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[Bradley steps out of the phone booth-
And Sieg will get a glimpse of memory.
Bradley looks exactly as he usually does, the suit and the jacket over his shoulders. A blue haired man stands before him, dressed warmly. "After that, Boss, about our upcoming preparations..."
Bradley looks at him, amused grin at his lips, "Hey, just call me Brad. We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore, right? You're like a buddy to me."
Immediately, the blue haired man is flustered. " I-I can't possibly do that. You’re the boss. I’m just your underling..."
Bradley strides across the space, looping an arm around his shoulders, "Don't be so distant now, Nero. I only got this far because of you. How many times do you think your advice saved me from a close call with death? I would have turned into stone a long time ago without you. Our enemies and allies both know that you're number two. Just call me Brad. Go on, try saying it."
Nero's shaking and red but slowly, "... Br... Brad......"
"Yeah. ...Ahaha! What are you getting embarrassed for!" He ruffles Nero's hair, voice full of warmth.
Nero pouts for a moment, but his face is bright red and he's smiling. "Shut up...
...I'm happy, Boss...... No...... Brad.
I’ll make sure I’m someone worthy of your acknowledgement — a man you won’t be ashamed to call your partner. You can count on it." ]
And Sieg will get a glimpse of memory.
Bradley looks exactly as he usually does, the suit and the jacket over his shoulders. A blue haired man stands before him, dressed warmly. "After that, Boss, about our upcoming preparations..."
Bradley looks at him, amused grin at his lips, "Hey, just call me Brad. We don’t have that kind of relationship anymore, right? You're like a buddy to me."
Immediately, the blue haired man is flustered. " I-I can't possibly do that. You’re the boss. I’m just your underling..."
Bradley strides across the space, looping an arm around his shoulders, "Don't be so distant now, Nero. I only got this far because of you. How many times do you think your advice saved me from a close call with death? I would have turned into stone a long time ago without you. Our enemies and allies both know that you're number two. Just call me Brad. Go on, try saying it."
Nero's shaking and red but slowly, "... Br... Brad......"
"Yeah. ...Ahaha! What are you getting embarrassed for!" He ruffles Nero's hair, voice full of warmth.
Nero pouts for a moment, but his face is bright red and he's smiling. "Shut up...
...I'm happy, Boss...... No...... Brad.
I’ll make sure I’m someone worthy of your acknowledgement — a man you won’t be ashamed to call your partner. You can count on it." ]
[Sieghart, who was curious, forgets all about the phone booth once the memory has run its course. It's such a sweet memory that he can't make light of it—not right away, anyway. At the same time, his shoulders feel heavy.]
. . . Hm. I think I've seen something I shouldn't have.
. . . Hm. I think I've seen something I shouldn't have.
'Course I do. He's the best chef there's ever been. Food from him is just as good as medicine. Nero's cool too, looks great blood stained or dressed up for formal occasions. When he gets serious- [Affectionate sigh] He's real humble, but he's just about as strong as me.
I always trust him t' have my back, no matter what.
I always trust him t' have my back, no matter what.
[Sieghart opens his mouth, perhaps to remark on the admirable nature of their relationship, when a memory cuts through Bradley's sweet lovemail:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
[That's a whole lot in a very short amount of time.
But it's not unfamiliar to him. Wizards aren't immortal beings, they can die if something kills them. Is it like that? Did somebody hate the "Highlanders" so badly? Was there something to be gained from razing it all to the ground in a fire like that.
He goes quiet, watching Sieg's reaction to sharing all of that.]
But it's not unfamiliar to him. Wizards aren't immortal beings, they can die if something kills them. Is it like that? Did somebody hate the "Highlanders" so badly? Was there something to be gained from razing it all to the ground in a fire like that.
He goes quiet, watching Sieg's reaction to sharing all of that.]
[Sieghart cries.
It's only natural. He cried his heart out amid the flames. Although that was centuries ago, the memory makes the past feel like the present. He carries the emotions from then to now and raises a hand to cup his eyes, catching the tears that fall from them, and inhales wetly. He can't help himself.
At least that's the end of it.]
It happened again . . .
It's only natural. He cried his heart out amid the flames. Although that was centuries ago, the memory makes the past feel like the present. He carries the emotions from then to now and raises a hand to cup his eyes, catching the tears that fall from them, and inhales wetly. He can't help himself.
At least that's the end of it.]
It happened again . . .
[He does not mock the tears, he just steps closer, putting a hand on Sieghart's shoulder. To lose everything you held dear, all the people you cared about in one swoop...
There's no way he'd understand it completely, but part of him... does. He won'ts say anything, squeezing his shoulder.]
There's no way he'd understand it completely, but part of him... does. He won'ts say anything, squeezing his shoulder.]
[He lets out a shaky breath, willing the overwhelming emotions away. The hand helps. Comfort is too good for the likes of him, but the hand and the squeeze that follows ground him to the moment. They alert him that he needs to get his act together before he spirals again.
Sieghart tentatively pulls his hand back, not yet dragging his gaze up toward Bradley's face.]
. . . I owe you a spar.
Sieghart tentatively pulls his hand back, not yet dragging his gaze up toward Bradley's face.]
. . . I owe you a spar.
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