"Every emperor is a thief.
Some steal freedom, and call it safety.
Others steal the name of God to justify their throne.
And me?
I steal heads."
——•✧✦ Disgust II ✧✦•——
The silence was dirty.
Not clean, not sacred.
Dirty like the stains of dry ink on scattered pages, like the bottom of his teacups that now tasted of ash and burned wood.
Mitchell blew on a dead candle out of habit.
Then he remembered—it really was out.
He shrugged, scratched the back of his neck, and walked over to the fireplace.
He stirred the embers with a soup spoon.
"No sparks, huh…"
Only a slow rain of ash rose slightly, then settled again on the tips of his boots.
He returned to the table, dodging wind-up models, piles of sketches stacked like ruined towers, and an empty goblet that still smelled of old licorice.
A mechanical owl fell on his head from a shelf.
It flapped a tin wing, buzzing.
"Damn thing…" Rubbing his forehead.
He picked it up without looking and set it back between a leather ball and a mute music box.
He dropped into the armchair, making it creak in a familiar way.
In front of him, on the table, lay a dozen objects.
But right now, only three seemed to exist:
A lukewarm cup of cold black tea.
A crumpled bundle of notes.
A plate with some cheese and a knife.
He sighed, took the cup, sipped, and made a face.
Bitter.
Cold.
And vaguely salty.
Or was it just his cracked lip bothering him?
He looked at the notes and read aloud, softly:
"Imperial Case."
Name: Alexander.
Titles: Eternal Flame-Bearer of the Celestial Oath, Protector of Twelve Seals, Sovereign Architect of Balance, Chosen Vessel of the Faces Divine.
Apparent age: young.
Actual age: seventeen.
He shook his head.
A wrinkle formed between his brows, then vanished.
"And they say I'm the dramatic one..."
He flipped through a couple of scribbled pages, skimmed past margin notes and red circles drawn too nervously.
Then he found a sheet, folded with obsessive precision.
He opened it slowly, holding it by the corners.
Inside, like an insect pressed between pages, there was just one name:
The Only One: L'unica
He stayed still.
Eyes frozen, lips slightly parted.
His finger barely brushed the name, as if touching it might be dangerous.
Then he stood up, stretched his shoulders with a dry crack, and walked toward the highest bookshelf.
He removed a box full of rusted springs, coughed over it, and pulled out a book wrapped in sewn black cloth from behind.
He carried it to the table with both hands.
The way one carries a wounded child.
Or a bomb.
He used the cheese knife.
It was the only sharp thing he had.
He cut the stitches, and the cloth opened with the sound of wet fabric tearing.
Inside: light pages and twisted handwriting.
It wasn't a language from this world.
The letters looked like broken fingers, bent in the wrong directions.
He opened it to page 364.
He already knew where to go.
He'd done it before.
As the ink slowly reacted to the air, he muttered:
"Eight years.
Ninety minutes per session.
Five… hundred… forty-six hours.
With just one year's break..."
A half-smile climbed onto his face.
"Time I don't miss in the slightest."
Taking off his glasses, he widened his eyes.
Then closed them for a moment, breathing only through his nose.
The tea now smelled of smoke and iron.
He closed the book.
Ran his hands along his temples, then covered his eyes with his palm.
After a long silence, he whispered:
"Alexander… Who are you really, my boy…"
Another pause.
His eyes were fixed on a point beyond the window, but they didn't see.
"You're emperor only because no one has the courage to look too closely.
If anyone found out he was never truly recognized...
he'd be torn apart
politically and
religiously."
He took a long breath.
Half-closed his eyes.
"And the fact that this isn't known to the people is tragic:
they expect strength…
from a broken boy
on the throne, just a few months now."
With a sigh, he began to hear small sounds—tapping against the window.
"Ah...
It's starting to rain…"
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
Era tardi.
Davvero tardi ormai, eppure non abbastanza.
La luce delle lanterne disegnava ombre lunghe sulle pareti della stanza imperiale.
Il fuoco nel camino era quasi spento.
Solo qualche brace ancora viva.
Ultimo si trovava in piedi, di fronte alla finestra.
Indossava una tunica scura da notte, semplice, senza ornamenti.
Il vento filtrava, attravero gli capelli muovendoli appena.
Tre serve erano entrate da poco.
Silenziose, composte.
Una portava una brocca con acqua fresca.
La posò sul tavolo senza dire nulla.
Un'altra teneva in mano una coperta piegata, che sistemò ai piedi del letto.
La terza gli rivolse la domanda, formale, diretta:
"Maestà, desiderate compagnia per la notte?"
Ultimo non si voltò.
Rimase con le mani intrecciate dietro la schiena, lo sguardo perso fuori, nel buio oltre i vetri.
"No," disse, con voce piatta.
"Potete uscire."
Le serve si inchinarono e se ne andarono, senza insistenza.
Appena la porta si richiuse alle sue spalle, Ultimo si staccò dalla finestra.
Si portò lentamente verso lo specchio grande, vicino al letto, e si fermò davanti alla sua immagine.
"Alex," disse piano.
"Sono qui," rispose la testa da sola sta volta.
"È ora."
Ultimo abbassò il mento.
Infilò le dita sotto la base del collo, nel punto esatto dove la pelle sembrava appena fusa, come una cerniera invisibile.
Fece una leggera torsione.
La testa si staccò.
Senza dolore.
Senza sangue.
Solo un suono umido, come qualcosa di troppo vivo per essere morto.
Ultimo afferrò la testa e la posò con attenzione sul tavolo, vicino alla brocca.
Alex aprì subito gli occhi.
"Stava diventando noiosa quella vista."
Ultimo si sedette davanti a lui.
"Abbiamo poco tempo."
Alex lo guardò serio, le sopracciglia leggermente sollevate.
"Parla."
Il corpo lo fissò.
"Domattina parto.
Andrò a Darveth.
Da solo.
Voglio incontrare Rahlen faccia a faccia.
Ma non posso farlo da Imperatore."
Alex inclinò appena la testa.
"E quindi?"
"Tu resti qui.
In un altro corpo."
La testa rimase in silenzio per qualche secondo.
"Fallo sembrare un tuo piano."
"Lo è."
"Davvero?"
"Avrai il palazzo.
La corte. Le udienze.
Qualcuno dovrà credere che io sia ancora qui, indeciso."
"E tu?"
"Porterò con me la corona. Se dovessi avere bisogno… potrò generare un'altra testa.
Una diversa."
Alex alzò gli occhi.
"Un'altra me?"
"No."
Silenzio.
Poi Alex disse solo:
"D'accordo. Ma non aspettarti che stia zitto."
Ultimo si voltò verso di lui.
"Non te lo chiedo.
Ti conosco abbastanza da sapere che lo farai comunque."