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He knows. He doesn’t really think that it is something to be proud of. However, he has always been certain that, more than anyone else, he would notice it when his little sister is attempting to keep the people around her from noticing what she deems to be something trivial. She may complain about the heat, or have no qualms in letting the world know how a task assigned to her is proving to be bothersome, but if her very freedom were not compromised, she would rather clamp her mouth shut.He finds it rather fortunate that such tactics never work on him. May it be caused by a stubbed toe, a clumsy stumble, or the daily pinpricks of her magic, he would find out. A slight cold that she insists on pretending to be nonexistent is no exception.The very moment he sees her rubbing her arms, he slips away, as quietly and as quickly as his legs could carry him. Considering how much she considers the heat loathsome, purposefully trying to warm herself up in the already warm Overlord’s Castle is certainly a cause of alarm.The Netherworld Hospital’s branch in the Castle is a good distance away, but the distance means nothing. Not now, in any case. Before he knows it, he’s already asking Florence for cold medicine.“For whom?” Florence asks, her gentle voice a relief in the midst of the Netherworld’s clamor. If there’s anyone he can trust with his sister’s health, it’s Florence. Flonne, too, perhaps, but he is not too thrilled at the prospect of speaking with her without prior preparation.Xenolith purses his lips. In his pockets, the varying textures of small, unpolished stones bite past his thin gloves. “Etna,” he says, his voice as soft as he could manage. For a moment, he fears that the Netherworld has drowned his voice, and that he would have to risk revealing what his sister is so painstakingly trying to hide. However, Florence nods, the tiniest of smiles gracing her lips, and he can only slump his shoulders.“Do you suppose you can convince her to come here?” Florence asks, taking a seat on her worn-out stool. In the direction of another, one she has gotten specifically for him alone, she gestures for him to do the same. “I’ve medicine right here, but if it’s something else other than a cold….” Her voice trails off, letting her silence speak the rest.Restlessness gnaws at him, insisting that he return to his sister’s side. The thought that her magic has managed to weather her immune system as a whole overwhelms him with dread. Despite the agitation that urges him to move, he has been bound to the spot.Quietly, Florence slips her hand into his and gives a gentle squeeze. “I’ll have a look at her myself,” she says. “Why don’t you get her something nice in the meantime?”Grounded by her touch, he manages a nod. He doesn’t stay to watch Florence leave her post to a Sea Angel—one of her apprentices—as he allows his legs to carry him towards the kitchen.There’s very little else he can do. It’s unlikely that Etna’s condition would go unnoticed by Flonne, at the very least. If it does, Florence would be there to provide a little push, and they’ll undoubtedly convince Etna to retire for the day.However, there are two things that come to mind, and the kitchen is where his memories lead him.The Prinnies stationed at the kitchen give him a wide berth, and he may have even muttered a few words of appreciation if he weren’t completely focused on his task. Barely does he have to think, as every measurement comes naturally, as if the mere thought of his sister confined to her bed has triggered a hidden switch inside of him. He is on autopilot, down to setting everything down on a tray and leaving the kitchen.As the sizzles of oil and the whistles of steam sound fainter to his ears outside closed doors, his autopilot malfunctions, and he freezes once more.He cannot go back the way he has come. If he were to do so, the others would know, and Etna would not be pleased with him in the slightest.As he considers his options—to leave the bowl behind or to find something completely different—the kitchen doors swing open once more. Without looking, he scrambles to get out of the way, his eyes on the tray in his hands, if only to keep himself from making a complete mess.“This way, dood.”Breath hitching, he finally looks down, just in time to see a lone Prinny waddling towards a dead end.Perhaps sensing that Xenolith isn’t moving, the Prinny looks back once more and waves a flipper. “It’s faster this way, dood.” Without waiting for his reaction, the Prinny walks up to the wall and taps a flipper against it.Quietly, a part of the wall pushes inward before sliding out of the way, revealing a well-lit passageway.“Hurry up, dood.”Pursing his lips, Xenolith forces his legs to move. He catches up to the Prinny in no time, but he lets the little servant lead the way.The passageway is narrow compared to the rest of the Castle’s, but it is wide enough for three Prinnies to walk side by side without causing any accidents. Bright torches light up their way, and, from what Xenolith could see, there are surprisingly very few cobwebs in sight. The solid floor in itself isn’t dirtier than the outside.“There are a lot of these throughout the Castle, dood,” the Prinny says. Perhaps the clacking of its peg legs against the concrete is not enough to fill in the silence for it. “You just have to know where to look. It’s easier to use them when delivering things, too, dood. The main hallways are dangerous.”For a moment, he considers asking if the other residents knew of the existence of the hidden passageways, but he decides against it as they meet another apparent dead end. This time, the Prinny pulls a lever at the far left corner of the wall. As smoothly as it did with the first, the wall slides away.What greets them is the clutter of a typical storage room. Chests overflowing with abandoned weapons and armor have been left lying around. A table, covered with torn pieces of fabric, wobbles near the door. Underneath it are stacks of books, their pages no longer protected by magic and have subsequently been assaulted by age, turning their pages delicate shades of yellow.Xenolith wrinkles his nose.“It’s not that dusty, dood,” the Prinny says.He makes a mental note to sort things out nonetheless. If he were to make use of that passageway once again, it would be best if the room he were to emerge in is not crawling with spiders. Or worse.“I think you’d know your way once you get out there, dood,” the Prinny says. “I’d better get back to the kitchen. Good luck with Master Etna, dood.”Xenolith blinks.
The Prinnies know everything.
The moment the wall closes once more, he breathes a sigh. At the very least, they value their second lives enough to keep their beaks shut. What restraint Etna may exercise on him may not be granted to the Prinnies, after all.The thought of Etna shakes him awake, and he rushes out of the door. Perhaps it should not have come as a surprise, how the storage room is the one at the very end of the wing where many of the residents’ sleeping quarters are located.For a while, he simply stares at the door to her room. He is aware that she spends more time answering their young king’s commands and doing other activities outside at her leisure, as he rarely finds her in her room unless it’s the middle of the night.However, with the door now left slightly ajar, he can hear three muffled voices coming from inside. One of them, to his relief, is his little sister’s. Less to his relief, her cold seems to have worsened, and the telltale sound of her irritated snaps being slightly nasally only adds more to his dread.Perhaps her perception is simply too sharp, or his hand has hovered far too long over the door— the other arm is starting to cramp from having to balance the tray on its own—that even she has started to notice. Whichever it may be, Flonne disappears from the conversation, only to poke her head out of the room. With her red, red eyes peering up at him, Xenolith can only swallow the lump that has quickly formed in his throat.“Good morning, Xenolith,” she says. For once, the corners of her eyes aren’t crinkling, and her smile has a slight stiffness that he hasn’t seen before. Without another word, she steps aside, gesturing for him to come inside.“I’m not an invalid,” is what Etna says, the very moment he steps into the room. Hands on her hips, she’s leering at Florence, whose experience with the Netherworld’s never-ending supply of stubborn demons allows her to stand firm.“All we are asking of you is for you to get some rest,” Florence says, voice still as smooth as silk. “If you get better after a few days, that will be the end of it. I do advise you to keep taking medicine for the prescribed number of days, but the sooner your fever and your cold disappear, the better, isn’t it?”Etna still doesn’t seem convinced, but she finally turns to direct her glare at him. “You called her,” she snaps accusingly.He nods, saying, “Yes,” for good measure.Her eyes narrow even further, but he doesn’t allow them to faze him. Not now. Not when it concerns her well-being.Glancing down at his tray, he says, “Pudding,” as if it would help them in pacifying her.For a moment, her glare disappears. Her eyes widen a fraction, and her lips may have trembled, but she leers at him again after a second or so.Despite everything, a chuckle threatens to escape him. He manages to mask it with a fragile smile.“Just let yourself be spoiled for now, Etna,” Flonne says, folding her hands. “We’ll do everything you want after you feel better.”Etna raises her eyebrows. For the first time that day, her lips twist into her usual mischievous smile. “Everything, Flonne?”She blinks, and Xenolith almost feels sorry for her. Twiddling her fingers, Flonne giggles nervously. “As long as they’re reasonable, yes.”Etna’s smile only widens. “You’ll have to define reasonable for me.”“I’ll work on it,” Flonne stammers. “But you have to rest now. We won’t be able to do anything after you’re feeling much, much, much better after all.”Etna waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine. Just get off my back. And don’t tell the Prince.”Flonne frowns. “Why?”“Then he’ll never get off my back,” Etna says, reaching for the pudding, only for Xenolith to move the tray out of her reach. At her small sound of indignation, he simply blinks.“Okay,” Flonne says, still pouting. “I’ll try.”“Don’t try to make up excuses,” Etna says, sniffing as she folds her arms. “Just keep your mouth shut. You’re the worst liar in the entire Netherworld.”Flonne bristles, but only for a few moments. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”Etna sits down on her bed and crosses her legs. “You tell me,” she drawls.“I think it is,” Flonne says, nodding after a few moments of consideration.“I take it that means you’ll be drinking the medicine that I’ll give you,” Florence says, a smile finally gracing her features.“Sure, whatever,” Etna mutters.“It will be bitter,” Florence warns.“As long as it works, I’ll take it.”“Very well,” Florence says, nodding. Xenolith wonders if she had to stop herself from saying, “good girl,” then. “I trust Xenolith’s already prepared something for you. I’ll return with the medicine later, along with the prescription.”Xenolith shakes his head. “I’ll get it after she has eaten.”With a tilt of her head, Florence says, “I’ll be waiting then.” For a moment, she pauses, right before adding, “It’ll be alright. It’s nothing too terrible, after all.”Taking Flonne by the wrist, Florence then guides the other out of the room, shutting the door behind them with a click.Suddenly left alone with his sister, Xenolith braces himself for sharp words. However, none come, and he glances at his sister warily.“Well?” she asks, when he meets her eyes. Despite the pallor of her skin, in sharp contrast to the redness of her nose, the fire in her eyes hasn’t died down in the slightest. As Florence said, her condition can’t be too terrible now, can it?“What’s the pudding for then? Are you just going to eat it in front of me?”“No, of course not,” he says softly, finally setting the tray down on her nightstand. He has to push some of her trinkets away, but the tray stays balanced even as he moves to drag the lone chair in the room towards the empty space next to her bed. The rest of her room isn’t so empty, as he’s expected. However, past registering that everything is mostly reds and blacks, he doesn’t look around as extensively as he often does. His sister’s belongings should be of no great interest to him.As he sits down, he offers her a smile. “The pudding’s for later.”“So I have to eat whatever’s in that first then,” Etna mutters, leering at the covered porcelain bowl.Without warning, both familiarity and anxiety seize him. This has been a ritual in their home. Old home. However, she barely remembers anything then, let alone something like this. He has done things without giving them much thought, simply allowing nostalgia to guide him. But nostalgia hasn’t always served him well, and fear is the result of the unfortunate mixture.Then again, the fear of her being in pain is much greater, much heavier, and he can no longer bear it. If this would give her comfort, even if it weren’t able to spark anything from her memories, then so be it.Pursing his lips, he takes the cup of pudding and the glass of water, placing them on the nightstand as he rests the tray on his lap. Taking a deep breath, he takes away the cover of the bowl, and the scent of his poor imitation of one of his father’s—their father’s—specialties assaults his senses.“Huh,” is the only sound that comes out of his little sister.With a pained smile, he hands the tray to her, and she accepts it.“This doesn’t have anything weird in it, does it?” she asks, taking the spoon beside the bowl and poking the gruel with it.“No,” he says gently, staring at his lap. “It doesn’t.”“I was joking,” Etna says, sniffing. For a while, she doesn’t say another word, simply eating spoonfuls of the gruel in heavy silence. Finally, before reaching for the glass of water and taking a sip, she asks, “Did you make this?”He nods, and he awaits her verdict.Etna hums. “It’s good,” she decides. “Did you have look it up or something?”He shakes his head. The words, “Our father taught it to me,” tumbles out of his mouth carelessly, and he looks up at her in alarm once he realizes.However, Etna doesn’t appear repelled in the slightest. If anything, he can only translate her raising of an eyebrow as a sign of interest. “Did he?”“He likes, liked cooking,” Xenolith murmurs, digging up what he could from centuries worth of buried memories. “He’d get a little carried away sometimes. Mom, she…. Our mother,” he says, stumbling, “she used to scold him for it.” With a clumsy smile, he adds, “She was thrifty. Most of the time.”“Most of the time,” she echoes, prompting him.Xenolith lets out a breathy laugh. “She would spend a little more sometimes, especially if it’s for, for our father.” He glances at the half-empty bowl. “He’d make that for her. Then she’d make him things after.”“They sound embarrassing,” Etna says, taking in another spoonful.Her words startle another short laugh from him, and Xenolith has to cover his mouth with a hand. Whether it’s to keep him from laughing any further, or to keep any cries from coming out, he’s not quite sure. He hasn’t thought of their parents in a while, and being thrust into scenes long past is not something he’s made any preparations for, not when coupled with the fact that Etna’s not at her best at the moment.“What? You don’t think they are?” Etna asks, widening her eyes.“I suppose they are.” Were. Something stings at his eyes, and he blinks at his clenched hands.Silence reigns for far too long. Even the telltale sound of the spoon hitting the bowl does not echo. Quietly, Etna finally says, “We can stop if you want.”He looks at her, really looks at her, and he can see nothing but strength in her steady gaze.Xenolith shakes his head. “It’s alright.” He imagines being in her shoes for once, going through life without even the slightest clue of where he came from. Not knowing anything terrifies him, makes his hands shake and his knees weak. She deserves at least this much. He would give her this much, and more, should she ask for it.“Go on then,” Etna says, stirring what’s left of the gruel. “Talk if you want. Don’t if you don’t.”“What do you want to know?”“What you want to tell me.”Perhaps saying that it’s been a while is an understatement. He has thought of them, certainly. It’s rather difficult not to, when the scarf that provides him warmth was his mother’s, and the sword that allows him safety was his father’s, but he has always pushed any further thoughts away whenever they threaten to overwhelm him.However, Etna’s asking him now. As they often do, words escape him. There is simply too much to tell, too much to let her know for he has more than a thousand years worth to tell. More than a thousand years that she also deserved to have, yet hasn’t been allowed by fate to possess.They tried to save you, he wants to say. Scream. Cry. He wants to say that she wasn’t abandoned. She was never abandoned. Not by them. They never would have made her feel that way.But he looks at her, looks at her straight in the eye, and he knows he couldn’t. Not now. Not anytime soon. So he closes his eyes and breathes. And he speaks.He speaks of their father’s many loves, of his affair with life and ruins and toffee. He speaks of their mother’s many accomplishments, of her skills with the arts and battle and magic. He speaks until his voice is hoarse, until he needs to breathe. Until Etna nods and closes her eyes.The last of the gruel has long disappeared, and she almost offers him the last of her water.She glares at the transparent liquid, as if it has done the worst of offenses. “Go get some for yourself later,” she says. “We can’t both be sick.”“That would be unfortunate,” he manages as he stands up. He would have to pick up her medicine now, as promised. His pace may be quick, but it will still take some time to go to the Hospital, then back to her room once more. “Will you be alright here?”Simply, quietly, Etna just stares at him.Yes, of course, she will be.“Don’t forget that water,” she says, just as he’s moving for the door.Without a word, he nods. He would have already disappeared into the hallway if she didn’t call out once more.“Big Brother.”With a hand still on the doorknob, he turns.“It was good,” Etna says. “Cook again sometime.”Something in him falters, and he has to blink to keep anything from spilling. It’s quite a feat, how his voice doesn’t crack when he speaks once more. “I’m not as good as he is.” Was.Her gaze is unwavering, unfaltering. Despite what ails her, her fire still burns strong. “Do it anyway.”He stares at his hand, the one gripping the doorknob. The other is clenched into a fist, hanging at his side. They are not as skilled as his. He doubts they will ever be. There’s no way of telling either way. However, Etna’s the one right here, and she’s telling him that it’s fine.He takes in a deep breath, holds it, releases it. With it, a part of the weight that continues to drag him down disappears. It doesn’t all go. It might not all do. Still, there are here. She is here. That’s what matters, isn’t it?“Alright. I’ll try.”