Author's Note: Warning!! This fic contains MAJOR PLOT SPOILERS. That's right, MAJOR PLOT SPOILERS AHEAD!! So, now that you've been properly warned, do not come and whine to me that I've spoiled the entirety of "Vagrant Story" for you. Besides, the game is much better on the second pass through, but if I told you why, I'd be spoiling that one, too!

Res Arcana

by

Seiya Kou

(K_Seiya@hotmail.com)

It had been eighteen days since the ancient city of Léa Monde collapsed upon itself, the result of the abuse of Müllenkamp's powers by an overzealous Knight of the Crimson Blades. How proud it once stood on Valendia's map; an unreachable landmark, but nonetheless venerable. Some said the city held great treasures, lost forever to the outside world in the tremor that obliterated the metropolis. Others said it was once the home of the revered Saint Iocus priesthood, whose prayers were rumored to drive away The Dark. The official report released from the Valendia Knights of Peace stated that it was a veritable warehouse of past cultures; knowledge now forever interred beneath hundreds, perhaps thousands of feet of debris. Despite conflicting sources, V.K.P.'s information specialist, Callo Merlose, was forced to speculate that the Riskbreaker agent assigned to retrieve Joshua Bardorba, was now buried alive somewhere in the ruins. Whatever Müllenkamp cultists that did not escape, including their enigmatic leader, Sydney Losstarot, were to be declared "officially deceased"; and as for the Order of the Crimson Blades, a direct order issued from Parliament forced Merlose to declare both Romeo Guildenstern and Lady Samantha to be "missing in action". To say contrary, despite her high status as a V.K.P. official, would surely mean her dismissal and clandestine execution.

In those eighteen days, her mind had drifted from subject to subject. Ashley Riot and Sydney Losstarot were dead yes, but only in the papers that she had been told to draft. In truth, the young woman didn't know to believe her own printed words over her beating heart. The Riskbreaker had promised he'd return, return with whatever casks of Léa Monde's renowned vintage he'd found. It was an incentive for her, a clause, a stipulation which she could only pray he'd hold himself to. Seldom did Riskbreakers' survive their missions, even if they were only directed to follow simple intelligence gathering procedures. Callo Merlose closed her eyes and thought of her comrade beneath tons of rubble, his blood spilling out and mixing with the intoxicating scent of a bottle of Audentia. Feelings were usually too dangerous to emote in the halls of the V.K.P.'s central headquarters; to worry about an agent who had only a fractional chance of returning alive would seem silly and counterproductive. Much more logical to anticipate their corpses to one day surface somewhere, perhaps in someone's basement or an irrigation ditch. "Ashley is dead", she had made up her mind, her fingers sliding over the yellowed pages of her encyclopaedia. "A noble profession, indeed."

~*~

Eighteen days later, the previously still musculature of Sydney Losstarot shifted beneath the warm linens of a bed. The former leader-messiah of the Müllenkamp cult hissed in pain, unaware that his excruciatingly thin torso had been bound by a muslin bandage. The pain seemed to sear up from his lower back to his upper shoulders; an otherwise soft dressing felt like a great sheaf of forty-grit sandpaper digging into his wounds. He bit his lower lip and stifled a whimper before sinking back onto the comfortable mattress, the burning agony cooling slowly. "Damnable wench of immortality...your caress is more painful than the fires of Hell," the blonde thought bitterly as his eyes scanned the room.

The chamber itself was plain, but alarmingly so. For although it contained the basic furnishings of bed, armoire, chair, and rug, there were no objects inside that were indicative of personality. Each item gave off a resonance, an empty resonance which for some reason, terrified an otherwise stoic young cult leader. There was nothing to grasp, nothing ethereal, no soul for his powers to grasp and peer into; no soul for him to discern his host's intentions for him. For the first time, he was the mouse in the proverbial labyrinth: at one end lay the cheese, the salvation. At the other, the cat to chew deeply into his flesh, causing the bones to crackle, the organs to stop functioning, and the final darkness to descend upon him.

"I won't let that happen, Sydney Losstarot. " The voice seemed to reverberate from the walls quietly, in a manner that both unsettled and annoyed the captive. "I bear you no ill-will."

"I somehow doubt that," said Sydney. He crossed his arms over his chest to prevent what little warmth he had from escaping. The "chamber of disembodied voices" was something he buried long ago, before Müllenkamp; something he was too proud to admit he feared. The bile rose in his throat-how dare his captor employ something only used by the Valendian Church as a tool to reinforce its power over the people. Psyche was the molten silver, and fear was the mold. The hammer of the Church would eventually slam down upon the mold, crafting the archetype for a city of automatons. A city of people who were always drawn to watch the Cardinal drop the match onto the hay to burn the heretic at the stake. There was a benediction for the witches' lost souls, but the benediction was hollow, and God's prophet false. "What do you want of me?!" He cried, not wanting to remember that which he had locked away.

A weight on the bed manifested suddenly, the bedclothes dimpling in the shape of a seated human body. He looked over, expecting to see some sort of food, but instead came face-to-face with a man staring right back at him. The man ran his hand through his auburn dresses, careful not to topple the bangs which rose about an inch over his hair, then stretched over backwards into two finely-honed points. The blonde's eyes went wide with shock, and a feeble sound rose from his parched throat. "Wha....how....YOU?!"

"Yes, me. Your successor, Sydney." The man leaned forward and allowed his fingertips to gently, almost affectionately trace the fine contours of his companion's face. "Ashley Riot."

"Why, Riskbreaker? Why did you even bother?"

Don't ask when you already know the answers. You need your rest," Ashley smiled at him, leaned forward, and kissed his surprised predecessor's forehead. "We'll talk when you're well enough." A pair of thin hands grasped his forearm, holding him close.

"Sickness means naught to me, and these scabs will soon heal. We'll speak now, or never speak hereforth," the blonde growled, digging his sharp fingernails into the muscular wrist. He began to cry, then. The tears were violent and spilt against his will, and he wiped them away, furious at losing control of the reins which held his emotions in check. "You've not the right to imprison me as so."

"This isn't the Inquisition, Sydney. You're safe here."

At the sound of the word "Inquisition", the former leader of the Müllenkamp cult froze, his fingers sliding, sliding down over the smooth flesh of Ashley's arm, falling, falling into his own lap. The thought of the tattoo once branded upon him, which now covered the former Riskbreaker's back didn't bother him as much as the experiences emblazoned upon him. Despite having a Duke for a father, his pleas of mercy fell on deaf ears. The humiliation of being starved half to death for the amusement of faceless individuals, then drugged when fed was nothing compared to the beatings. How many times had he been bludgeoned with the brass-knobbed end of a cane? How many ribs had been broken before he could no longer move without feeling one of the bones poke rudely against his skin? How many times would his tearstained face and dry tongue would sob the horrid truth: that he was a heretic in league with The Dark, and that others followed his path?

"There is naught I can call sanctuary, Ashley Riot," he whispered, the wound on his back stinging all the more. He leaned forward into the more powerful man's embrace, feeling his laceration yawn in response. Sydney closed his eyes, and felt a thin trickle of blood emerge from his bandages, staining the white sheets just as sin manifests in the soul of the purest among men. "I know the Duke is dead...but is Joshua safe?"

"Yes. Hardin and Merlose saw to that."

"And they?"

Ashley hesitated for a moment before responding. It was an easy enough question, and even if he were to lie to his charge, Sydney was still far too weak to rip the truth from his brain. "Both have gone to the underworld kingdom. As for Merlose, I took care of her myself."

"What of...?"

"Léa Monde? It would seem that Müllenkamp saw it fit to destroy the city that held her Gran Grimoire, rather than allow Guildenstern's fanatical band to possess it."

"See, Riskbreaker?" Sydney coughed, eyelids beginning to doze as he curled up against his successor's warmth. The scent of something softly sharp, cologne perhaps, was splashed over the muscular chest of the former V.K.P. agent and had begun to wear away. It was pleasantly muddled, soothing, analgesic. It gave tranquil dreams to a ravaged mindscape. "No sanctuary for any of us, after all..."

Ashley sighed and pulled the blonde closer to him, stroking the hair mechanically, yet knowing that such an automatic touch was necessary to permit Sydney to feel safe within his grasp. The hair felt like cornsilk from the uncharted mercantile territories; it felt rare, and it elicited a sigh of content from him. To touch someone like this was all that he had wanted to experience, ever since he'd murdered his family. To touch someone, someone he'd be willing to protect, even though the powers were long since bequeathed to him. Ashley Riot was alone from the time he'd walked out of Léa Monde and Valendia; the alien magick slowly revealing its potency to its new master. The Dark was a malleable element, but tempered enough to strike the coupe de gras to anyone who dared stand in its way.

~*~

Sydney awoke atop something breathing the following morning, his brow slightly fevered from a night of unnerving dreams. Usually, the nightmares would prevail; the feeling of Romeo Guildenstern's razor-edged blade sliding through the epidermal layer of his back, cutting away the tattoo of the Rood Inverse, then having Lady Samantha apply the ruined tapestry to his own back, granting him the Gran Grimoire's full powers. And he? He had been left to moan in pain in the centre of a perfect circle of lit candles, the blood making his skin feel sticky to the touch of the rotting wooden floor. He was the sacrificial lamb that couldn't be sacrificed; left with the searing agony of his torn flesh, Sydney wished for death many times, begged Müllenkamp to shut his aching body down, or send the Riskbreaker to tear out his heart. The beautiful Riskbreaker with his beautiful sword would come to end the suffering of the splinters sliding through his bleeding skin. The cultist had never been upset by those nightmares; rather, accepted them mutely, for his legacy was passed down unto the correct man in the end.

What unnerved him about his dream last night was that it was peaceful; he had been sitting with Ashley under the same tree where Riot's wife and child had been murdered; it was the same climate: warm and sunny. He had reclined in Ashley's powerful arms, feeling them encircle his emaciated waist and hold him close; the sweet feel of his lover's breath on his neck. Promises exchanged, he had accepted this love. A bird; perhaps an albino peacock fluttered in the distance and spread its plumage, the blue "eyes" of the feathers glancing proudly at the two.

Beneath him lay the sleeping body of the former Valendia Knights of Peace agent, chest rising and falling as it drew in breath after breath. "So, even The Dark slumbers," Sydney mused, his hands traveling up, over the torso, wanting to explore the face of his successor. The moment his fingertips touched the underside of Ashley's jawbone, a nervous gasp was elicited from him. Expecting his metallic extremities to appear, he was surprised to see that they had all been replaced with ones of flesh and blood, ones that had once belonged to him before he'd offered them to Müllenkamp in exchange for her power. "You are far to generous, Ashley, with your gifts."

The man stirred beneath him and smiled, his golden irises adjusting to the dawn's illumination. He took the blonde's hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing the most tender of kisses atop the pale appendage, delighting in the other man's pleasant shiver. "Does it please you..?"

A beat. He thought carefully before responding. "I....I'd never known...what it was to be touched like that....."

"Then allow me to show you..." Loosing his embrace enough for the blonde to rest higher upon his body, the former Riskbreaker leaned up and pressed his lips against Sydney's. At that precise moment, a circuit between them was completed; a flow of energy passed through the both of them, eliciting a sigh from either man. The kiss seemed to deepen, the former cultist sliding his tongue inside the warmth of Ashley's mouth, searching gently for its mate. The ex-V.K.P slid his hands up over the poultice which now dulled the pain entirely, and stroked slowly, feeling the younger man's underdefined musculature respond quietly to his ministrations.

"Why, Ashley?" Sydney broke the kiss and looked his lover in the eyes at pointblank range. "Why did you come back for me." The tears slid from his eyes freely now, coursing down over his high cheekbones until they were wiped away by the dark-haired man's fingertips.

"Because....when Léa Monde began to collapse, you were lying there in the antechamber below the roof. The candles had started to go out, but you still bled. Your breathing was erratic, and I thought you had passed this mortal coil. I knew what you'd intended for me...but I thought it cruel for fate to be so unkind to you in your last moments. I carried you out of the city simply because I didn't want you to die...without feeling loved. It would seem unfair..." His voice was silenced quickly by Sydney's soft lips and tongue, the slender body arching against his, wanting to be embraced again.

"Ashley...I...I love you, too...."

FIN