but one person as well. You were fleeting as lightning, yet your presence has certainly lived in me all these decades. Will I, too, live? Will I overstay the age of my body? Will I be remembered by my ideals, by the people I have met, by the people I have implored to join me? You left no trace for me to find you, and I have no means to know whether you are searching for me as well, but if you were, will I have done enough for you to find me? Will you hear my words whispered in the wind? Will you see my shadow flicker by the jack-o'-lantern at your feet? Could I be allowed to dream that my ideals will have reached some corner of the world, some point in time beyond my existence, so that one day you will stand among the bright pink, festive black, and lavish amber hues, hear the songs, taste the candies, join the parade, gaze at the lanterns and candles decorating the night sky and understand that all this was possible because of you? That, if any, every lovely thing I would have left behind in this world was a result of how you have inspired me, how you have convinced me keep true to my passion, to spread what I love.
Forgive me, despite all my creativity, I cannot conceive of a better, proper way to thank you without knowing who or where you are. I have devoted my life to Halloween and will continue to do so until time arrests the last movement in my fingers— the festival itself is the best quill and parchment at my disposal to leave you anything.
I pray you will find me upon a fine Halloween evening, in whatever form or spirit you shall perceive me, I pray that it be full of love.
I remain, dearest one, ever in your debt,
Skully J. Graves.
꧁ ・･・ ꧂
[Historical correspondences from the King of Halloween to an unknown addressee. Posthumously compiled and entitled by scholars as follows:
“On the brevity of inspiration”
“On exploring the unknown”
“On legacy”]
“…”
“Sebek, what are you reading?”
The half-fae gives no response, his fingers sliding over the glass display case as if wanting to trace every word written on the parchments yellowed by the centuries’ might.
He has been standing in front of this limited-time historical document exhibition at NRC’s library for a good while. The way Sebek seems to regurgitate the passages again and again has caused Silver some curiosity and some concern.
“Has something caught your attention?”
Sebek glares at him, eyebrows raised.
“Has it not captured yours?”
Silver wasn’t sure why Sebek sounds so offended, “Sorry. You know I’m not good with reading between the lines. What is it about?”
What is it about? Sebek holds back from shouting. You mean to tell me that someone had harbored such affection and gratitude for someone else across decades and had no means to convey them directly so they poured their heart and soul into their passion, hoping their message would somehow reach through their only legacy while paradoxically fearing that their own insignificance in the grand scheme of the world would make their feelings lost to distance in time or space, and they had so articulately penned these letters not to mourn how they were doomed to never find the subject of their admiration but to express such persistent motivation and love, and you want me to tell you ‘what is it about’???
He takes a deep breath to remind himself that he was in a library.
No, it’s fine. The writer must have left these correspondences not for the public to gawk at, but for the ones who would understand to understand. For the one, perhaps. These letters were never meant to be displayed in an exhibition, perhaps. Although, Sebek admits, that it would be quite ironically poetic if the one they were searching for managed to find them only when these highly personal correspondences become circulated. He supposes it could be seen as a fruit of their legacy.
“Never mind,” Sebek growls at his friend, “I’m not explaining it to you or anyone. Those words deserve to be understood as they are.”
Words penned chasing lightning, words penned on an aimless, vagrant journey, words penned with so much love that it still echoes as ink fades and paper yellows, deserve to be read in their own voice.
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The End
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A/N: Sorry Silver 🥺 I don’t want to be rude to you but I would also be like “how are you not moved by this??” if I was in the same situation, and I needed a scene partner for Sebek so 🥺
Hello Manager! I'd like to order a Velvet Mousse with Berry Coulis for Azul x a mexican!male!reader who worships the folk saint Santa Muerte
Context: Folk staints are unnoficial christian saints that are local to certain regions and thus much more familiar to local christians in terms of culture, understanding, and values. In Mexico, Santa Muerte is one of the most popular folk saints due to her being death aka the one thing that is truly equal and is characterized as being amoral, non judgemental, and accepting of anyone willing to worship her. This distinct lack of judgement makes her extremely popular among the marginalized groups such as the poor, sex workers, LGBT, and even criminals that would be shamed away by other Catholic figures. Santa Murte has been declared non canon and even demonized by the official catholic church despite many worshippers still considering themselves catholic and following catholic tradition. Santa Muerte's main holiday is All Saints Day aka Dia de los Muertos.
For extra sources, here are links to a tumblr post by a worshipper on how they do their worship, a 20 minute video going into further detail of her presence in Mexico, and a 12 minute video on Dia de los Muertos:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOq8tX4gnEw
https://www.tumblr.com/flammeinfernale/760297809025056768/santa-muerte-saint-of-the-death-and-goddess-of?source=share
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbEbe4uzbIE&t=28s
As for the reader himself: His relationship with catholicism is much more casual in the sense that he read the Bible, went to Church, and believe in the catholic doctrine but isn't really all that strict about it. He's open to science and openly discard the more outdated discriminatory aspects of catholicism. However, when it comes to Santa Muerte herself, the reader is deeply devoted to her and his faith in her is unshakeable. He keeps a rather splendid alter in Ramshackle and lets anyone leave offerings of their own so long as their respectful.
On Azul's end, it would likely seem incredibly strange as there is no mention of any religion whatsoever in Twisted Wonderland. Its likely incredibly strange to picture an entire majority of the world worshiping one God or the idea of folk saints. For specific moments in the order I'd like that Azul's first ever encounter with Santa Murte be when he comes across the reader's alter in Ramshackle during chapter 3 and he becomes interested because the reader explicitly stated in the cotnract that the alter not be disturbed until renovations began. Later on when Azul begins crushing on and trying to romance the reader, he would start asking both for his own curiosity and also to get closer to his crush. I also imagine him getting bonked over the head for suggesting commercializing El Dia de los Muertos cause my guy Azul that is a religious holiday meant to welcome back the spirits of dead relatives you do not do this disrespect!
Ah, esteemed patron! Welcome back to the Lounge.
My goodness, what an extraordinary and beautifully intricate "order" you have placed! This is not just a "dish," this is a profound Manager's Specialty Pasta infused with the complex, rich flavors of a Velvet Mousse with Berry Coulis.
You have requested a "fusion dish" that explores faith, culture, deep devotion, and the clash of two distinct worldviews—all centered on the developing romance between Azul and a devoted Mexican!Male!Reader.
Thank you so much for providing such clear, rich context and sources! This level of detail allows the kitchen to prepare this highly personal and complex "dish" with the utmost respect, accuracy, and honor that it deserves.
The inclusion of Azul's logical curiosity and his inevitable "commercializing bonk" is a truly inspired and delightful concept.
The kitchen has prepared this "dish" with deep reverence for the Reader's faith and the delicate nuances of their culture. I do hope this preparation is to your satisfaction.
Serving: A Deal With Death
Azul Ashengrotto, CEO of the Mostro Lounge, despised inefficient variables. By the time he was prepared to move forward with the Ramshackle Dorm acquisition, he had accounted for everything: the ghost problem, the structural integrity, and the Headmaster's ineptitude.
He had even accounted for the Prefect.
The Prefect had signed the most stringent, restrictive contract of his career, agreeing to the terms with a calm, unnerving confidence. There was only one stipulation the Prefect had insisted upon, and it was the only one Azul had not yet logically processed:
The Prefect's private room contains a "shrine" or "alter" that is not to be touched, moved, or disturbed by Octavinelle staff until the final phase of renovation begins.
Azul, ever the pragmatist, had agreed. But the curiosity festered.
His first encounter with the source of this contractual anomaly came during the moving part. Snooping into the prefect's private room to search for the final photographs, he found the place exactly as described. Dusty, sparse, but for one corner.
There, on a small table draped in cloth, was the "alter."
Azul stopped. He was a man of magic and science. He understood the divine nature of the Great Seven, but this was different.
He saw the effigy—a skeletal, regal figure draped in robes, holding a scythe. He saw the candles, the marigolds, the small dishes of candy and fruit. It was beautiful, elaborate, and alien. It did not fit any religious framework he had ever analyzed. It was clearly religious, yet the dominant figure was... Death itself.
He approached it slowly, adjusting his glasses. He read the air of devotion, noting the care taken with the placement of each offering. This was not a frivolous hobby; this was serious. Azul, ever concerned with power, was instantly intrigued. This figure, this "Santa Muerte," was clearly central to the Prefect's strength. He cataloged the encounter: "Anomaly. Source of Strength. Do Not Disturb. Investigate Further."
As the days turned into weeks, and Azul's fascination with the Prefect grew into a full-blown crush, his curiosity about the alter became the perfect vector for his romantic pursuit. He needed data, and he needed proximity.
His questions started tentatively, masked as "cultural analysis."
"Prefect, I have been reviewing our contractual agreement. The term 'Santa Muerte' requires a more complete definition for my records. Is this... a local deity? Is she a minor Fae Queen?"
The Prefect would simply smile, his eyes soft with a unique blend of faith and patience. He would explain, casually and openly. He spoke of folk saints, the unshakeable faith of his home, and the very human need to connect with the divine on a more accessible, non-judgmental level. He explained her nature: amoral, non-judgmental, and equal to all.
This utterly fascinated Azul. A powerful entity that explicitly rejects judgment and welcomes the marginalized? It was the perfect business model! But beyond the logic, it resonated with his own childhood insecurities—the desire to be accepted, flaws and all. He found himself spending hours in the library, attempting to cross-reference "Catholicism" and "Mexico" with the limited materials available.
He started framing his questions as requests for a "cultural exchange."
"Prefect, if I may be so bold, what is the protocol for 'offerings'? I find the ritualistic component highly engaging. As a purely academic exercise, of course."
The Reader would just laugh, his eyes shining with affection for his awkwardness, and patiently explain the significance of the candles, the water, and the different colored robes. Azul started leaving his own "offerings"—tiny, perfectly polished gold coins, not because he believed, but because he saw how happy it made the Reader. It was his unique, analytical form of devotion.
Azul's feelings for the Prefect reached a tipping point as the calendar approached All Saints Day, or Día de los Muertos. He saw the Prefect become particularly focused, working on the alter with immense care and preparing photographs of loved ones.
Azul was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the tradition—an entire nation dedicating itself to welcoming the dead. He saw not a religious holiday, but an unexploited market demographic.
He cornered the Prefect in the Lounge, glasses gleaming with avarice.
"Prefect! I have had a brilliant breakthrough! This 'Día de los Muertos'—it is universally practiced, universally beloved, and not yet commercialized! We could offer an entire line of custom, miniature ofrendas! We could commercialize 'pan de muerto' for the masses! A 'Memento Mori' subscription box service!"
He stopped, beaming with pride at his genius. The Prefect, however, did not return his enthusiasm.
The air around the Prefect went cold. He didn't yell. He just slowly, deliberately set down the sugar skull they were holding.
You looked at Azul, your face etched with disappointment and a cold sadness that cut him deeper than any insult. You reached out, and with a surprising lack of gentleness, you bonked him hard on the head with the sugar skull (which, thankfully, was only light meringue).
"AZUL!" you hissed, your voice low and laced with anger. "You absolute idiot! This is not a business venture! This is sacred! This is welcoming back my family! You don't try to commercialize a religious holiday, you dishonor the dead! You do not touch this. You do not mock this. Ever."
Azul staggered back, his eyes wide. He was in shock. He was not used to being physically struck, nor was he used to being yelled at with such genuine, righteous fury. He looked at the Prefect's face—the anger was real, and it was aimed at him.
"I... I..." he stammered, rubbing his head. "I... I apologize. I... I did not mean to... dishonor."
"Then learn," you snapped, pointing to the alter. "She is the equalizer, Azul. The non-judgemental one. But I will judge you. And if you ever try to monetize something sacred, you will lose me."
Azul was silent. He looked from your furious face to the serene, skeletal figure on the alter. He finally understood: this was not a contract he could buy. This was faith.
Azul spent the rest of the day in profound, genuine repentance. He didn't come near the Lounge; he spent it in the library, reading anything he could find on the meaning of the holiday.
He returned to Ramshackle that night, bearing a small gift—a simple, elegant glass skull, which he presented to you, bowing his head.
"I apologize, [.....]," he said, his voice soft and stripped of all transactional polish. "I spoke from a place of greed, not respect. I misunderstood the value of the tradition. I have learned that some things... are beyond market price."
You smiled, your anger instantly melting away. You took the gift and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you, Azul. You learn fast."
The true resolution came the next day, Día de los Muertos. Azul stood quietly by the alter with you. You were explaining the photographs of your grandparents, your voice soft with love and memory.
Azul listened. He stood there, his glasses reflecting the candle flame, his usual composure traded for an intense, heartfelt respect.
When you were done, he reached into his pocket and placed a tiny, unpolished shell—a shell he had kept since he was a small, bullied mer-boy—at the foot of the altar. It was his most sincere, non-monetary offering.
"She accepts everyone, does she not?" he whispered.
"She does," you confirmed, your eyes soft.
"Then I ask only for her permission," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the figure. "Her permission to be the most devoted suitor for the one who worships her."
He then looked at you, his eyes filled with a love that was finally, truly, non-transactional.
"I love you, [....]. For your strength, for your mind, and for your heart. And if your faith is what keeps you anchored, then I will learn to love her too. No contract required."
A complex, rich, and truly unique "dish"! The kitchen is so honored to have served this Velvet Mousse with Berry Coulis to you.
Thank you, thank you, for such an inspired and educational order. We look forward to your next visit!
I Shall Forget, and Be Moved by You Again (chapter 2/3) (Twst fanfic)
Summary: Love and passion have the power to move people. These are words that Sebek believed in and Skully, as the King of Halloween, knew better than anyone. Yet, can they defy fate? Defy death? Defy time itself? They cannot. And so, Skully will not tell him.
Chapter 1 here Chapter 3 here
Also posted on Ao3
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Chapter 2: So he will not tell him
On a night smelling of earth and plaster heralding the looming hefty rainclouds, Skully’s feet were floating as if lighter than air itself.
For one, because he was a ghost, but that was not all.
A most wondrous Halloween had he the honor to witness! The most wondrous, if he may emphasize, for after centuries of yearning and centuries of wandering, he had finally come upon them again.
The Halloween at Night Raven College.
As grand and spirited and rowdy as he remembered. Though as much as he’d like to claim that he would never forget the Halloween he had spent with the present Night Raven’s students and Jack Skellington, that was not how the mysterious magic of the Book had functioned.
For the entirety of his life, he had forgotten. Yet in his death, the world had granted him the miracle to recall, and ever since, he had wished and waited for this, this chance to happen upon his old friends once again.
In his youth, it was they who inspired him to spread the joy of Halloween to all of Twisted Wonderland. A few days ago, when he was watching their parade at the main street from a nearby tree, he felt the fruit of his labor in such intensity. He felt how things come in full circle. He felt that maybe he had managed to return a glimmer of all the things they had given him that lasted him through all his years, in what he contributed to the shared smiles of all the humans and merfolk and beastmen and fae.
And ghosts.
Truly funny how things change. When he was 16, he would’ve so easily decided to expel malicious ghosts to keep them from tarnishing his beloved holiday. When he was alive he couldn’t exactly remember why, but one day he started advocating for a Halloween that welcomes and celebrates ghosts. In hindsight maybe part of it was for himself, for today, for when he’d wander back as one of the departed, because of all the things he had left unsaid.
He floated up the stairs leading to Ramshackle dorm leisurely. He sat down on the empty yard and gazed up at what little pieces of the moon the clouds did not stifle.
It was really quiet tonight. Here. Very befitting of someone of his kind.
He was not going to tell them.
On Halloween day, they were having so much fun and he didn’t want to intrude. Until yesterday, they were busy cleaning up all the decorations and he didn’t want to intrude. And now, they’re back to their normal lives and he didn’t want to intrude.
He was not going to tell him.
It’s astonishing to himself too, really, that after centuries of wishing and praying and daydreaming and hoping and waiting and waiting and waiting, he could back down so easily.
You cannot begin to imagine the joy that seemed to fill his non-existent body with cotton candy and dancing flower petals when he saw him. At last, at long last, he had found him again, those lime golden eyes with vertical slits, that slick-back hair in the color of early sprouts in spring, donning a costume inspired by mythical longs from the east, and the pointy fangs that are visible when his features stretch into that booming yet innocent grin.
Then the wind hissed through Skully’s form, hissed right through the hand that reached out towards the lively, the living, the unreachable. He stopped.
Sebek looked vaguely in Skully’s direction, steadying his hat from the wind, then turned back to his upperclassmen and friends.
Cruel as it was, the wind dissipated the sweetness, scattered the petals, and stole away all his unspoken words.
After all, he was only an immaterial existence made up of regrets and unrequited feelings. Too bleak. Too invisible. Too far away.
He did not exist in this realm. He did not exist in anything other than a portrait and the history of a holiday. However much one glance of Sebek almost made his faded existence real again, he did not even exist in memories.
It was too convenient. The world already wrote his tragedy. And though it was uncharacteristic for the King of Halloween who single-handedly made a no-name holiday known to the whole world to be so stagnant, he supposed this was some cute cowardice his 16-year-old self handed down.
A living young man’s future simply weighed more than a ghost’s eternity.
So he will not tell him.
Aah, but… he needed to do something with this swelling tingle inside, threatening to explode even though he had no body holding it back. He picked himself up from the lawn, placed his hands over his chest, and focused his eyes on the sky again.
Cloudy. The moon was gone.
How fitting. But perhaps a little cathartic singing could clear some haze.
You captured my life
I kneel at your light
In the end, he never changed. It’s easier to have courage when he’s borrowing someone else’s words, someone else’s ideal, someone else’s success, because if it fails, it wouldn’t be on him.
How could someone so weak even catch Sebek’s eyes?
Still hoping I could your company keep
“I wish I could… I truly do.”
And then the sky rumbled, the clouds brightened, and a voice thundered.
“WHO IN THE NAME OF GREAT SEVENS IS SINGING AT THIS HOUR!?”
That voice, that electrifying voice, pulsed through every vein, every fiber of Skully’s being, and he could almost swear his lifeless heart had started beating again.
“… you… you can h-hear me?”
Skully could feel his breath hitching as he asked. He clenched his hands together, too afraid to turn around, too afraid that it was all in his head and he wasn’t really there.
“Hmph! You were singing at the top of your lungs. Who couldn’t?”
The moon peeked out from the clouds.
There Skully was, faintly yet surely painted by the moonlight in those golden eyes once again. And suddenly it was as if the staircase separating them was the black spiraling hill, as if they were there once again, there before the graveyard and final farewell.
I Shall Forget, and Be Moved by You Again (chapter 3/3) (Twst fanfic)
Summary: Love and passion have the power to move people. These are words that Sebek believed in and Skully, as the King of Halloween, knew better than anyone. Yet, can they defy fate? Defy death? Defy time itself? They cannot. And so, Skully will not tell him.
Chapter 1 here Chapter 2 here
Also posted on Ao3
A/N: Happy White Day and happy early birthday to Sebek! I noticed how Valentine's is only a month before both Sebek's birthday and White Day so I could do this posting schedule hahaha
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Chapter 3: You are here. I will stay.
Sebek was nothing short of exasperated at this turn of events.
He was just doing his usual patrols. Who knew he would find someone with obviously no sense of common courtesy singing on private grounds in the middle of the night?
And a ghost at that.
“… you can see me?”
A very strange ghost, sort of squeamish and quivering.
“Sebek-san?”
A very strange ghost who knew his name, apparently.
Whitish ivory glimmers from the moon colored the tall, translucent figure in such a mysterious shade. One moment the moonlight would veil the ghost like stage curtains, out of reach, as if he could vanish as easily as in a magic trick. Yet in the next moment, Sebek could not shake the instinct that he knew him.
“Skully J. Graves…?” Sebek uttered.
“You…” the ghost seemed split between glee and confusion, his mouth opening and closing, curling up and twisting down in words that did not come out, “……… you know me?”
“I’ve seen the portrait. The King of Halloween one.”
“Oh… yes, of course…”the ghost adjusted his sunglasses and cleared his throat, “Indeed, my name is Skully J. Graves. Such a fine encounter is deserving of a k—” he paused abruptly in his self-introduction and retracted the hand he had extended, correcting himself, “… a proper greeting.”
With one hand in front and one at the back, the ghost did a perfect gentleman bow.
Sebek nodded in response, “So… King of Halloween—”
“Ah! Please, call me Skully,” his reaction was quick, somewhat too quick. He pulled back and laughed awkwardly, “I’d feel more at ease.”
“Alright.”
Then they were silent. Sebek lost all urge to reprimand the late night singing to a strange confusion that he could not describe, to words caught in his throat that belonged to him yet unknown to him and to hazy images that slipped through his fingers like water. He knitted his eyebrows, wanting time to think.
Skully spoke first, “I apologize for the noise,” he pushed up his glasses again and kept his hand covering his face, “I do not mean any harm, or trouble and… and I didn’t think you would hear, or that anyone would hear, and I just needed to voice some things and I’m sorry— I… I’ll be off now.”
Wait.
A part of Sebek’s head thumped as he watched Skully turn his back and float away.
Wait.
He had too many questions to ask him. Why do you know my name? Why are you here, in Night Raven College? Why are you in the living realm? Why have I seen you before? Why have I heard you before? Why do I know the touch of your hand, the skinniness of your shoulders, the way I can see your eyes a little bit through your sunglasses?
“Wait!”
Sebek grasped at Skully’s wrist, only to stumble as his hand fell right through. Skully whipped his head backwards. Steadfast golden eyes met with glassy orange ones.
Why won’t you look at me?
“I’m sorr—”
“Why were you singing?” Sebek blurted out.
“… pardon?”
“The song,” Sebek stood straight and continued, “It’s from Omero and Lietju, isn’t it? In act 5, by the tomb.”
Skully’s eyes flickered sharply as if something broke inside him. He snapped his head to the side, drew in a shallow gasp, and exhaled for as long as he could.
His eyes were clenched tight, Sebek could tell, that Skully was hiding his eyes, hiding eyes too volatile, too vulnerable. Under any other circumstance with anyone else, Sebek doubted he would’ve cared enough to wait. But if he turned away now, he felt like the moon would play tricks again, and take him far away again.
(Again…?)
“Yes,” Skully finally managed in a whisper after some deep breaths, “It’s a long story.”
Sebek tilted his head to the side, then decided to sit down on the lawn, gesturing to the space next to himself, “Well, make it quick.”
It took a few moments, before Skully managed a small smile and took a seat, lining his hands on his laps, keeping his eyes on them, “This song is, to me, a memory of an old friend. I have visited on Halloween for many, many years, hoping to find them again.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Then why are you still singing it?”
“Hm?”
“It’s a tragic piece, isn’t it?” Sebek stated in an as-a-matter-of-fact manner, “In the opera, Omero sang it when he thought Juliet was dead to express how he could not bear a life without her.”
“Yes, which is why the piece was composed like a duet yet only sung by one voice. They were never meant to be,” Skully explained, then sighed, “I did find my friend, and that’s enough. They do not need to know that a dead man is haunting them. And they don’t remember me anyway.”
“Hm,” Sebek hummed simply, pondering.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I just thought we interpret the duet quite differently.”
“We do?”
Sebek crossed his arms and leaned backwards, trying to organize his thoughts, “The music foreshadows that Lietju was still alive, only that her feelings were imperceptible to Omero at that point in time. I’ve always believed that the tragedy is in knowing this could’ve been an ordinary love song if there’d been a different turn of events, just that they couldn’t make it true.”
At some point, Skully started staring at him with his mouth slightly gaping. Sebek wished he could retract what he said. He rarely discussed books or media with anyone because most other students would say he was overthinking, while he reckoned that they just don’t put in the effort he does. He didn’t understand his own unfounded willingness to share his interpretation with Skully despite only meeting him a few minutes ago, and now he feared he was making a fool of himself.
“But I mainly read the book. I only know of the most famous pieces for the opera,” he said dismissively.
“No, no,” Skully put up a hand, processing the argument, clearly intrigued, “I think that’s a valid read.”
“You do?”
“Mm.”
Now that was stroking Sebek’s ego.
“Ha! Maybe you’re somewhat insightful for a human! Or a ghost, I suppose,” Sebek puffed up with pride and, though he would never admit it, satisfaction from sharing an equal intellectual discussion with someone.
Skully chuckled softly. He missed this. He had always yearned for this. This mundane kind of conversation, mundane kind of joy, mundane kind of discussion limited by their own biases so there was room to inspire each other.
He took another deep breath.
No. He needed to be content.
“I appreciate the interpretation,” Skully did not even have a pulse, yet he felt like he needed to hush the little giddy noises in his heart, “but unfortunately, I doubt it changes my situation. For one, my old acquaintance has no memory of me. And I am, in fact, very much dead, unlike Lietju. A spirit of the past has no claim to the hearts of those living in the present.”
He cannot want any more than what Sebek had already given him.
“Hmph,” Sebek deflated a little, annoyed, “you’re not as sensible as I thought after all.”
“Not as—!? Excuse me!”
“It doesn’t matter whether you’re a ghost or a human or a fae or whatever! You’re fighting for the right and the time to be by someone’s side! Am I wrong?”
“N-no…”
“Then fight! If you believe you deserve no claim to your friend’s heart, all you can do is improve upon yourself until you deserve it!”
“It’s… it’s not that simple!” Skully exclaimed back, “That friend changed my life. They made me who I am now. They gave me more than what they themself could possibly know. But they don’t remember it. They have their own life, their own goals, their own aspirations, and by now there is nothing I could give back to repay a debt so immense. I cannot ask for more. I cannot ask to be by their side. I cannot ask them to spend their time on me. A debt and an admiration so much larger than life is something you would never und—” he stopped, and tried again, “you would never—!”
He couldn’t say it.
If anyone were to understand, it would be Sebek. Sebek, who knew what it was like to look up to someone far out of reach. Sebek, who always spoke of having the honor to stand by his liege as if he was a beggar given alms. Sebek, even amidst the rage of nature itself in a storm, would condense all magic he possesses into the swift light that cuts through any uncertainty.
He knew what Sebek would say.
“Hmph. Did they ask you to never bother them again? Did they ask you to get out of their sight? You’re just making presumptions and excuses because you’re afrai—”
“I know!” Skully raised his voice, then flung his forehead onto his knees weakly, “… I know.”
If anyone could never understand, it would be Sebek.
“I am afraid, Sebek-san, I am,” Skully covered his face and breathed into his hands, “What if I had waited centuries only for them to still have forgotten how they had illuminated my path? What if the collision of my world with theirs had truly left so little a mark? What if they scorn this fear of mine, and scorn me, for making excuses and standing still?”
Skully wished that Sebek would know each ordinary step he takes demands immense courage for another soul to even try. He wished Sebek would know how the ideals that drive him forward every day were, to another soul, a fiery star still inspiring and still blinding from centuries away.
“You are welcome to laugh at my cowardice,” he said faintly, “And please, try to understand how I envy and admire someone like you.”
There. Now the candy coating was peeled off and all that’s left was a bitter, lonely creature. Now it had been said. Now he knew.
The grass rustled as Sebek stood up, walking away. He must’ve run out of patience for my whining and wailing, Skully thought. The shoulders he usually keeps so upright for his mannerly appearance hunched further into himself. He didn’t want to look up.
Until that voice — that thunderous, sonorous, baritone voice — sang.
Curse the hands of fate hundred times over
Yet it had brought me to you
Skully looked, raising his head, feeling the way his eyes were pulled to the half-fae standing in front of him.
“That’s how the song goes, right?” Sebek said, somewhat flustered, “That’s what it means, right? That you’ve been through so much to be here, that you are here, and that’s all that matters.”
“Here…” Skully repeated, searching for the outlines of an unfamiliar word.
“Here,” Sebek asserted, “You are here, and the one you’ve longed to see for years upon years was right in front of you, no? Are you content with letting them slip through your fingers? With not knowing when you’ll find them again? Is that not enough reason to reach out and shout despite your fear?”
“But what if—”
“What if? Hah!” Sebek crossed his arms and scoffed, “I thought you were the King of Halloween! The one who touched the hearts of billions and united them for centuries to come with sheer passion and willpower! Love and passion are contagious, they have the power to move people, as I’m sure you know. So what if your friend doesn’t remember? You can touch their heart again! What are you so afraid of!?”
Words as steadfast as the lightning that night pierced the shades around his eyes and flooded his veins once again.
Aah yes, how could he forget?
He knew.
He knew this was what Sebek would say. This was who Sebek was.
Sebek was the change. The ideals Skully was too afraid to rewrite, the shields made of disdain he was too afraid to abandon, the battle with his own cowardice all seemed doable because Sebek’s voice was there to reprimand him if he didn’t try.
Sebek was what moved him.
Sebek, and all he loved about him, for all these centuries and the eternity to come.
“Sebek-san,” Skully rose to his feet, taking off his gloves, “would you mind holding out your hand?”
“Mm? Sure?”
“Thank you.”
An aria meant to be a duet. He shall make it true now.
Flee from life to chance upon you again
He joined Sebek beneath the moonlight, no more stairs, no more hills, no more graveyards in between.
And what to say but “I do”?
Finishing with a vibrato that felt more like his unbeating heart bubbling up in his throat, he laced his right hand under Sebek’s, pretending he could hold him, pretending he could feel.
He was here. They were here, together.
He kissed his hand.
Sebek stared as Skully stayed there. A ghost’s kiss cannot be perceptible to his senses and yet somehow he could swear he knew what those lips felt like on his knuckles. He knew their supposed coldness, their supposed dryness, and the yearning and the burning that somehow surged through to him, somehow existing beyond his five senses.
Skully then laid his left hand under Sebek’s hand as well. He pressed his forehead to Sebek’s knuckles, whispering, “I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, remembering how I love thy company.”
“Did you say something?”
“Sebek-san, what if…” Skully breathed, “What if it was you? What if this hollow creature, with all his past regrets and unrequited gratitude unbeknownst to you, is determined to have you make him whole again? To badger for your attention every day and hold you back from your future?
“Ha! I’d like to see you try!” Sebek laughed, “I press forward on my own path for my liege at all times. If anyone has the determination to even keep up — which I doubt — I suppose they’ll have earned themself some attention at least. And besides…”
“Besides?” Skully looked up, and felt a slow smile tug on his lips as he saw Sebek opening one arm and flaunting his fangs with all his usual smugness.
“Besides, being the one person the King of Halloween himself sought after so direly for centuries even after death? To be the one person who daunts the King of Halloween so much he’d whine like a weeping child? That sounds rather flattering, actually.” And immediately in the next breath, he demanded, “Will you unhand me though?”
“Oh, my apologies,” Skully said and stood up, choosing not to remind Sebek of the fact that they were not touching in the first place, “I simply had to give my thanks for your encouraging words.”
“The best way you can thank me is to walk your talk. Your moping is making Ramshackle even more dreary than usual.”
“Indeed. I think I’ll stay in NRC for a while and try to um… ‘keep up’, as you would put it.”
“Do what you want,” Sebek said, this time really walking away, “I’m heading back to dorm. I have an early morning tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Skully wasn’t sure if a ghost was allowed to hope for a tomorrow. He has no objective existence in this realm until someone sees him, someone draws him in a portrait, someone knows of his being here.
So to make a tomorrow for himself…
“Sebek-san.”
“What?” Sebek looked back.
Here.
Once again, Skully saw himself here in Sebek’s eyes, even though rainclouds were looming and moonlight was fading, his figure was outlined by a dim ghastly white glow in lime golden eyes.
He can be here, as long as they were here together.
He refused to resign himself to a tragedy this time, not after Sebek had done so much for him. He knew not yet what his immaterial hands could give back, but he swore he would stay here until he finds — in whatever color or whatever form — something to leave behind for Sebek. Some kind of memory, some kind of light, just like the light Sebek had left for him, a swift lightning which had ceased to be before one can say ‘it lightens’, yet it had always been there when Skully closed his eyes, when there had been rainclouds needing to be lightened.
“Tomorrow, do you suppose you could give me some book recommendations? To… prompt some action in me, perhaps, as you have done, if I ever waver again.” Skully asked, then hastily added, “Of course it doesn’t have to be tomorrow! The day after would do, or any day, actually!”
Sebek considered the request. And though he was reluctant to admit that he was interested in picking up their brief discussion about literary interpretations again, to have someone so clearly well-read ask him for his recommendations was rather agreeable to his pride.
“Only if I have nothing better to do!” he huffed through his nose and continued stomping away.
Skully grinned, his hands flew to his heart in delight,
“I will be waiting then!”
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The End
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A/N to yap about the Shakespeare references I used:
Can y’all believe 👏🏻 Shakespeare 👏🏻 actually wrote 👏🏻 a metaphor comparing love 💗 to lightning ⚡👏🏻 in Romeo and Juliet 👏🏻 and Sebek ⚡ canonically reads Omero and Lietju??? Juliet compares rash, quick love to lightning in scene 2. I twisted that on its head because even though Sebek’s and Skully’s encounter was brief, to Skully it must’ve stayed a fond memory for so many years.
The fic title, now you’d know, is another Romeo and Juliet reference, again in scene 2. Juliet says she forgot why she called out to Romeo, and so she would have Romeo wait there, remembering only how she enjoyed his company. I’d have loved to write Sebek respond with Romeo’s quote saying how he would have her still forget so he could stay and remember no other home than this, but tbh there’s no way Sebek would understand why Skully was suddenly quoting such passionately romantic lines from Shakespeare. My title, “I shall forget, and be moved by you again”, however, of course refers to both Sebek and Skully: Sebek in the sense that he has no memory of Skully but would act the same way and become close with him again, Skully in that Sebek moved him again and again even when he was close to giving up.
SebSkully is the new thing I’m obsessed with in Twst they are so silly and cute and meant for each other and angsty and cute and cute 🥹 I haven’t been entirely proud of this whole fic (esp since I haven’t written in so long) but I’m happy I wrote something for SebSkully!
I Shall Forget, and Be Moved by You Again (chapter 1/3) (Twst fanfic)
Summary: Love and passion have the power to move people. These are words that Sebek believed in and Skully, as the King of Halloween, knew better than anyone. Yet, can they defy fate? Defy death? Defy time itself? They cannot. And so, Skully will not tell him.
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A/N: It’s Valentines Day!!! 💖 And I’m posting my first fanfic in 2 years, first romance fic in 3 years, and my first SebSkully fic EVER 👏🏻
Spoilers for Nightmare Before Christmas event and Sebek’s vignette there. He talks about “Omero and Lietju” which is obviously Twst Romeo and Juliet so I couldn’t resist referencing teehee.
Chapter 2 here Chapter 3 here
Also posted on Ao3
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Chapter 1: A Graveyard and A Final Farewell
“Aren’t you looking blithe? Considering your atrocious actions AND pathetic whines earlier.”
Skully paused his search for henbanes and nightshades in the graveyard near Spiral Hill and stood up straight to meet the eyes of the disgruntled boy.
“Sebek-san! Have you come to assist me in harvesting the ingredients Lady Sally requested?”
“Against my wishes, yes.” Sebek emphasized, muttering about how he could get back to Malleus as soon as possible if they finish this quickly.
Skully crouched down alongside Sebek to continue their task. One of the herbs he had collected slipped from his arms. And yet, having been made aware of the “blithe” tug on his lips, he knew his own smile didn’t even shift.
He thought to himself as he picked up the herb. At this point, what’s not to admit? He had let far too much of the loneliness, the anxiety, the envy slip out from under his meticulously crafted gentlemanly demeanor. At this point, what’s one or two more things exposed?
“Blithe… I suppose so. I am feeling quite merry,” he could hear his smile, a real one, not the one he usually wears to uphold his image, “Everyone in Halloween Town welcomed me to join in the festivities despite what I have done. And it is the first time I spend Halloween with someone else. I feel as though walking on air.”
“Hmph. To think a few days ago you were harping on spending Halloween alone with your so-called solemnity and whatnot.”
“Aah yes, that was the ideal.” Skully let out a small sigh of reminiscence for all the traditions he had followed until today, “But perhaps…”
“Perhaps?”
“Perhaps, as you had said, I was only making excuses for myself. Perhaps I was so insistent on solitude because it lets me overlook my failure to find companions. But I was mistaken,” he paused, which made Sebek look at him. He wondered if Sebek saw the way his eyes softened in gratitude through the sunglasses.
“I was mistaken. It’s fun to share my passion with someone.”
Sebek scoffed, a smirk forming on his lips, “Of course it is! I like reading by myself, but I find it satisfying to discuss the contents or to recommend books to those around me. Just like the excellence of my liege, I think more people should appreciate the excellence of a good book too!” Then, he put his hand to his temple, thoughtful, “Too bad the Reading Club at Night Ravens hardly seem interested in classical literature. Texts like Omero and Lietju have compelling universal messages that we still find relatable.”
“Omero and Lietju!” Skully exclaimed, finding both the change to a casual topic and the common interest very refreshing, “I am rather fond of its opera adaptation!”
“Opera? I’m surprised you have a liking for classical art forms as well.”
“Classical… ah, yes,” Skully chuckled secretively. He saw Sebek pulling a face thinking he was acting strangely again, but he was not going to point out that what was a classical art form to Sebek was quite contemporary to himself.
“Pardon me,” Skully brought them back on topic, “What is it you love about this story?”
“A lot,” Sebek said swiftly, then looked down quietly as if wondering how much he should say, “It… reminds me of my family.”
“Oh? How so?”
“I’m a half-fae. My parents’ marriage was vehemently opposed by everyone in my hometown, but most of all by my grandfather.”
“Why… I’m sorry to hear.”
“But that’s not the end!” Sebek stated strongly, “My parents fought for the happy ending that Omero and Lietju didn’t.”
“Really? That’s very admirable of them.”
“Well, it was mainly my mother!!” Sebek clarified, “My father helped, I suppose. But it was my mother who decided she would never give up on convincing my grandfather, and insisted there was nothing for them to hide or run from or feel ashamed for just for falling in love. It was not a matter of yes or no, it was a matter of how— of how to make my grandfather see the world through her eyes and all the happiness she felt. It’s always those who are as strong and honest and unwavering as she who make changes happen, as small as changing one person’s mind to changing the world.”
Skully could not pull his eyes away from Sebek, who was radiant with pride. At the same time, he recalled their battle a few hours ago, he recalled how Sebek had gripped his arms and shaken his worldview as the lightning shook his veins. He could almost visualise Sebek’s mother’s actions, if they were anything like Sebek’s own.
To him, Sebek was the change.
“You must take after her, Sebek-san,” Skully said fondly.
“Ha! Your discerning eye is impressive for a human!” Sebek boasted, “Anyhow, this is why I think numerous classical texts have universal messages we can still learn from. Perhaps Omero and Lietju wouldn’t have been a tragedy if the couple were to communicate more, with each other and everyone around them. Love and passion are contagious, they have the power to move people. There is little in this world that cannot be overcome by speaking your mind, opening your heart and letting those words come into conflict with others’ true feelings too, until they smoothen out each other’s edges and become one.”
Sebek made a frustrated frown and continued, “I hate to agree with that walking skeleton but I think your issue can be resolved in such a way too. Your methods are clumsy, but your love for Halloween is true. Find the right way to express your message, I’m sure you’ll find companions moved by your passion one day. When we return to Sage’s Island, perhaps there are other books I can recommend to prompt some action in you.”
Aah, just how many times must this boy electrify Skully’s very veins in one night? What was as obvious as day to Sebek was, to Skully, a swift lightning bolt tearing apart the night’s suffocating fog, a forceful pull on the arms toward the right path. Yes, if Sebek believes Skully could change, Skully was willing to believe it too— no, Skully would do anything in his power to prove Sebek right.
And yet.
And yet.
Sebek was mistaken.
“You’re so unfair, Sebek-san,” Skully breathed out in a low whisper, sliding the herbs into a sack and stood up.
“Not that again! I’ll have you know, I—”
No.
Sebek looked up at him.
Something wasn’t right.
Each step Skully took towards the Spiral Hill, each rustle of dry grass flattened by his feet, sounded distant to Sebek. The moon blurred the edges of Skully’s silhouette. A moon too close, too white, too bright, too vast to be perceived as real and yet, it almost seemed like it would eat Skully up any second, take him far away, make him vague to Sebek’s eyes, engulf everything in white and wipe away all the mucky pieces of their hearts that they had risked sharing with each other.
“Skully—”
“I will stay true to my love for Halloween,” Skully declared, beginning to ascend the Spiral Hill, “I will honor your trust and spread the joy and fear of Halloween to all of Twisted Wonderland. But, pray tell, Sebek-san,” the moon shades his face, concealing his expression from Sebek’s sight, “how much can love and truthfulness truly overcome?
“Can it defy fate? Defy death?” as if addressing the endlessly black sky itself, Skully continued to ask, “Defy time itself?”
“W-What nonsense are you spewing?”
Skully turned to face Sebek from above the hill. He knew he was smiling, a thin, bitter, envious smile he hoped Sebek would never witness, “See? You are unfair, Sebek-san.”
That’s not it.
Skully knew he was the one being unfair by not telling Sebek the truth.
But what could he say? What could he say to change the tragedy they were destined for? Could he say he would love to return to Sage’s Island together, attend classes together with everyone he’d met, spend a slow, tender afternoon reading Sebek’s book recommendations and having a fruitful discussion together? Could he say that they would never be able to do that? Could he say that he alone will return to his dull, solitary school life, that he would try his utmost to change, and yet he wished, oh how he wished Sebek could be there with him, so that if he ever cowers or wavers, that thunderous voice would rattle him awake once again? Could he repeat again and again the gratitude, the apologies, the tingling, fleeting hope that the friendships he had made here will last for however many centuries it will take for him to be reunited with them, until even Sebek realizes that he’s only saying all these things because he would never be able to say them once they go their separate ways?
How freeing it would be if he could speak of this tingling, fleeting, strange hope that, maybe just as Sebek believed, if his heart is true, his words can move mountains, move worlds, move the heart of one half-fae to feel the same way, and then perhaps if they hold onto each other strong enough on the way back, some higher power would be so touched that it would allow them to wake up in the same world and this fine evening would not have to be their last.
And yet he could not.
“Alas,” Skully exclaimed dramatically, “The world is not thy friend nor the world’s law!”
He was not strong. He did not know how to stand against the world.
He was not made for a happy ending. He was written to have his life changed forever by hands of lightning, and to have nothing to repay them with as they slip away. He was not strong enough to fight for a happy ending, so he could only accept the tragedy as it is.
But if he could not speak his heart, at least he could veil it in another’s words.
With his hands over his chest, Skully turned to face the moon once again. “A song, to this fine evening!” he declared. An evening so fine, it came with the condition that it cannot last, the cost that it vanishes with a part of your heart and empties it forever.
Sebek gazed in stillness as Skully opened one arm and began to sing. Somehow the far-away hustle of townsfolk and students disappeared. The Hill was a stage, a balcony, the moon was a spotlight, and Sebek the only audience.
You captured my life
I kneel at your light
Still hoping I could your company keep
My heart will have stopped
And you’ll be the cause
Still sweeter than dreams this eternal sleep
“Act 5, by the tomb…” Sebek recognized the aria and the scene from the opera.
A graveyard and a final farewell.
An aria composed like a duet.
Meant for two voices, yet one sings in desperation and the other lies in obliviousness, destined to continue passing each other by, never to live in the same space at the same time.
Curse the hands of fate hundred times over
Yet it had brought me to you
Flee from life to chance upon you again
And what to say but “I do”?
How wonderful it would be if the story ends with the two joining each other on top of Spiral Hill, sharing the duet as well as an embrace, with the moon melding their silhouettes into one if seen from afar.
How wonderful it would be…
“If you’re done with the herbs,” Sebek called out from below, sounding a bit confused, “let’s head back. You can rave about your love for the opera after we return home.”
Pulled from his fantasy by the thunderous voice, Skully opened his eyes. The hill was a hill, the moon was a moon, and he was not the romantic hero of a novel.
“Indeed, Sebek-san,” one last time their eyes met, and Skully prayed he would at least remember the sight of his own form painted by the moon in those golden eyes, as if then he would’ve left a mark somehow on Sebek’s life as he had on his,
“Let’s return.”
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End of Chapter 1
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A/N: Skully had one quote from the actual Romeo and Juliet play, but the lyrics are completely written by me~ (I couldn't find lyrics from the actual opera that fit)
