62 Ashan 719
Zarik knew. While the Biqaj wasn’t graced with the profane eyes of a Rupturer, he had different sorts of eyes… and ears… and those who told him many, many things. In the past several trials, he had dreamt of all he’d been made to forget by his loving husband. Zarik intended to forgive such methods of possessive control over his body, mind, and will. Already he had selected justifications that soothed him, so as to not bother the Paragon with the burden of his recollection. He, also, prepared to forgive the dalliances with the Tirano men. He’d been briefed about such things by those under his expanding network, even though the affairs had never been mentioned by the man he was expected to trust more than any other. Still, he couldn’t doubt the information. He knew his husband well enough to know that it was all true.
But when he’d heard of what happened at Agaperos, in the wake of his departure to watch over Miletos, Zarik’s concern deepened beyond himself. So many dead, hundreds of innocents among an already dwindling populace, and for what? For… power? No. Power could be claimed without such rampant death.
Zarik had listened to the frantic concerns of Kyriakos, after the news arrived in the small city. The people of Miletos had been struck with great fear toward the lord who now claimed to be a God, and not mere godhood, but their God, Arsinos. Awe came along with terror. The Revelation, it seemed, had caused his husband to lose not only his mortality, but his humanity as well.
So when one of his ears informed him of sweeping proclamations made in that new theatrical Paragon voice, within their estate, of how his husband truly felt... not just toward the islands, but toward his former slave… Zarik could only fidget with the many rings along his fingers and stare out the window of his office at the courtyard. He’d set his ears to watch and listen about talk of the islands yet hadn’t expected something of this nature to accompany it: his husband's enthusiastic offer of marriage to another man for that very night, without the slightest care as to Zarik's consent or advisement in the matter. Regardless of how unexpected it felt, he knew it to be true.
It hurt. Yet there were greater, more important things to consider than his own injured heart that cracked apart into a thousand pieces as he watched the shadows cross the courtyard while the sun drifted over the breaks.
His body, after all, held the seed of promise within him. Sickened by the sight of the villa’s courtyard, he glanced at his own reflection in the mirrors he’d used to study Becoming so he could have the form he now wore. He was, truly he supposed, nothing more than a sleeve. Or as Fridgar had so elegantly put it: a moaning bitch. It was an accurate assessment. Zarik knew it was nothing but his own fault. A mistake of his own making, but one he would right upon such recognition.
He summoned Kyriakos. Together, in cryptic whispers behind a dark corner of a closed room, the men arranged for swift departure from the island before the sun would set. It wouldn’t be simple, but there were certain aspects that made it easier. Devin was no longer Devin and as such, did not follow a mindless programming to stalk him anymore. All others were accustomed to granting Zarik privacy in his comings and goings unless their presence were requested by the Biqaj lord.
He kept the Venora signet ring, and his totem rings. Zarik didn’t risk an attempt to pack anything. All his clothing for his Tirano wardrobe would remain behind. All his books would, as well. Though he gathered his private journals and most precious items in a satchel.
Zarik spent his last afternoon with Asher. He silently cried, and kissed his son on the forehead, and watched for likely the last time as the baby’s eyes changed colors to mimic his own abysmal black and shadowy blue hues. Gods, how he wanted to take him with. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew such a thing would prove impossible, not that he wouldn’t be able to care for the boy, but that his departure would become all that more complicated. At least, he supposed, Kleine was recovering and awake again. He trusted no one else in the household to care for Asher in a decent way. Though he wanted to request promises from Kleine, he couldn’t risk informing the Lothar and he knew they were unnecessary. Asher would forget Zarik. Half a season for a babe was not worth recollection in later years, and Zarik knew his own existence would likely never be revealed to the boy who shared his bloodline.
He rocked Asher to sleep and sang him a shanty song that his father used to sing, during terrible night fevers, about hoisting sails and watching for land. Then Zarik placed the silver kindred bracelet over his son’s wrist. He settled the infant child in the crib, stared for a few more bits, then forced himself to leave.
As soon as he was outside of the estate, on his way down the street, his pace quickened. Faster, his steps became. He worried that if he went too slow, he might change his mind and run back. Once beyond a block away, Zarik broke into a sprint. He reached the meeting spot in mere bits. Kyriakos awaited him, along with his sisters, and a handful of Tirano families who aimed to escape the newly conquered island.
While the ship drifted through the waters, near silent as it peacefully sailed away from Miletos and toward the sea, Zarik climbed to the crow’s nest. He stood alone, watching with arms crossed, as the sun began to set. He couldn’t cry anymore. His tears were spent. Above his head, sunlight gathered from the rays. His ether caught it in a bound ring. Transmuted to iridescence, soon a halo shone above him – a mutation meant to never leave him again.
And though he could not see it, he felt the writhing inkblot tattoo rise to the surface of his back. He could sense the shifting, orphic designs that flowed out from his spine then spiraled into it again, continually moving like the waves of the ocean around them.
He'd fully awakened to his Transmutation spark.
