Tunnel Vision

by OverseerChill

Summary:

It's funny to think that a Chaos Lord can be fooled like any other human. Say a few words in their ear, they fall in line like a perfect toy. Keep them entertained, and they won't even notice the leash around their neck.

As is the case with Lord Klarion, the Witch-Boy.

 

(Essentially a series of small scenes that this ship rots me with.)

Notes:

gonna keep it real, idk if this has an overall plot, all i know is that i want to take this unhealthy ship to the next level and no one can really stop me <3

also hope im not the only degenerate that likes this ship, aaaaa

Chapter 1: Eyes on the Prize

Summary:

"I was born asphyxiated. It took a long time to bring me back to normal."

- "Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin 1939 - 1947"

The mortal named Savage was as every bit an enigma as his name suggested.

There was a time Klarion would easily recall his inhumanity. Times where he would so eagerly abandon blood in the pursuit of evolution. Brutality such as that was rare in any lifetime, stretched to high hells over the cracked continents of this blue marble.

Klarion had taken immense satisfaction trying to ruin such a goal, in trying to break and shatter this mortal to tiny pieces over the course of three-hundred dusks and three-hundred dawns.

“The funny days,” that era was named.

Those days are trivial to him now.

Yet memory lane was a journey Klarion found himself having often. Too many things reminded him of days long since passed, and though he tried to be above such sentiments, his heart had yet to learn to stop its want.

The massacre that brought the immortal mortal to his knees had firstly begun when the fools he sired and protected thought the Chaos Lord to be a demon. True, they had not yet invented such a descriptive word in their tongue, but the sentiment was there.

Maybe it was his hair, maybe it was because he spoke more to Teekl than they thought was normal. In any case, they sought to hurt him.

Klarion didn’t want to be hurt. Not anymore.

With the death of men came the death of their women– such territorial things. Soon, both begged and pleaded with him to spare the children, yet such words were quick to turn to ash when with their words came more claws, more weapons.

(Croatoan had said, in his old lifetime, that the youth were harbingers of prosperity and of culture. Of course they’ll be spared… but they will be without adults. For their benefit.)

As for the rest, well, you probably know. Burned into his mind– not because it was significant, but because the memories danced around his mind whenever he looked at all he’s done, and when he looked upon Savage.

Or Vandar… Varl'jat… Marduk…

So many names.

And you would think that, along with an elongated lifespan, Klarion would mature and flourish into something beyond mortal comprehension. That he would become untouchable, unsullied.

But his title explains it all. Above anything else, he is a Witch-Boy.

An eternal child, never to grow, but subject to change. He may not be the epitome of normal, or even of perfection, but do such things allow for his mistreatment? Does his status permit a hunt led by a fool in a golden helmet, quenched only when he is chased from Earth and forced to watch it stagnate?

Perhaps it’s in the nature of every Lord of Chaos to be belittled by the other side of the Holy Balance. Maybe destiny has willed it that evil is synonymous with anarchy, and good is synonymous with dictatorship.

If “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts…

.

..

…

Their alliance was known to most as an exchange. Klarion would cause chaos, Savage would cull it, and from there, the weak would die as the strong survive.

Recalled before were the days their alliance was as wild and unkempt as the concept of chaos, itself. What was neglected more often than intended were the times where the Savage mortal would try to make the little lord melt.

The times he had coaxed the boy into bed just to see something primordial shake and writhe beneath him. All in order to reclaim a gentle nature the warrior had forgotten– or perhaps repressed– in favor of other things.

Savage would often hold himself as though he were far removed from his fellows. A god, of some sort, born of this earth and the only one capable of ushering it into a superpower that could rival the stars, themselves.

And you would think that gods were above something as trivial as carnal desire.

Not true. And the Witch-Boy had many memories, however fleeting, attesting to that.

Such a memory was made tonight.

Savage has called him for a meeting in person, something about recounting their exploits and explaining yet again what needed to be done. Not an uncommon request; they had started their little “play on words” back when he was Marduk.

(It was fun back then, playing the role of an innocent youth in the false demigod’s harem.)

Klarion hadn't fallen for such bores, instead falling for the softness that was given thereafter.

The way the mortal would so readily treat him like a jewel, a fierce protection in his eye and hands eager to roam…

Maddening to some. Comfort for him.

He remains in bed, the sheets pooling around his thin waist. Savage sat beside him, eyes closed as though contemplating, (read as: relishing), the place they've yet again found themselves in.

Klarion sighs lightly, stirring his bed partner out of his thoughts, “Am I good?”

He earns a hum. Savage-Speak for an affirmative.

“…Enough?”

Savage goes still. His face was turned away, though Klarion knew well he was doing that scowl he does whenever he was lost in his own head.

It used to be attractive. Until it got predictable.

“Enough for now,” the immortal mortal decides this is a fantastic answer.

You'd think that, in such vulnerability, Klarion would shatter hearing that. But he knew better than to expect anything heartfelt from the man.

It's why he smiles condescendingly at Savage, cuddling the pillow beneath him, “You know I've killed before for rudeness like that. You keep saying, ‘As long as this,’ or, ‘Only if that.’

“Would it kill you to say yes? Is it really so difficult?”

Normally, Klarion wouldn't allow himself to be like this. But understand that he really couldn't help it; his dreams these nights were often plagued by a former life, of burning witches and corrupt judges, of rhyming demons casting him out and noble knights damning him.

Nightmares to some. Memories for him.

Savage only leans over, wordlessly commanding his partner's small body to shift and lay on its back so that he's well and truly exposed. Pale skin remains unmarred, though only for a lack of trying. Dark eyes close as Savage leans down, whispering how the little lord needn't worry over such trivialities.

Mayhaps he shouldn't. That never means he won't.

For the rest of the night, Klarion allows himself to fall into the illusion that he's wanted, desired, and protected.

Notes:

i love a good illusion, don't you?

Chapter 2: That's Your Demise

Summary:

“Tell me what you cherish most. Give me the pleasure of taking it away.”

- "Advent Children," Kazushige Nojima

It's a secret that the world's been reborn so many times before.

Sixteen billion years, and people so often think that such a number means withered worlds are doomed to repeat themselves. The cosmos knows better– the Balance knows better.

Klarion had been a heavy contender the previous time around. He had to have been in order to be deemed worthy enough for Chaos.

He was Bleak, (was that a name or a descriptor?), a ruler by right of deceit and conquest alike. The crown was best in his hands, as the princess was a coward. That's not meant to be a bitter sentence; she was indeed a coward and worried her legacy would force her to be sovereign to the dying.

But he was a savior– a hero, even if he denied it. He was born with noble blood, though not as close as the princess'. His blood was diluted with witchcraft and holiness, of nature and destiny!

'Twas only right, only fair that he got the crown.

His people, the only ones upon his earth that shared both blood and curse, declared there were no more kings. Which he honored. King Melmoth the Wretched, Horrible Bastard was the last, and never would another rise to contest his history as the absolute worst.

So Bleak rose instead as a queen, the Queen of Prosperity.

The Sheeda loved him. They fought, killed, and died for him. None of this was expected, nor even demanded, but accepted nevertheless.

Why would Queen Bleak scorn such adoration from his peoples, they who were rendered stupid due to eons of stagnation and genetic trauma?

Oh, but the world is so very cruel. The supreme designer of the universe– whether by hand of cruel god or shattered dreams of a titan– decreed that all moving things are finite.

Newton's cradle stops eventually, and stories turn to ash.

Indeed the world had crumbled, and Bleak witnessed it. But even as he lay there, doing the thing he feared most, it was not the end for him.

Chaos sang to him. Chaos recognized he wasn't one for rules, for tradition.

Tradition, after all, taught him that witches must bend their fingers exactly, else they would reap a punishment only the cruelest of universes would allow. The Witch-Boy, both as queen and child, didn't listen, and though consequences followed, it was not because his fingers were crooked, broken so many times over, but because of his actions.

Tradition said his Sheeda and Witch-Folk were eternal enemies. But they welcomed him when everyone else scorned him, displaying their butterfly and dragonfly wings to him as though waiting for him to steal the prettiest and pin them to the wall like a cruel scholar.

Chaos sang his praises as both boy and ruler.

They sang to him, "You hold a truth few ever accept. The truth of action and punishment, the truth of order and anarchy.

"The truth of Balance."

So the world was reborn, and Klarion was not with it when it was.

His murderer, a Lord of Fascists, (and again, this is no insult; merely fact in the crudest form), was punished by his new brethren for hurting him.

"It's only fair," the Chaos Lords cackled, and at the mention of fairness, their equals, the Order Lords, were forced to hold their metaphorical tongues and bow their metaphorical heads.

The punishment was to be bound in mortal bones. To lose his cosmic knowledge this time around and figure it out for himself.

If it were anyone else, it would be a cruel fate.

But it wasn't anyone else. It was Nabu, Lord of Stupidity and Stubbornness.

Born as son to the demigod Marduk, murdered by Klarion's action of summoning a conquering star simply because he was bored and wanted to ruin another civilization. Nabu was dumb, believing this past was the only past and therefore the truth.

It was funny.

…

Nabu was kind to him once, though.

"Forgive me," he said to Klarion after bumping into him in the palace halls of Babylonia, "I had not seen you there."

Klarion was disguised as a mortal, which was a simple way of saying he was hiding from Marduk as a game. He was stunned to have his previous murderer act so kindly towards him, so of course, he was drawn to this new version. Nabu had apparently mistaken him for part of his father's harem, to which the Witch-Boy wasn't sure to be offended or flattered.

He isn't sure if there was a reason for it, but Klarion remembers how they often crossed paths. Nabu would always mention what a fine day it was, and Klarion would respond that it wasn't nearly as nice as yesterday. That became a game in of itself; having nonsensical greetings exchanged as they remained in each other's presence.

There's one interaction that Klarion buried in his memory. By accident. Or maybe it was on purpose…

"You visit me often," Nabu comments, face revealed to Klarion as he polishes his helm. "Why is that?"

"Is it so wrong to be entertained?"

"I'm hardly the type. Ishtar is interesting. You would do well in learning from her rather than me."

Klarion scoffs, pressing his body against Nabu's back. It was a motion he often did with Marduk, though the prince differed greatly from the "demi-god" in that he always tenses his body whenever it happens. Like he was readying to be attacked.

The Chaos Lord in human bones giggles, and it's a sound that somehow relaxes Nabu rather than annoys him. Another difference between him and his sire.

"Who said I wished to learn?" Klarion teases, moving up to rest his chin on the soldier-prince's shoulder. (Say that ten times fast!) "Can't I be entertained by watching you?"

"…You are a strange treasure."

Against his will, he finds himself giddy.

Perhaps it was the makings of a harlot to be enticed by kind words, but Klarion didn't care. His previous life was so full of heartbreak and misery; if anything, he's earned a bit of sweetness. So what if it fell from the lips of his murderer? Beggars can't be choosers.

A pale and clawed hand gently placed itself on the cheek of a wise prince. They stare at one another for a moment before Klarion leans in, a soft kiss given willingly.

It wasn't anything romantic, nor did it harbor any feelings of passion. It was just a kiss, if ever there were such a thing. Klarion isn't even sure why he did it. He just wanted to.

Nabu takes it in stride, not minding that he's been distracted from his duties of maintaining his armor. "Are you alright now?" he asks instead, always making it about Klarion.

The boy shrugs, leaning on the mortal prince yet again. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Then we shall wait here until you're certain."

…

Marduk found out.

"I refuse to apologize," Klarion says, body aching as Teekl was so far away. (His anchor loved to roam, and they knew better than to interfere with his and Marduk's couplings.)

They were laying in the false god's bed, the larger of the two immortals on his back as the pale entity was draped across his chest. To anyone else, it would be a scene of cuddling, of two beings relishing in comfort after an evening of passion.

To them, it was just another way of discussing business.

"It was just once."

"And once is all it takes to become addicted to you," the conqueror runs his calloused fingers through the boy's hair. "Lord of Chaos, you know better than to become attached to my clan."

"'Because you make soldiers, politicians, and everything in-between,' I know. But Nabu isn't like that. He's just a mortal."

Marduk frowns, and it's revolting how that hurts Klarion. Gives him those nauseating feelings of second-guessing. "Do not allow me to stifle you," he murmurs gently, lulling his lover into a sense of security, "but know that pursuing him will only bring you misery."

Yes… Yes, that's right.

Children of the Savage clan never live– that is to say, never live as long as their sire did. There was that one man from Atlantis, but Klarion didn't like to think about that place. (Water was a terrible element, not nearly as fascinating as the gluttonous flame!)

Even if Klarion wanted to have Nabu as his own, which he fully doesn't, it would end terribly. Klarion would have to watch his new toy get smaller, greyer, then die.

"Whatever," the Chaos Lord says instead. He pushes himself up to have their faces closer than before. "Tell me again your plan for the armies. I wasn't listening."

And the rest of this memory is clouded by thoughts of starfish.

When Klarion thinks of his time with Marduk, he thinks of Bleak. It could be tied into some grandiose story of a conqueror claiming the heart of a queen, or perhaps spun into a cautionary tale of falling for the wiles of a monster in a pristine tunic.

He doesn't think about the possibility of Nabu remembering him. He doesn't think about how much it stung when the prince looked at his true form and declared him a silver-tongued demon. He doesn't think about Marduk saying his son's death was for the best, poorly given comfort as Klarion wept in his arms over a lost friend.

But sometimes, when he faced Doctor Fate, he brought his hand up to his lips, recalling a sensation of not-quite love, not-quite hatred.

"Strange treasure," he said to the baby heroes once.

They didn't understand. Two of them flinch.

Notes:

wave high the flag in honor of our queen! hail the witch-boy of honor and prestige!

Chapter 3: Your Focus Is Empty

Summary:

"Our mouths are wounds that speak in tongues of healing. We say, sacrifice. We mean, murder. Our lips are red for a reason."

- "Bloodsport," Yves Olade

Time with Vandal had yet to lose its allure. If he had a heart– that is, if he bothered to make one for himself– Klarion is certain it would race every time the brute called for him.

But it's begun to hurt, and he isn't sure why.

They had been apart for so long, distracted by the happenings of this new world and its children who weren't children at all. Klarion wasn't desperate to have Vandal back, but he was… Lonely? Bored?

If Teekl were here, they'd help figure out that feeling.

Where were they?

Right… They don't like sticking around when Vandal starts playing with him. Klarion isn't sure why; his anchor has surely seen far worse things happen all around them. Perhaps it was different because it was him experiencing what mortals do? Or maybe they just found Vandal that repulsive.

Teekl had been saying, perhaps over an hour ago, with words that didn't belong to them how much of a disappointment the Klarion/Vandal alliance is becoming. Klarion wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. Not right away, that is.

"Again, you go to him like an obedient dog," the cat said.

Klarion stared into those strange flaming diamonds. They weren't Teekl's eyes, but they were there. Where did their eyes go? Who took them?

"I'm having fun," he insisted. Whatever acted as his heart added no passion to his own statement.

"What could possibly be amusing about rutting like a beast? Especially with the savage."

"You just don't get it."

Teekl hisses, but it was a weird sight. Too foreign. "Explain yourself, by all means."

"…I don't know." Klarion was given a glare. "Well, I don't! And I don't appreciate being scrutinized for living."

"You're not meant to live, Brother Klarion," the symphony that left Teekl was vaguely familiar. "You are beyond living. That opportunity has passed you long ago."

The Witch-Boy threw a pillow at the feline. It landed just before their paws. (Let it be known he'll never have the heart to hurt his beloved pussycat, even accidentally.)

"And what a life that was!" Klarion said, as though he could still remember it. (He couldn't. It was fleeting as all his memories were. The past remains in the past.) "Running around, doing nothing, and still getting hurt because of selfishness and cruelty. Vandal knows how to entertain me, how to protect me!"

"Are you incapable of protecting yourself, brother?"

"I like not having to worry about it!!"

He was close to screaming, but he didn't want to. This, like all good things he's earned, has begun to hurt.

Klarion doesn't like hurting. He gave that up when he

died?

"You don't get to lecture me about how I run around with the mortals," he yelled, not looking at Teekl, who wasn't Teekl at all, "and you especially don't get to tell me how I live! I'm having fun. I'm being protected. And that's somehow a bad thing?! Get out! Get out, now!"

Not-Teekl hissed again, this time swatting at the pillow like how L-3 bangs on the table whenever L-4 says something catty. They're clearly upset, but the diamonds coated in flame disappeared from Teekl's eyes, bringing them back to the sweet ruby Klarion loves.

"Apologies," Teekl mewed, leaping over to cuddle into his leg. "What were we talking about?"

"Nothing important." The Witch-Boy lifted the pretty kitty in the air, cuddling them to his chest. "Nothing important at all."

Indeed. Nothing came of that argument, so it was nothing at all.

That's how it worked.

…Right?

 

"When routine bites hard, and ambitions are low…

"And resentment rides high, but emotions won't grow…

"And we're changing our ways, taking different roads…"

Vandal's brow furrows as he registers the song. L-7 had been quite insistent on being with him these days, perhaps feeling that he was the most entertaining out of the members of the Light. Unsurprising. The culmination of their combined efforts over the Justice League just over five years ago probably reminded L-7 how satisfying their work was.

But it was surprising how melodramatic the elemental lord could be, insisting he have a room dedicated to him as a show of good faith. But a few nice words, and he falls right back in line! Vandal even left the lord there under the impression that he'd fallen asleep. An unwise decision, but L-7 knew better than to expect comfort from him.

Times were changing. It would make sense that a cosmic entity would, as well.

That eerie feline has yet to call for him. It typically does whenever Klarion wants him, though he's yet to figure out if that's a command of some sort, or if the anchor was throwing its master at him in an ill-mannered way of saying the mortal must fix what he broke.

Curiosity is a dance Vandal has mastered. So of course he rises, mortal nature becoming the best of him, and heads towards the bedroom that L-7 had laid claim over.

"Why is the bedroom so cold?

"You've turned away on your side…"

"Is my timing that flawed?" Klarion is singing along, perhaps absentmindedly given that he's busying himself with brushing his beloved feline's fur, "Our respect runs so dry-"

"Klarion."

The music continues even as Klarion doesn't. Teekl hisses at the intruder, soon quieted by their own purrs as the boy scratches their chin. He greets the mortal, not looking up at him. "I thought you had paperweights to worry about."

Savage doesn't correct the malapropism, choosing instead to walk over to the stereo and turn down the music.

Klarion huffs, "If it was really bothering you, you could've just told me. But I guess you just hate talking to me, huh."

"What is this about?"

"You tell me. I just stay in the dark until you need me, remember?"

It was said a week ago. Or maybe longer. Klarion's memory was quite fickle at times; never quite staying in one place unless he deems it worthy enough to call back on. For whatever reason, he's decided to be bitter. Pouty.

Hurt?

"As is your purpose," Savage says in that infuriating tone of voice that tells Klarion, 'I know more than you, so settle down.'

It takes a lot of willpower not to ruin his comforting place with Teekl in order to rip out the mortal's throat. The Chaos Lord glares with his feline, the only true person in the universe who really understands him. Again, the mortal hovers, knowing better than to approach growing hostility.

(Funny, after all this time, he's still so afraid. As he should be. As he must be.)

"Klarion," he says again, and no no no, it's not fair using that when he knows the boy is powerless against it! "I needn't waste your time on trivial matters. The League knows your strength, and knows how powerless they are against you."

"But I'm a member of the Light, too. How come everyone else gets all the fun?"

"Their assignments are suited to their skills." Savage has knelt before him, taking the mystic's left hand. "There must be a schedule to your chaos, my lord."

It practically shatters Klarion, hearing his title spill so tenderly from the mortal. Teekl has again begun to hiss, their noises washed away with their master's desire to be loved-touched-worshiped-respected.

"I don't like the schedule," the Witch-Boy whispers, a slight break to his words as he reveals this like the child he is. "I just…"

"I understand," Vandal says, kissing the pale hand. "Let me distract you tonight. Ease your worries."

"But–"

Klarion glances to Teekl, who kneads the sheets below them. Their conversation is silent, merely gazes shared for mere moments. Then, Teekl leaps off the bed, a growl on their lips as they begin their entertainment of exploring the compound.

Part of Klarion wants to beg them to come back. To insist on being there so Vandal doesn't bruise him. It doesn't matter that they heal easily, they shouldn't be there in the first place.

But a larger part of him needs to feel this. To be assured he's still desired. He's still… worthy.

It ends as all things begin.

It hurts.

Notes:

love, love will tear us apart.

Chapter 4: Honeysuckle and Fresh Meat

Summary:

"'…Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' The lone and level sands stretch far away."

- "Ozymandias," Percy Bysshe Shelle

Notes:

I had hoped for this one to be longer and less cluttered as it is, but the holidays are coming up and I’m regrettably too busy to fret over it even more 3 I hope you all enjoy it!

The boy is back again.

Cassandra knows very little about him. She had asked Olympia once, or perhaps three times why he came and went. "He is like nature," her sister had said, the wise tone of her voice painting nonsense into pure fact, "ever-changing and moving."

"Is he like Father?"

"No, dear. He's something far bigger."

Which was, of course, impossible. Father was unknown to the public, but from what she has been taught, from what histories she's been allowed to learn, he was as large as the earth, itself. Perhaps Olympia meant they were of a kind, given that she used the allegory of shifting weathers.

Earth is Nature. One cannot exist without the other, lest it become a barren wasteland.

But still… Cassandra thinks of the boy.

And he was truly just a boy, perhaps a little older than her. He was short, scrawny, and with too much leeway in their organization.

For whatever reason, the few soldiers who gained access to stare at him cowered. For whatever reason, the actors of the Light treated him as an equal.

L-7 was his designation. But who was he really?

Cassandra rarely had the time to dwell on such mysteries. Her training with the Shadows as well as learning her own history often kept her busy. Never a dull moment, never much time for herself.

Until Olympia arrived at the grounds once more. A smile was on her face, something sinister to those who didn't know her and was clearly a showing of her high rank among allies. Shadows did not waver until Lady Shiva had demanded the young girl to step forth. Weapons are sheathed, trainees scattered to return to base, but Cassandra remains.

Lady Shiva only requested that Cassandra return in a timely manner. But Olympia denied it, saying her presence belonged to a chaotic schedule. The stressing of the words is lost to the youth of the Savage clan, but evidently the adults understand it plainly.

"You should be excited," her sister says, holding her hand because that's just what she liked to do. (Often, Olympia had been reprimanded for showing such affection openly, but Father had shut down all complaints with a simple glare.) "It's a very good day for him to meet you!"

"For who to meet me?"

"Can't say. It's a secret."

Very few things were ever kept from her. Father and Olympia both prided themselves on being open, to a certain degree. It's how she knew he was proud of her for training under an enforcer of the Light, as well as how her sister was happy she was liberated from her former and mundane life. Whatever was kept from her was often for good reason.

Well-intent goes a long way in their line of work.

They arrive by means of a strange portal, a deep and terrifyingly black hole that couldn't be illuminated even by the vivid glow of crimson surrounding it. Such a sight was unfamiliar to her, though apparently not to Olympia. Even as Cassandra gained her footing, her heart still raced at the thought of such emptiness somehow bringing them here.

Standing before the two were Father and the boy. In usual fashion, Father only greeted her with a nod and a firm handshake. The boy looked bored as he stared them down, a haughty look on his face as he pet the feline perched on his shoulder.

"Cassandra," Father began in his all-conquering voice. "I realize the difficulty of tearing you away from your lessons, but there is an important task to be done."

"Of course, sir."

Father steps to the side, taking the hand of the boy. It's small compared to his calloused one, pale with long dark claws. The delicate way it's handled would have Cassandra convinced this boy was less an equal and more an heir to some sort of royalty.

She also notices he hasn't aged a day since last she saw him. Still small. Still scrawny.

"This is Lord Klarion," Father continues. "He has requested you to accompany him during his visit here."

Cassandra wants badly to ask why her, specifically, but it's quelled when Olympia clasps her hands to her chest, a smile on her face.

Of course! This is meant to be an opportunity for espionage, to learn the secrets of this ally and prove he is worthy of the Light! In this lesson, she will prove herself to be worthy of the Savage name as well as recalling all that the Shadows has taught her.

She accepts with a bow, greeting the little lord politely.

He huffs rudely. "I wanna see the Southern Lights."

"Uhm… Do you perhaps mean the Northern Lights, Lord Klarion?"

"Whatever!"

.

..

...

Time spent with Lord Klarion is taxing.

He treats her like a kid, even offering to pay her in candy if she does asinine tasks for him. Like painting the floors with intricate runes so that it becomes hot coals whenever someone wishes to pass, or hiding knives in sinks so that people cut themselves upon it. It's degrading, far beneath an heiress of the Savage clan!

But somehow… Cassandra has fun.

Lord Klarion asks her to think of nonsensical things, surprising her when his mystic power summons them with ease. She was even allowed to hunt down the rabbit with leather wings and four eyes! It was a competition between her and Teekl. Cassandra obviously won, but the feline was permitted to rip off one of the wings.

Impossibly, Cassandra began giddily waiting for Lord Klarion to summon her, so that their adventures would continue.

Such expectation was no different today, Cassandra knocking upon the door to his chambers as she usually did.

No response, but she pushes inside anyway, already used to the little lord's habit of ignoring all sound surrounding him and his pet.

Cassandra is stunned, however, when she has obviously intruded on a private matter. However quickly she has shut the door, the sight is already memorized.

The little lord is hurt, his body tightly pinned against his sheets as he whined out his pain. A hulking body is above him, cloaked in the darkness of the room and barely even visible, were it not for the hand wrapped around the boy's throat. His pale cheeks are glowing with tears as his glazed eyes try to pinpoint who summoned the light upon him so briefly.

His hand reaches out. Was it for help, or was it to shield himself?

She's running down the halls now, door closed and her mind racing with possibility.

Was she the cause of this brutality? Did one of her reports to Olympia cause the older woman to discover some hidden plot of deception, thus causing his execution? Assassination is ruled out due to the impeccable defenses, as well as the lack of warning from anyone.

What was the cause? Where is the justice?

"Cassandra?"

Somehow, she has brought herself before Olympia.

"Sister," the girl sobs, unable to compose herself. "Th-The boy!"

Olympia is unable to gain the story, not when the youth throws herself at her waist and holds her sibling tightly. "Easy," she advises instead. "You could break me in half if you're not careful."

Her teasings are greatly unappreciated, given that Cassandra only panics.

"Cassandra, what's happened to you?"

"He's being executed."

Her sister's gaze was stern for only a moment, truly marking her as a soldier of renown rather than a woman of gentle merriment. But it fades as all words register.

"Lord Klarion is being executed?" Her little sister nods. "Hm… And where was Lady Teekl?"

Cassandra pulls away, murmuring her confusion.

"Lady Teekl. The cat wasn't in the room, was she? I had hoped he would explain it to you one of these days. His memory is getting awfully fuzzy…"

"Olympia," she pleads to her superior, "don't you get it? I failed Father. He was a traitor under our noses, and–"

"Sister, he is immortal."

A moment of silence. Then two. Finally broken when Olympia continues, "Lord Klarion is far beyond what either of us can comprehend. He is safe, I assure you. Your assignment wasn't to find a traitor, it was to protect a powerful ally to our bloodline."

"So then… Why was he being hurt?"

Olympia is flustered now, the rosiness of her dark skin deepening as she thinks of the best answer. "He enjoys games," she settles on, not looking in Cassandra's eyes. An obvious tell, but why she was being so vulnerable now, the girl didn't understand. "And sometimes, he asks Father to join. It's a private affair, one you shouldn't have witnessed.

"It's not your fault," she's quick to assure. "I made the same mistake once. Lord Klarion prefers his doors to be unlocked and accessible."

Cassandra mulls over the new information, gratefully taking the offered handkerchief to wipe her face. How embarrassing! That must've been a tactic of Father's to keep the lord entertained. His tears must've been of manic happiness, not of pain! And the bruises were obvious; Cassandra earned quite a few while exploring the compound with Lord Klarion.

Sheepishly, she apologizes for her dramatics. But Olympia waves it away by reminding her she is many things, but a child was chief among them. "You will learn many things in your life. Let this be another."

The rest of the day is spent pointedly avoiding both Lord Klarion and Father, not that either of them emerged often from the room. Teekl, in grandiose intelligence, decides to play with the girl in replacement of her master.

Lord Klarion departs with little fanfare, though Cassandra is able to see him off.

And see the unfamiliar gaze in his eyes as he stared at Father. Loathing mixed with idolization. Or perhaps something more.

…

..

.

Years later, when she is grown and he is still as small as ever before, she knows who he is. What he is.

And Cassandra Savage knows Klarion the Witch-Boy is in love with greatness.

(Regrettably, she does not know the difference between greatness and madness.)

Notes:

and your poet eliot had it all wrong, THIS is the way the world ends.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Klarion Has A Bad Time