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The sound of the revelry downstairs was muted as the tall blond boy dressed in combat gear moved up the stairs to the room he had been assigned. His footsteps carried just a hint of the exhaustion he felt. The people of the City of Silver had mainly gone to bed, drained from their long journey.
The boy pushed open the door of his room, before stopping. On a chair near the window of the room sat a man with shoulder-length blue hair and bronze skin that differed from the natives that he had seen so far. He was dressed like a rugged sailor, familiar with the seas. A smile of surprise and delight bloomed on the boy’s face, instantly making him seem more his age.
“Mr. Hanged Man!” Derrick Berg exclaimed, before checking himself and closing the door behind him securely. Alger Wilson, the Hanged Man, observed him with a quiet expression as Derrick moved to sit on the foot of the bed. Despite that, their difference in height was not equaled, the blond boy looming over the much older man.
“Little Sun,” Alger acknowledged with a nod. “How is the City of Silver settling in?”
“Quite well!” Derrick exclaimed, leaning forward, placing his hands on his knees. “Mr. Fool’s oracle is quite capable. Ah, Mr. Hanged Man, why are you making a face like that?”
Alger smoothened his expression, coughing lightly into his fist. “It’s nothing,” he said. “That’s what I came to check.”
Derrick’s eyes seemed to have stars in them as he looked at Alger with an adoring glance, much like that of a student to their favourite teacher, or that of a child to their doting father. He abruptly stood up, giving the notion as if he wanted to say something, before he stopped. “Thank you, Mr. Hanged Man!” he settled on saying, bowing deeply once.
In his eyes, Alger was someone who was indeed very dependable, wise and experienced.
Alger shifted in his seat, as if oddly uncomfortable. “No need to thank me,” he assured. “It is in accordance with Mr. Fool’s will.”
Derrick nodded, despite the small smile quirking on his lips. He bowed once again, this time with his right palm pressed against the left chest and said, his voice laced with great reverence, “Praise be to Mr. Fool!”
Alger mirrored his movement, before turning to the window. He paused, as if he suddenly thought of something, before he turned back to look at Derrick. “Did you eat yet?” he asked.
Derrick looked guilty, twisting his fingers and averting his gaze. He looked as if he was a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The silence was answer enough, and Alger sighed, the sound a mixture of fond and disapproving at the same time.
“Alright then,” said Alger, before turning around to the window once more. “Let’s go.”
Derrick’s face had a look of confusion. He stared silently at Alger, silhouette dark against the crimson moon. Moonlight flooded the room, casting it with shadows that gave off an air that was unmistakably eerie. Derrick stared at the moon inscrutably. Despite it being a new and unfamiliar thing for him and the other residents of the City of Silver, knowing what he did, Derrick couldn't help but be horrified at the sight of it.
Alger caught his line of sight, turning to stare up at the moon before instantly averting his gaze. “Little Sun,” he called lowly, “let's go get food. It's not good for growing boys to skip meals.” Irregardless of the fact that you've already grown enough, Alger added silently, eyes assessing the younger man's height.
Derrick turned his gaze away from the moon. He met Alger’s gaze for a second before nodding.
Alger smiled faintly. It was a warm thing and it looked at the same time a new expression, but at the same time, it seemed as if it was an expression that he was always supposed to make. Then, he jumped out of the window.
“!?” Derrick ran to the window sill, peering down. Alger had landed softly on his feet, and was looking up to Derrick with an expectant look.
Of course, Mr. Hanged Man wouldn't take any stupid risks, Derrick told himself before swinging his legs over the window sill and following in his mentor’s footsteps.
Alger led him into a little pub, tucked into a corner at the end of the street. The lighting was homely, and it was strangely for the most part, empty.
As they waited for the order of Teativa and thick vegetable soups to arrive, they made light conversation, Alger inquiring into the details of the journey to reach the Archipelago.
“Everybody here speaks a different language,” Derrick’s voice was filled with a mixture of awe and sadness.
Alger hummed, poking with his fork at the Teativa. “That must be troublesome,” he remarked.
“It’s alright,” Derrick rushed to say rapidly, not wanting to seem like he was complaining in front of the man he respected so much. “Mr. Fool's oracle and followers have been helping us a lot! They're truly dependable.”
Alger didn't say anything before a while, thinking of what to do. “I can't do much due to my position,” he admitted, “however, if you want, I can attempt to teach you the languages I know.”
Derrick's grip tightened on his spoon, the utensil clanking at the edge of the bowl. He stared down into the soup, gaze unreadable, before he looked up to meet the patiently waiting Alger's eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Hanged Man,” he said, his voice calm. “I,” he cleared his throat, before beginning again, “I think I'd like that very much.”
“It's decided then,” Alger agreed. “Every night at such time, I'll come to you and teach you. Of course, if I'm unable to for some reason, I'll inform you beforehand.”
Derrick nodded enthusiastically in agreement, before asking Alger eagerly for suggestions for the City of Silver’s assimilation into society.
“We decided to build a church for Mr. Fool!” He excitedly informed.
“Mr. Fool agreed to it?” Alger asked in surprise, before immediately reprimanding himself in his mind. Of course Mr. Fool would have no disagreements regarding this. After all, Mr. Fool was a god!
Perhaps, Mr. Fool thinks it is time for ‘Him’ to reveal ‘Himself’ to the world? Alger wondered, before he froze up in horror. Do not attempt to pry into the workings of God, he reminded himself, squeezing the edge of the table.
Meanwhile, Derrick had already begun telling him of the Bible of the Fool they had begun planning to write.
“I'm unsure of who all are to be put as Angels under ‘Him’ though,” Derrick admitted.
Alger nodded absently in thought. “First, should be his angel of death,” he told him
Derrick nodded once more, searching around for something to write down on. Alger handed him a sheet of paper and a pen, and Derrick shot him a thankful look.
“Yes, the uh,” Derrick tapped the pen against his chin, trying to remember.
“The Vice-Admiral Qilangos event,” Alger helpfully provided, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands.
“Right,” Derrick said, before beginning to take notes, “then, ‘He’ is the angel that has followed Mr. Fool for the longest?”
Alger nodded, his eyes distant. The night slowly deepened as they talked. It was way past midnight when they finally ironed out the specifics of the Bible. Alger leaned back in his seat, drinking a swig of Lanti Proof. Derrick rubbed his eyes, yawning slightly.
Alger’s expression turned vaguely guilty. “I’m sorry to have kept you awake so late,” he offered the boy, although knowing that it was a common occurrence for Beyonders to have to stay awake late. Derrick deserved a reprieve after the days of exhaustion that he had gone through.
“It’s no problem!” Derrick rushed to say, nearly standing up and slamming his hands on the table. “Thank you for coming tonight!”
Alger paused, unsure of what to say before settling for just bobbing his head in acknowledgment. Derrick folded away the papers, before taking a drink from his glass of water. Silence fell, yet it was strangely comforting in the way the silence in the Forsaken Land of the Gods had never been, where silence spoke of the things that lurked in the dark. Derrick thought he could stay in this warm bubble forever.
“Well then,” Alger finally said, after a while, “how are you?”
Derrick tilted his head, confused. “Quite well! Everybody’s overwhelmed with the new atmosphere, but we’re excited-”
Alger shook his head, cutting him off. Derrick fell silent, wondering what he had done wrong. However, Alger wore a comforting smile, one that he had seen before in the faces of his parents when he was younger. Suddenly, Derrick found the edges of his eyes burning, and he blinked rapidly, swallowing.
“I didn’t mean the City of Silver,” Alger said. “I meant you. How are you, Little Sun?”
There was a lump of some indescribable emotion in Derrick’s throat that he didn’t seem to know the reason for. His eyes seemed to water slightly, and his other hand came up to grip the fabric of his pants so hard that his knuckles turned white.
Mr. Hanged Man has always been so kind, Derrick thought, biting his lip to compose himself. So, why am I crying because of such a simple question?
Alger’s face showed an expression of panic and he raised his hand as if to pat Derrick on the arm, before he stopped and put it down. He raised his jug of Lanti Proof to his lips as if to hide his face.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, gingerly.
Derrick shook his head passionately, not trusting himself to speak. Alger looked at him appraisingly for a second, before looking away. Derrick rubbed his eyes, sniffing imperceptibly once before clearing his throat.
Alger glanced at him, eyes growing soft. Although he wouldn’t admit it to any of the other Tarot Club members (he was pretty sure Miss Justice already knew from the smile she gave him after every time he guided Little Sun), he was pretty fond of Derrick. This was the very reason that led him to go against his nature and ask, delicately, since he didn’t want to probe too much, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Derrick caught his eyes before abruptly looking at a spot behind him. Alger controlled an affectionate and exasperated sigh. “Yes,” he admitted, voice quiet. If not for the physical enhancements brought about by his Beyonder abilities, Alger might have missed it altogether.
Alger didn’t say anything, instead smiling encouragingly. Derrick looked down at the table, as if studying the wood’s grains and committing them to memory.
“I’m just,” Derrick started after a while, before clearing his throat. “Chief Colin and Elder Lovia-” he started once more, before stopping again. He looked frustrated. “I know I should be thankful I survived,” he began carefully and Alger instantly leant forward, eyes sharpening in worry, “but I can’t help but-”
“You’re angry that they died?” Alger asked, parsing the situation in his mind. He was smart and cunning, he had to be to survive as long as he did, but this was a time in which he found himself blanking entirely.
Derrick shook his head again. “Not exactly,” he said. “I don’t think that’s the right word for it. I’m just- why weren’t they deserving to see the sun too?” he finally blurted out. His eyes were desperate as they met Alger’s.
Alger felt a bit out of his depth. However, a strange sorrow filled him too for some inexplicable reason. “Didn’t your old Chief see the sun?” he instead chose to ask, wincing inwardly at the flinch that Derrick failed to hide at the word ‘old’.
“Yes, but,” Derrick said, but stopped again, grasping the edge of the table with his knuckles. His fingers dug slightly into the wood, splintering them. Alger reached across the table, taking Derrick’s hand in his and carefully prying his fingers out.
Derrick didn’t say anything during the while. A tear made its way down his face, and then another, and soon he was silently crying, his hands put up to hide his face, regardless of the bloodstains he left on it.
Alger waited quietly. Deep in his heart, for once, ignoring all his fears, he thought blasphemously that if the Lord of Storms, the Eternal Blazing Sun and the God of Wisdom and Knowledge had not betrayed the Ancient Sun God, would the City of Silver have never been forsaken? Would they never have been estranged from the rest of the world?
He watched as Derrick’s sobs turned into sniffles and then pushed a new glass of water towards him. “Drink,” he softly commanded.
Derrick drank the water, hiccuping slightly from his tears slightly. Alger looked at his bloodstained face appraisingly before handing him a handkerchief. Derrick looked at him, gaze filled with perplexion before taking it and wiping away the bloodstains. His eyes were still bloodshot.
Alger sat still for a while. The pub was now altogether empty, except for the couple of stragglers and the bartender wiping glasses and the servers cleaning tables and righting chairs. He looked out of the window. The moon was now completely high in the sky, crimson light pervading into the warmth of the pub. He looked away.
“I see,” he said in the end, before realizing it was the entirely wrong thing to say by the way Derrick’s expression fell. “I mean-” he rushed to elaborate, finding himself floundering and puzzlingly nervous. He coughed, before reaching to pat out Derrick’s arm.
Derrick froze as Alger’s hand touched him, making Alger almost think that he had made yet another misstep, before he relaxed into the touch.
“I understand,” Alger said, voice low and as comforting and calm as he made it. Derrick looked at him, expression distraught in a way that made his heartstrings taut. “You’ve struggled a lot.”
Derrick looked away, once again studying the table. Alger continued, careful and meticulous in his words as he had been with almost every decision of his life, “You promised to become the sun for your people, right?” Derrick nodded imperceptibly.
Alger smiled. “Well then,” he said, gesturing lightly outside. “Haven’t you succeeded?” He was aware that this comfort, if it could even be called that, was lacking, but Alger didn’t know what else to say. He was born an orphan, and he did not have anybody to console him, soothe away his worries and wounds. He was not used to this, not meant for this softness.
Derrick was looking at him, eyes still teary. He looked so much like a child, naive, fragile, and ever so innocent. With a bitter jolt, Alger was reminded of his age. He coughed again, more to fill the silence than out of a need to. “Don’t beat yourself up too much,” he told the blond. “In our world, such is a prerequisite to losing control.”
Derrick looked at his hands, then back up at Alger, nodding. “I understand, Mr. Hanged Man,” he said, his voice level. Alger felt relief coursing through him.
“And for what it matters,” Alger added, meeting Derrick’s eyes, and trying to portray his honesty the best he could, “I’m sure all of them are very proud of you.”
Derrick’s eyes widened, before he ducked his head again. His shoulders shook slightly. Alger stood up, moving around the table to pat him on the head. Derrick stiffened for a second before, in a perhaps even unknowing way, leaning into the touch. Alger didn’t bother to conceal the warmth he felt.
He stopped after a while, sitting back down on his seat, grimacing inwardly at the fresh tear tracks that Derrick hurried to conceal. “Now,” he said, injecting a tone of reassurance in his voice, “would you like to go back to your room or would you rather I tell you the stories of my journeys?”
Of course, he hoped the Sun would choose the second option. He had a feeling that perhaps Derrick might be better with him tonight rather than alone in his room at the inn, where he would be alone.
Derrick shot him a nervous glance, though it didn’t seem exactly the right term for it. If he had to say, it would be considered almost shy. “I’d like to hear you tell me the stories, please, Mr. Hanged Man,” he said, and Alger didn’t bother to hide his relief, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat.
“Alright then,” he began.
An hour or two later, Alger Wilson looked at the sleeping Derrick Berg with a look that could not be mistaken for anything but doting and fond. With a grunt, he pushed himself up and began lifting the half-giant to move him back to the inn in which he had been lodged at.