Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saparatas knew by design that this meeting wouldn't go well. Yet, Turntapp had assured him that it would be a quick one. So, he stayed.

When Queen Cynikka refused to enter the building and began to demand the meeting happen outside, the uneasiness in Saps' heart grew. Perhaps they should relent and just head outside. It's safer there, with more space to run when something bad inevitably happens.

Tapp must have noticed it too because he turned to Saps with a reassuring smile.

Saps always felt weird when Turntapp could be cold towards his men but softened up when his attention was on Saparata. Since when was it that the Covenant's leader began to treat him with kindness?

Maybe it was when Tapp had chosen to save Saps from the pirates' attempt on his life. Maybe during their meeting again after Saps ran away from him after that? Or was it after Tapp began to listen to Saps’ story?

Perhaps, it had always been that way since their first meeting.

Saps felt a squeeze---when had he reached for Tapp's hand?

Saps returned it with a hesitant smile. He went to speak, but the noise of a broken block made him freeze. 

Time slowed down.

Flashes of dead rulers' faces appeared. Slumped against the table, limp in the chair, some having fallen onto the floor. 

He couldn't afford to dwell. His gaze darted, desperate for any harmless cause. Instead, it settled there.

Right above Turntapp.

Two covenants' faces appeared through the second floor. And-

"Above! Above! Above!" He chanted like a broken record. He wished his body hadn't locked up. He should've pulled Tapp out of his seat. 

Tapp raised his gaze, confused with what Saps was panicking about, only to be met with the falling stalactites. He had no time to react.

The firm grip on Saps hand loosened, body falling backward from impact.

The crash and commotion blurred as Saparata stared.

Ringing filled his ears, hand still in the air from where it was entwined with Tapp's hand. Saps stared at Tapp's body, mind replaying the reassuring smile.

Once. Twice. Breath.

Saps looked at Tapp's face, where the sharp stalactites had pierced through. Though, there wasn't much left of it. The stalactites had destroyed most. 

Through the bile and panic climbing his throat, Saparata took a step forward where others took tens away. He fell to his knees, strength draining from him. With shaking hands, Saps cradled Turntapp's body like one would a child, letting blood seep into pristine canvas. 

When Fluixon betrayed him, he was angry. Eager to march and find the man who ruined his life. Then, when he was declared guilty by the court, he was devastated. Despair colouring him when no one had believed in him.

It had taken a lot from him, and now he barely had the energy to weep for the man who cared for him.

He did not know when the rain began, or when cracks began to appear. There's crimson cutting into the jagged lines of his soul, staining him.

Saparata is a creature of peace. And peace had been his downfall. It took away his best friend. Now, it took away the man he dares admit was collapsing the wall he had built.

There wasn't much to do.

The others, in their panic, had left Saps alone in the meeting hall. In his arms, the body stayed limp. He calmed his heart, cheek pressed against cold armour, persevering through another death.

He hummed to himself, a fleeting lullaby. 

There is so much to do still.

Saparata moved, Tapp's body still pressed closed against his and stumbled out of the meeting hall. His journey back to the tundra was difficult with Tapp's body with him.

The world continued around him. The weather was humid and the sun glared at him–they must scorn him too for causing another death. Even the animals moved away when Saps neared their vicinity.

It makes sense.

Saps would hate himself too.

Saps travelled miles to return to his snow tower. He took a deep breath before gently propping Tapp's body against the wall. He took off his cloak, laying it across Tapp's body.

And began to dig.

The wind of the biome was as unforgiving as ever. But it helped freeze Saps' heart and stopped the tears from spilling. It made his hands stiff.

Still, he kept shovelling snow.

Dig. 

Dig.

Dig.

Saparata will be fine.

Dig. 

Dig.

Dig.

He cannot lose now.

Dig.

Turntapp would not want him to lose.

Dig.

In the end, the hole was deep enough to Saps' liking. It's closer to the earth of the volcano so Tapp wouldn't be bothered by the cold. Close to the soil of his homeland, though not in the comfort of his home.

Saps dragged Tapp's body into the hole, fixing the bloodstained cloak on him as he went. Saps stayed beside the hole he dug for a while more. His eyes stayed on Tapp's body, committing it to his memory.

It hadn't been long since they met, but Turntapp had planted hope in his chest–had mended the cracks forming in Saps’ soul.

Tapp had seen him, a fugitive of Pandora with a huge bounty for his head, and chose to protect him instead. Trusted him even when there was nothing Saps could offer him except the diamond stacks he had given away.

"I will win this, Tapp." Saps says finally.

When he pulled away, his hand caught Tapp's stiff ones. Saps gritted his teeth, his thread being pulled thin. He laced their fingers together one more time, pressing his lips carefully on the back of Tapp's hand.

It took all of his strength to pull away.

He climbed out and buried Tapp. Now, he stood before an unmarked grave, colder than he ever was. His arms wrapped around himself, and belatedly realised his cloak wasn't with him anymore. 

Just as his heart.

He left a piece of his heart there, he thinks.

It doesn't matter. 

He won't return to this place ever again.

He needs to head to Westhelm now. Emperor Schpood is the last person he could turn to.

Chapter Text

Saparata was with Schpood when the pager boy entered the room. He greeted the emperor before digging into his bag and fishing out the latest newspaper.

"Your Majesty, it has been confirmed!" He rushed to say and handed the paper to Schpood.

There, the front page of the paper was Saparata's face. His heart hammered, hand clenching around a phantom. 

"SAPARATA INNOCENT" was the headline, and Saps swore he stopped breathing altogether. He let out a disbelieving laugh, almost manic at the overwhelm crashing through him.

His eyes flitted over the words again and again, cementing his victory in proving himself innocent.

Schpood turned to Saps, a satisfied smile on him. 

"How do you feel, brother?" Schpood asked with that proud lilt in his voice.

However, Saps kept his gaze on the paper, unmoving. 

"Saparata?" Schpood furrowed his brow, waving a hand in front of the man's face.

Saps didn't bother to answer. He pushed past the emperor, ignoring his questioning call. His body moved before his mind caught up. Then he was running.

The wind billowed through his hair, stings of relieved tears pinching his eyes. The people he passed by greeted him; not that he noticed. His gaze is set to the one place he swore he wouldn't return to. 

Before long, the wind turned colder and the heat of the volcano and sun faded away. Puffs of icy breath appeared as he finally slowed. The snow tower stood tall, blending with the surrounding.

He composed himself, straightened his shirt and put his armors away. He gazed at the pristine stone and lowered himself. 

"I did it." He said, a big smile plastered on his face. His hand pressed onto the snow, feeling it moves from his weight. 

"Tapp, everyone knows I'm innocent now." He continued. 

The ghost of his guilt had shifted, now settling as a strange, fragile comfort. He felt warm.

"I can return to my home now. So," he stopped, taking a deep breath from a sudden wave of sorrow "won't you come back?"

And Saparata weeps. 

His face burned, his body shook, and days of held-in grief spilled into the snow. He pressed his face there, fingers curled into the powder, lacing with it as though it could substitute hardened calluses, the grip that should have been waiting for him.

A sob wracked his chest. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong .

Then—pressure. A hand on his shoulder. Not the crushing weight of guilt, not burden, but something gentler. Warmth where there should be none.

His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. There was no shadow, no footsteps that had told Saps that someone had followed him.

"You did well," a warm voice washed over him. Saps looked up sharply, another batch of tears spilling down his cheeks.

Turntapp stood over him, the shine from the sun blurred his face. But Saps could see his smile just well.

Has God taken pity on him? Had He felt sorry enough for letting fate make His creation suffer under the cruelty of betrayal?

His breathing hitched, a lump building in his throat. "Are you… are you really here?"

The smile turned a bit sadder now. Tapp moved, kneeling with him in the snow. Saps watched with a daze and those arms Saps had longed for gathered him close.

He didn't feel warm. No heart beating against his chest to ground him. No press of lips against his shoulder or collarbone.

"Oh," he muttered. He made no move to reciprocate. If his hand phased through this phantom, if the illusion shattered, he wasn't sure would feel it again.

After a while, Tapp pulled away, that same reassuring smile he always gave Saps. Their faces were close now, and Saps unconsciously shut his eyes.

A cold forehead pressed against his.

"You must win this, Saps." Tapp muttered.

Saparata’s eyes shut, tears sliding freely now. “I know,” he whispered back, clinging to the sound of him. He didn't see it but he knew Tapp was smiling at him. 

"I love you," and the words dissolved into the snow. A stake of ice stabbed itself into the fragile cavity of his chest, yet he held it close to him.

When Saps opened his eyes, he was alone again. He stared at the headstone. Sorrow still fills him, but determination accompanied it. 

Turntapp believed in him. So he would win.

⚔

When Saps finally returned to Westhelm, Schpood told him that the leaders of the other nation had agreed to kill Fluixon once and for all. Though first, they had to search for the mastermind of all this mess.

A war was to be expected, especially with how cunning Flux had been. Betraying his best friend, assassinating Pandora's leaders, setting up traps in his base, and now words were going around that Flux is teaming up with Infernus. Schpood had called for a meeting with Westhelm's allied nations, this mess is getting bigger now.

Saparata knew he had to be ready.

He had never fought before—not even a friendly match. Sure, Saps is quick on his feet--otherwise he wouldn't have escaped from The Commonwealth and he knows how to use a sword enough to protect himself, but that was all.

A few minutes into meeting Turntapp, even the man had pointed out his shitty stance. 'Too much opening,' he said but had tried to train Saps into becoming better.

Back then, he took Tapp's advice half heartedly. Back then, he failed to see the reason he should learn proper swordsmanship, because Tapp was there to protect him if anything went wrong.

Maybe it was Tapp's reputation as Covenant's leader that made Saps believe Tapp wouldn't die in the nearest future.

But he did anyway.

So, Saps needed to be better.

There was no one to teach him. None of Tapp's men was there to share the teaching of their leader, and the Westhelm soldiers were busy with their own preparation. 

Saparata chose to isolate himself as usual.

He made it a routine to wake up before the sun fully rose. Otherwise, his energy would deplete too quickly. He walked past the soldiers and citizens until he found a clearing where no one could witness his stumble.

He began with stamina training, forcing himself to move, to recall the few lessons Turntapp had given him. His boots scuffed against packed earth, dust rising and sticking to the sweat on his skin. His stance wavered, shoulders stiff, knees locking too quickly.

His sword felt heavier than usual, but he steadied his heart and drew it, pointing at an imaginary enemy.

He shifted into a stance, raising the blade as Turntapp once showed him, only to catch himself slouching. The memory hit him sharply—

“Too many openings.”

Saps’ grip faltered. His throat tightened, brows furrowed. He had dismissed those words back then, laughing off Tapp’s scolding because he thought he didn’t need them. Now every mistake felt like an accusation.

“Again,” he muttered to himself, forcing his legs wider. His arm adjusted itself, a phantom hand guiding it to a better angle He lunged at the nearest tree, blade carving through bark. The vibration rang up his arm, numbing his fingers. He winced, but swung again. 

By the tenth strike, his shoulders screamed. His palms blistered, skin threatening to tear against the hilt. He dropped the blade, gasping, and doubled over. 

He's feeling faint. He really should've brought some food with him. But he was too focused solely on getting better that his wellbeing was pushed aside. 

For a moment he thought he saw movement—something pale, like a cloak swaying lazily from a low branch. The cloak Saps had buried with Tapp.

He straightened, heart thundering, gaze flitted from branch to branch. “...Tapp?” he whispered.

Only the wind answered. The cloth was gone.

His chest ached, but he forced himself to pick the sword up again.

He's just hungry, stomach twisting so much that it's playing with his mind. What would Tapp say if he saw Saps now? 

He took a deep breath, gaze sharpening and imagined the tree as a man with purple eyes.

“You’re fast, but speed makes you reckless.”

Saps adjusted, circling the tree, trying to strike from odd angles, using the roots and the uneven ground. He remembered another lesson, one he had disagreed with.

“Sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with playing dirty.”

So he drove his heel into the dry earth, kicking up dust to blind an imaginary opponent. He ducked low, rolled, slashed upward. It was sloppy, but it felt different—sharper. All the training that came after that one was filled with Saps experimenting with the elements; lavas, boiling water, dirt.

The sun climbed higher, his head growing light from the heat and hunger. Every breath boiled his insides, oxygen never seemed to properly fill his lungs. But he refused to stop. If he did, then all of Tapp’s sacrifice–every correction, every advice, the life he had thrown away for Saps–would be pointless.

When his arms finally gave out, he collapsed to his knees, dust flying around him. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his body, wet from his sweat. His vision swam. He really should return to the palace and get something inside him.

Saps could feel a hand settled on his shoulder–firm, steady, grounding him to reality. His hand moved to his shoulder, gaze straight on his sword before closing his eyes.

“I’ll get better, Tapp. I swear it.”

And under the cruel heat from the blazing sun, Saparata dragged himself upright again–because Turntapp would never forgive him if he stayed down.

⚔

The days passed with Saps returning less and less to the palace. The sun rose, the sun set, and still, Saparata forced his body through punishing drills. His sword arm trembled more with each dawn. His lips cracked from thirst. His stomach snarled but went ignored.

Schpood, despite being busy revising strategies with the other nations, took notice of this. He said nothing at first, but he watched carefully how Saps grew leaner but thinner than he was. He was thin, sure, but now his cheeks had lost fat and the shape of his bones could be seen.

That night, he waited for Saps by the entrance of the palace, foot tapping the wooden floor as he waited impatiently for the man. Well, he could march over and drag Saps back, if only he knew where the man vanished each day.

Saps returns near midnight, his sword dragging behind him.

“Saparata,” Schpood called for him, stopping the man in his tracks. “You’re fading before my eyes. A blade will not carry you if your body breaks beneath it.”

Saps only bowed his head, muttered something about needing to improve, and left before Schpood could press further.

It went on like this for days.

One night, the moon hung high in the sky of Westhelm, spilling her grace across the quiet land. Saps had lost track of time since the sun fully departed. Still, he swung his sword, knees nearly buckling and breath coming out ragged. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to slash before the muscles of his hands stiffen and the sword embedded itself into the soil. 

He sank to his knees, chest heaving. 

He stared up at the moon. Her gentle light a mercy towards Saps’ guilt and survival. She was the one constant thing in his life, just like the sun’s punishing glare. The sun and moon wouldn’t betray him, wouldn’t promise to protect him and end up dead before him.

“You’ll kill yourself at this pace.”

The voice was warm. Familiar in ways it made his heart clenched.

The scent of blood hit him. He considered not turning but his heart tugged. In the end, he turned only to meet the endless stretch of soil and darkness. 

Then, there. A white cloak swayed in the dark in the corner of his eye. A figure stared at him, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed.

“Tapp…” Saps croaked the name out.

Turntapp crossed the plain with achingly easy strides, no crunch of soil under his boot, no commanding weight that made Saps feel safe. Yet his smile was the same–softened only for Saparata with the scent of blood following him.

He looked out of place. The cloak was too bright, rivalling the moon’s grace. This must have been how Tapp used to see him. A being that stood out because of his white clothing. But this made Turntapp appear like an unapproachable beauty, like an angel. 

Saps’ guardian angel.

“Do you think starving yourself honors me?” Tapp asked. He crouched before Saps, tilting his head, dark eyes unreadable but kind. “That wasn’t what I wanted for you.”

Saps took a deep breath, steeling himself in the presence of a respected man. His hands curled into fists on his knees, biting his cheek from broken skin. “If I stop… it feels like I’m forgetting you.”

“You won’t forget me.” Tapp’s voice was firm, cutting through Saps’ anxiety. A hand cupped his cheek. There was no warmth—only ice coldness—but it was there. “But half-dead, you’ll lose everything we fought for.”

Saps’ eyes shut, a shaky breath leaving him. He wanted to lean into it, but the weight wasn’t there. Just the idea of it.

I miss you, he wanted to say but thought against it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered instead.

“I know.” Tapp’s forehead lowered against his, just like before. “But I need you alive more than I need you grieving.”

When Saparata opened his eyes again, the plane was empty. Only the night air pressed cool against his damp skin.

His stomach growled, sharp and painful. For once, he didn’t push it aside. He pushed himself upright, legs unsteady, and headed toward the palace.

Schpood was waiting in the hall, arms crossed with a frown on his face. He opened his mouth—likely to scold—but stopped when he saw the rawness in Saps’ expression.

“I’ll eat,” Saps said before the emperor could speak. His voice was low but steady. “I’ll… eat.”

Schpood’s stern face softened in relief. He clapped Saps’ shoulder, guiding him toward the dining hall. “Let’s get you something nutritional. No bread, aye?”

Saps humored the emperor with a laugh and followed his guidance obediently. But as he walked, his hand settled on his cheek absently, where the ghost of a cold hand had been.

Chapter Text

The meeting room was alive with the smell  of ink and wood polish, the long oak table crowded with maps and stacks of parchment covered in hastily drawn schematics of the volcano. Lanterns flickered, throwing restless shadows across the room and over the leaders present in the room. Emperor Schpood stood at the head of the table, hands braced on the spread map of Infernus’ domain. His expression was sharp but thoughtful, gaze flicking to the heavy door every so often. Waiting for someone.

That someone came at last.

The door creaked open and in stepped Saparata. His hair was damp from a hasty wash, his cheeks less sunken but less fuller than Schpood liked to see.Schpood gestured with a nod, silently inviting him to join the council.

“Saparata,” Schpood said aloud, drawing everyone’s attention. “You’ve earned your place among the council. Sit. Tonight, we decide the shape of the battlefield.”

Saps hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping in. He walked past the line of Pandora’s leaders, ignoring their apologetic and curious gaze. He slid into his chair beside Cass, body aching from the week of punishment he had subjected himself to, but his mind was clear.

“I’m glad to see you here, Saps.” Cass muttered with a genuine look. Saps pursed his lips and nodded shallowly.

Schpood didn’t waste time. “The volcano. That’s where Cynikka has chosen to fortify herself and her allies. We’ve confirmed sightings of Fluixon and his men going up there. Not to mention, she is also housing the Covenant, whom she had taken under her wing after the death of their leader. They are some of the finest swordsmen and tacticians alive. That will be our greatest obstacle.”

Saps shifted in his seat, hand flexing as he stopped himself from reaching out for something solid.

Cass was first to speak, her voice steady now. “The volcano is a fortress in itself. No matter the original reason for Infernus being built there in the first place, Cynikka knew what she was doing. Every approach is a choke point, and we’ll be herded like sheep if we don’t plan for traps.”

LegacyAN leaned forward, his cloak pooling around his chair like a second presence. “Flux is cunning and smart but his trap patterns were consistent. So far, we know he will temper with the floor and use dripstones. There is no doubt Infernus will use the lava from the volcano to slow our movements so that their archers can shoot us down. It is not enough to charge. We must outlast the fortress itself.”

Afreakinturkey leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “So what? My men can charge in, cut down anyone in our way, and throw Fluixon into his own lava pool. Easy.”

Gabory shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “If we walk in blind, we’ll be cooked alive before we even see the walls. I am not sacrificing my men when we could prevent massive casualties.”

Schpood finally raised a hand, quieting the room. His voice was steady, carrying authority without needing volume. “We cannot underestimate Cynikka. Nor her allies.” 

Cass nodded, “I agree. Fluixon thrives in chaos, and if he breaks free of the main lines, he’ll disappear into the shadows. If that happens, every plan we make here will crumble.”

Schpood looked directly at Saparata. “That’s where you come in.”

The room’s attention shifted to him. 

The room’s attention shifted to him. Saparata straightened under the scrutiny, his jaw tightening, but he held Shpood’s gaze.

“You’ll hold the flank,” Schpood said firmly. “The Conquesodors will back you. If Fluixon attempts to slip past, you intercept.”

Saparata’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I mean to duel him. In the Colosseum, where he cannot vanish. I believe he will not refuse my challenge for a duel of honor.”

There was silence. Heavy. Even the lantern flames seemed to bow for a moment.

Then Afreakinturkey let out a bark of approval, slamming his fist against the table. “A duel then! Good. My men will keep watch on everything and guard the colosseum. Let no one call it unfair when he falls to your blade.”

LegacyAN’s eyes narrowed. “A duel is pride, not strategy. But… I believe we all owe this to him.”

Schpood said nothing at first. He only studied Saps, the hollowness still visible in his cheeks, the ghost of fatigue still clinging to him. Then, at length, he nodded. “So be it. But Saparata—” his voice softened slightly, “pride had no use if the man wearing it keels over because of it. We need you alive, not a martyr.”

Saps’ gaze returned to the mark of the Colosseum drawn on the edge of the map. His fingers brushed over it, tracing the circle. A battlefield within a battlefield. His moment to end this, or to fall trying.

The discussion shifted back to the wider campaign. Troop movements were marked, fallback lines decided, signal flares assigned by color. 

But while strategies spun, Saparata’s eyes kept drifting. Past the table. Past the maps. Toward the farthest corner of the room, where shadows clung stubbornly despite the lanterns.

There he saw him.

Turntapp.

Leaning lazily against the stone wall, arms crossed just like before, the white cloak now has a red stain at the front side of it. He watched Saparata with that same unreadable kindness, the faintest smile curling his lips. None of the others felt the chill that was slowly encapsulating the room.

Saparata’s chest tightened. He tore his gaze back to the map, fingers curling into a fist.

Focus, he told himself. You’re not alone this time.

Still, in the back of his mind, he heard it—Turntapp’s voice, gentle but firm:

“End it, Saparata. End it, and live.”

—

Saps stood at the far east from Infernus bridge with Turkey and his men, watching the fight, waiting. Saps paced the small platform they had built, waiting for the cue to come.

His gaze kept shifting to his messenger, reading all the names fallen because of the battle and praying to the sun and moon to honor them in the afterlife. He waited for the one name to appear in the death message.

Saps saw Cynikka's name, but he didn't celebrate. That has never been Saps’ war to begin with. Cynikka was more stranger than ally to him.

He clasped his hands together, imagining it as someone else's. The callouses on his palm make up for the texture he needed. He squeezed his hand harder, shutting his eyes to let himself imagine for one more second that he was still there with him. 

More and more innocent people die because of Flux's dream. He no longer knew what Fluixon dreamed of.

Was it world peace? Or chaos? Or does Flux simply wish to see Saps suffer?

When the sound of clashing swords began to quiet down, and Flux's name never came up, Saps got himself ready. He stared off into the distance, until one of Turkey's men told them that Flux was missing.

“He's missing?” He acknowledged, as if he didn't already expect it. “Hold on.” 

He wrote a personal message to Fluixon; for them to meet at the colosseum. His messenger stayed silent for a long time.

Long enough that a phantom weight settled on Saps’ shoulders. 

Despite what Saps had told the other leaders, he wasn't sure Flux would agree to this. After all, while their friendship may be dear to Saps, he does not know if Flux shared the same sentient.

Thus, as far as he knows, Flux might refuse the duel—or just ignore Saparata’s message—but Saps wouldn't allow himself to entertain that possibility. 

“I'll be there,” came Flux's reply after what may have been years.

A rush of excitement washed over Saps and that felt like a slap to his face. Why was Saparata wishing for the death of someone he used to hold dear in his heart? Saparata was the one walking into his own grave. 

Coldness wrapped around him then, the phantom of a strong hand closing over his own, grounding him in a way no living touch could.

Right, if Saparata didn't kill Flux now, no one knows what terror he could bring to the world.

“Alright, let's go!” He signalled and led the journey to the colosseum.

It's time to see if the week he sacrificed over his health can help him win this.

The world was quiet with most of the people gone for the war. The farms were barren from the absence of the farmer, the bustling city empty for once.

Saparata began doubting himself halfway through the journey. Sure, he had trained himself to the best of his capability without an actual mentor. He never tried to truly duel anyone just to see if his training was working.

He was scared. If he loses a friendly match, he might lose trust in himself. He couldn't afford that.

However, actually taking in the state of Yggdrasil's land–the trampled crops, animals in distress over the violent cacophony of war, and the multiple fallen lives–helped Saps to remember why he's still fighting.

For his honor, and for the man who lost his life protecting him.

The colosseum was as intimidating as ever. Big and wide with the stench of blood clinging to its floor. 

Turkey stopped Saps before they entered the arena. “Are you sure about this, hermano?”

Saps stared into Turkey's concerned gaze. “It has to be done.”

“Si, hermano. Always remember we are cheering you on.” Turkey reached over to squeeze Saps’ shoulders firmly.

Saps smiled at him, and looked over his shoulder to see Turkey's men smiling encouragingly at him. With a final intake, he stepped into his last battle.

Fluixon was flanked by his last surviving man, Thomas, who stood stoically with a hand on the hilt of his sword. His hands braced over the railing of the audience seat, armor glinting under the sun’s blessing. 

Her light casted a cruel halo over Flux's and Saparata’s head. It shined equally on them. Both the heroes of their own story, gathered to fight with her vicious favour. The sun was merciless but she was also fair.

“Wow, you actually showed up.” Saps said, voice coming out rougher than he intended. 

Flux must have noticed the tremors of emotion in Saps’ voice, as he smiled. Though, filled with the pride he had gained over his accomplishment. 

“Can't say no to a friend, can I?” He asked rethorically with a tilt in his head.

Saps’ jaw clenched, in his pocket, his messenger kept buzzing with new death messages flooding in. “Let’s make this a fair fight, okay?”

Flux seemed to contemplate it for a moment before shrugging. He turned to Thomas for a silent conversation. 

“Flux,” Saps called, pulling out his messenger, opening it one last time to see the death log , “look at all these people, dying right now because of you.”

He tossed the gadget onto the floor, far enough from his sight. 

Flux's gaze snapped back onto Saps. He scoffed before leaping off into the lower level, his armour clanging against itself. “You know, Saps. None of this would've happened, if you had died. Like you were supposed to.”

The words hit Saps square on his chest–because Flux's words had its truth. Had Saps jumped off his snow tower, the war wouldn't have happened, people wouldn't die, and Turntapp would still be alive in the safety of his territory. 

Tapp was a good man. At least, he was good to Saps. His beacon of light in a world where people wanted him dead.

For a heartbeat, he believed Flux. The phantom weight of snow pressed on his chest, dragging him back to that tower. Maybe the world really would’ve been spared. Maybe Turntapp would still—

Saps shook his head violently. No. This was not that world.

“I'm sorry, for everything you had to go through.” Flux continued, fueling the rage Saps hadn't realized was boiling inside of his heart.

The colosseum trembled with silence, the only sound the shifting of armor and the wind cutting through the building.

Flux's gaze hardened as he drew his bow, arrow notched and gleaming with the sun’s blessing. Saps mirrored him, the string biting against his fingers. He hadn't been able to train more with his aiming, but ranged attack could give him the upper hand.

For a heartbeat, they stood still—two shadows of people who used to share diamonds.

Then both let loose.

The first arrow sang through the colosseum air. It clanged against Saparata’s shield, splinters of wood and iron sparking out. He staggered back, chest heaving, before answering with a shot of his own. His arrow whistled true—grazing Fluixon’s arm, forcing him to flinch.

“Not bad,” Flux taunted, voice echoing off the stone walls. “Who taught you that?”

Saparata’s throat tightened. His next arrow found Flux's thigh, staggering him back. Pride bloomed hot in Saps’ chest—his training had not been in vain.

Flux tore the arrow free, blood seeping down his greaves, but instead of faltering, he charged. Flux switched first. 

He threw his bow aside and charged with an axe. The swing was heavy with intent, forcing Saps back a step. Saps’ arms shook from blocking with his shield, but he held firm. Then he shoved forward, knocking Flux off balance, and struck with his own axe. Metal slammed into armor, denting it, making Flux stumble.

Both men bit into golden apples, juices dripping down their hands, the glow of magic washing over their wounds. Their breathing grew rougher, sweat dripping, but neither slowed.

Flux tried to hit from the side, where Saps’ armour was softer. Saps twisted away and slammed his shield against Flux's chest, then swung his own axe again. The hit broke Flux's guard, causing him to retreat. 

Saps felt the fight tilting to his favour, the sun shining brighter on him now. Seeing Flux slowly losing filled his heart with pride.

Desperate, Flux rushed to him again. Saps was caught off guard, his shield almost slipping from his hand. His carelessness brought Saps a reminder Turntapp had once said to him.

“Don't be comfortable until you are sure you win.”

Saps cursed himself for forgetting that lesson. He couldn't afford to forget Tapp now. Not when he's so close to winning.

Despite this, Saps was able to redirect the axe, letting it hit his arm instead of his neck. He hissed from the pain blooming, but continued on.

Saps swiftly reached for his bucket, and poured the lava at Flux’s feet. The fire roared to life, heat blasting across the arena. Flux jumped back, but too slow—flames licked up his leg, burning through armor.

“Saps, you said to play fair!” He screamed, running away to put distance between them as he tried to eat another golden apple, but Saps was hot on his tail. He charged, his axe raised high. 

“I said ‘make it fair,’ not be a saint!” Saps argued, as he chased Flux, landing some heat to stop them from healing up. 

Flux's health was definitely on low, but Saps stalled with dealing the final strike. Could he really kill the man who had once been his friend?

But he remembered the corpses in the fields, the names flashing on his messenger, the phantom hand urging him on. He brought it down with all his might. The blade struck true, cutting deep into skin and bones.

The crack it produced was sickening, blood splattered across Saps’ face. But compared to the horror Flux had subjected him to, this was nothing. 

Fluixon fell to his knees. His weapon clattered to the floor. He looked up at Saparata, lips moving as if to form words—but no sound came.

Then he collapsed. Still.

The colosseum went quiet. The only sound was Saps ragged breath, the axe trembling in his hands.

Flux was dead.

Saps imagined his messenger would ping the last death message of the day. The fall of the notorious villain of Pandora. He imagined the others cheering with happiness over neutralising the final threat.

But Saps felt empty somehow. 

Saps stood over him, chest heaving, blood, sweat and dirt streaking down his face. The phantom of a cold hand gripped his shoulder again, steadying him through the silence.

Turntapp’s voice ghosted in his mind, soft and steady. “You did well.”

The silence stretched for a moment longer before the Conquesodors cheered and jumped down to congratulate him–their voices were nothing more than stuffed cotton inside his head. He heard Thomas cursing and fleeing the scene before anyone could remember his existence there.

One of the men collected Saps’ messenger and pressed it firmly into its owner's hand. “Don't lose it, my friend.”

Saparata stared down at the cracked messenger before curling his fingers around it. With a relieved smile, Saps finally looked at his allies. “Thank you for your support.” 

“Anytime, hermano.” Turkey laughed with delight. “But we should get that treated as soon as possible.” 

Saps followed Turkey's gaze and saw his bleeding arm. No wonder he couldn't feel it for a while now. 

Saparata returned his gaze back at Fluixon’s body one last time, hand tightening around the messenger. After days of fighting for justice, it was finally time to get himself sorted out before he could return to his homeland.