Mors realized there were two things he could not carve. One was the hesitation born of his selfish desires; the other was the upper limit imposed by his skill.
The flaming sword had already fallen into the statue's palm. The runes that had once been true and unmistakable had, for safety's sake, been replaced with another beautiful ancient language, lest the heat waves raised by the flames stir the delicate, crystalline veil between Olympia's reality and the Highest Heaven.
The firelight of the void, meanwhile, had temporarily been forged by the craftsman's psychic power. Mortals would see only intricate stone patterns visible to the naked eye. Only those with an extra spirit, whose minds were keen and lively, could experience the trembling of the soul through the harmony linking shadow and energy—as though fire had risen from filth, leaving behind only a patch of cold, clean imitation golden radiance.
Yet aside from this carefully carved longsword, two remaining flaws left the sculpture grievously incomplete. They made one eager to urge its creator to finish it at once, while also doubting whether he truly possessed the ability to complete it.
This statue had no left hand and no face. The left hand was the hand that held the holy relic; the face was the face that bore a sacred countenance.
Mors lightly pressed the side of his eyes, easing the mental strain brought on by the carving process.
He had spent an uncountable amount of time on this sculpture. Such excessive devotion was enough to make even an eternal being fall into worry and self-reflection.
When it came down to it, he had never understood how he had decided to carve that person's likeness. He blamed it on some unseen calling and a momentary lapse in judgment.
He sighed and looked out the window.
Night had come again. The clamorous chaos of the streets returned home with most laborers and merchants, leaving only the lights of the night shift and the occasional whispering wind that shattered the silence. It came from an impossibly distant place, passed through human ears, then fell away into another impossibly distant place.
Mors set aside the work he had imposed upon himself and came to the window. Through the diamond-paned glass, he watched the lights below gradually dim. First, the Stratoitis Plain beneath the plateau where Lokos stood sank into pure, deep sleep; then, one household after another within the city slowly drifted into drowsiness.
He was now in this city of people, but he was not always here.
Sometimes he thought of his house among the trees, where every sound made by humans had to die away, and natural, enduring life played lullabies, weaving soft rustling sounds into music that coaxed one to sleep.
His psychic power lit his own lamps. There, he read all the stories, drawings, and statues he had recorded, entrusting part of his spirit to those older, faded nights and making them a tangible embodiment of the deepest aspect of the value his existence represented.
Then he thought of the child who had fallen from the cliff.
He had known at once that the child would be extraordinary. With feelings even he himself could not verify, he kept the child. Thus, he learned that the child's name was Peturabo, while he himself gained an entirely new name—severed from the past, yet not completely severed.
He knew that his new name symbolized the legendary Roman deity of death's authority from the old nights. That very peculiarity happened to align with his hatred of Rome itself. Perhaps it was a fated coincidence, the entanglement and response of his past toward his present.
From the brief instant he gladly accepted that new name, he also accepted the reality that he was drawing close once more to the human world and a wholly new life.
Mors drew shut the curtain that blocked the lamplight and heard a low voice knock on his door.
He paused, then said, "Come in."
The boy pushed open the door and entered without hesitation. "Dameks invited me to take part in construction projects."
"Military industry?"
"Yes." Peturabo looked somewhat uneasy, irritation twisting around his thoughts.
Mors extended a hand, inviting Peturabo to sit. He himself remained standing by the window, one hand resting on the wooden frame. The frame bore Peturabo's practice carvings of repeating decorative patterns.
"I won't stop you," Mors said, "if you have made your choice."
Bewildered surprise welled up in Peturabo's ice-blue eyes. His lips moved slightly, and his two rows of teeth clenched tightly together.
"I did agree." The boy clasped his hands together. "But I..."
Mors waited for him to think. Peturabo completed the process quickly.
"But I don't like getting involved in conflict," he said firmly. "I don't want to provide weapons for the achievements displayed on their walls."
"I don't like watching the weapons I make kill another person. I don't want Olympia to think only of a merchant who produces war whenever they mention me. I don't want them to blame bloodshed on my head..."
Peturabo drew a deep breath, expelling all his disgust from his body with that cycle of air. Gloom had left marks between his brows. "Their struggle is not for unity and development, but to exchange the regression of civilization for the advancement of power."
"Go on."
Peturabo stared uneasily at Mors. Every word that left his mouth reflected the indecision in his heart. "But unity requires war."
Mors nodded. "Continue."
Peturabo gritted his teeth. The words that followed were no longer difficult. He loosened his clasped hands in relief, as though the nightmare that had weighed upon him had finally released him.
"I hope Lokos achieves final victory, Mors. Lokos is something we can control; the other city-states are not." He declared his plan with near arrogance. "Dameks's ambition has happened to meet Olympia's rightful course. The resentment between the city-states has existed for a long time. Diplomacy is the first choice, war is the second choice, and surrender is not a choice. And if they are to succeed, they truly need us."
Mors neither agreed nor disagreed. "Have you thought it through?" he merely asked. "Does talking to me about this make you feel better?"
"Yes," Peturabo said. He pressed his lips together. "I want a city-state of my own."
"You have changed quite a lot."
"Because the citizens chose me. That is what you told me." As he spoke, the astonishingly long letter Mors had written him surfaced in his mind. The corners of his mouth could neither rise nor fall, leaving his expression frozen in an odd way.
Mors's fingers suddenly tightened, along with his arm. A searing current flooded his body. He heard his blood flowing—part of it rushing through him, the other part spilling from the skin that had once been broken, like phantom shapes. They crossed and formed nameless shackles, then, almost absurdly, fell into the soil under gravity's command within his consciousness.
He lowered his eyes. Half a second later, his usual sarcastic smile returned to his face.
"Very good. You have learned to build a stage for yourself." He lightly tapped the fingertips of his right hand against his left palm. "I should warn you in advance: I have no intention of directly joining any battle. Do not expect my help in the depths of a battlefield."
"I do not need that much help," Peturabo said.
He was confident he would never reach that point. Besides, before coming here, he had calculated the cost and discovered that no matter what he did, he could not afford the price of bringing Mors into the conflict.
"In what capacity will you take part in the struggle?"
"Considering my gifts, I hope to be a commander."
"Oh." Mors smiled and leaned against the window frame. "Our little young commander."
"Don't call me that—I'll build cities and make swords and guns first. Once I grow taller, I'll lead my army."
"Have you thought of a name and slogan for the army?"
"We do not need such false things."
"I suggest you think of one, Peturabo. When they ask you to take the stage and raise morale as they swear before battle, you will not want to lose the chance for a stirring finale."
Peturabo imagined the scene in his mind, then nodded reluctantly. "I'll think of a slogan. The name can be anything. It is not my army anyway."
"You could call them Aventine."
"What? Does that have some meaning?"
"It sounds nice." Mors shrugged. "There is no meaning, though. In any case, I need to return to studying my stone carving."
"If I name them that, will you come help me fight?"
"Are you sleepwalking?"
Peturabo looked as though he desperately wanted to roll his eyes.
Through the hazy curtain, Mors peered at the light outside through the diamond-paned window. "I suppose you do not have the patience to watch another sunrise with me."
"I'll leave now." The boy turned around, then added smugly before departing, "That means Harkon will have to fight under my command."
Mors had no choice but to begin considering where their relationship with Lokos would go after the tyrant's eldest son died.
Author: Seven hundred stones and thirty charms, no five-star princess shipwreck. Please take note.
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