??? pov:
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"Melody and Monarchy: The Life, Love, and Loss of the Saint of Strings" – By Lyssa Thorne, High Historian of the Classism Church
God, I'll never get over just how pompous and hoity-toity all the books here sound! It's like they all think they're gods of highbrow nonsense. I flipped the damn thing open, already grinning like a bastard. This was a fresh release—three weeks out, tops—and I couldn't wait to see what absolute horseshit they'd written about me this time.
"Reading more heroic garbage about yourself?" Her voice slid through the air, all silk and smug, as fingers ghosted over my collar and rested warm against my chest. Her long white hair spilled down and tangled with the pitch black of mine, like we were a pair poetic nightmares.
Aww, let me have this! I saved kingdoms! Blew up a ton of shit! Let me laugh at how these nerds rewrite my trauma with gold leaf and dramatic metaphors!
I leaned up to kiss her, smug as hell. "Damn right I am. Call him too—I wanna see what bullshit they say about him."
A snort, and then heavy boots. He appeared like a summoned feline demon, arms crossed, face already screaming I hate this. I ruffled his hair. He slapped my hand away like the grouchy cat that he was.
"Let's begin, shall we?" I grinned. "I can't fucking wait."
And I started reading aloud:
"Let us begin—as all good songs do—at the hush before the first chord.
He was born in twilight, as all the heirs of the Darkonic Kingdom were—between dusk and dawn, in that liminal hour the kingdom claimed as sacred.
A royal by blood, crimson-eyed and solemn in cradle, raised in halls of obsidian marble where the flickering firelight played games upon frescoed walls and ancient melodies were inked into the very architecture.
His was a boyhood dressed in fine velvet and quieter grief, for the court, even in its golden years, was a place of closed doors and opened ears—"
"—Oh stars above, it's already off to a great start!" Her laugh was annoyingly perfect. Fuck, why's that cute? No. Bad. Focus!
I still gave her the most betrayed glare I could muster. "How dare you! This is exactly how shit went down!"
"In your memories, maybe. Who's to say the real story isn't different, hmm~?"
I stared at her, eyes narrow enough to slit a goddamn coin. Then we all broke down laughing, and I kept going. Turning a few more pages about early life nonsense, we came to the mildly more important part.
"His early years remain documented in part—poems written by jealous nobles, diary fragments of tutors long since turned to dust, and a single, beautifully preserved lullaby attributed to the boy himself, aged ten.
These whispers of the past describe a youth with an uncanny smile and an unruly soul, as if the world itself had birthed him in rebellion against silence.
But history is a cruel composer.
Less than two decades after his birth, the kingdom's crown cracked. Civil upheaval broke through the bones of the land like roots through old stone, and the Darkonic Kingdom's ruling dynasty was silenced in blood and betrayal.
The palace burned. The royal family was slain—systematically, ritualistically. And the boy, grown in secret, vanished!"
"Grown in secret?" His voice had that suspicious, smug-ass lilt. I leaned in and pinched his cheek like a petty gremlin.
"What this means is, the prince didn't do shit anyone remembers, so people assume I—or he—fuck it—was raised in secrecy! But what's this 'uncanny smile and unruly soul' horsecrap? I don't remember this!"
"You're calling yourself 'the prince' again. Just accept it already."
I stuck my tongue out like the mature adult I absolutely was, and he just leaned on my shoulder, grinning like a damn minx. "They probably made assumptions based on how you ended up. Which means this describes your real childhood better than the actual prince's."
Bite me! I scowled and kept reading, fully ignoring that little truth-bomb like a coward with priorities. I skipped through a few more pages of nonsense and theories before one in particular caught my eye.
"For a full century—a singular hundred years—there was no trace. Nothing. Not a name scrawled in a register, not a tale sung by wandering minstrels, not even a stone bearing his sigil. His life during this exile is unmarked, undocumented, and utterly unknown.
Some say he descended into the Darkness and learned silence from the burrowing goddess herself. Others claim he walked across the Wastes and made songs from the wind's screams. A few more heretical voices whisper he died and was reborn in form and soul—"
"—Ah yes, 'heretical' indeed—"
He interrupted me before I could continue. "Will you shut up and just read the damn thing??"
Oh, come on, seriously? You're the one who asked for this commentary; you can read it alone on your own, and now you're whining like a toddler who missed snack time? Fucking hell!
"Fine! Fine! Jeez, such a temper… You weren't like this as a ki—"
"Read!"
Another flurry of page-skipping later.
"What is known, or at least widely accepted, is that his reemergence was quiet. He arrived in a border-town—a pitiful place at the edge of the Inner Darkonic Kingdom, where trade died, and rumours lingered.
The town, then called Crosshaven, now bears his epithet. It was there he worked, not as a lord or a prophet or even a merchant, but as a bard in a moderately decent pub house. The pub itself still stands, though vastly expanded, run by a family whose line carries a lineage more closely related to him than any other.
For many years, he was nothing. A worker among workers. And yet... his songs began to gain something of a fame in themselves.
Visitors recall a performer whose voice healed a broken heart more surely than any other. Whose laughter lingered in tankards. Who always gave a name that never felt quite right, but could not definitely be proven wrong either. And perhaps most telling of all—he arrived with no one, but left with one—"
"That's YOU! My 'one'! Love you so fucking much!" I made embarrassing kissing noises at him, and he curled his lips up, turning away. Oh, what's that? Blushing? Fucking adorable, don't try to hide it; I see it, you little shit!
"I believe the next part will focus more on him… but then again… I do wonder what they wrote about me...?"
I was interrupted by a voice whispering in my ear. I turned, pressing my lips to her cheek. She sighed. I fucking smiled. Damn, smooth as hell. I'm really out here winning at life! Look at me! Some people have talent, I just need charm~!
"That'll probably come later, maybe in the chapter for the capital? Right now, let's read about him!" I skipped over to the parts talking about him.
"It was a simple, unknown boy.
Some say a child found sleeping beneath a crumbling roof, others a sickly Cat-Therion with fur lighter than light itself and luck worse than any known beast. Whatever the truth, from that day onward, they were inseparable. The Saint and his little brother. It is said he loved none more.
And history does not forget that brother.
Long after the Saint vanished once more, following the Great Sundering, the boy—now grown and cloaked in both charisma and contradiction—founded what would become the United Clan of Lucky Cats. A union of Black and White Cat-Therions, blessed by jinx, shadow, charm, and fate alike. They are, to this day, the keepers of mischief and miracle both, and their magic echoes the earliest lullabies of their founder's brother…"
"I still can't believe you called them 'Lucky Cats,' like, seriously?" I grinned at him, not even hiding the smirk. He frowned, like I'd slapped him. Oh, come on, this is cute. It's nostalgic! Let me have this, you whiny bastard!
"You used to call me your lucky cat! I didn't know I'd end up here, okay? I… I thought you were gone! I got nostalgic and thought it was cute—clearly, that was a fucking mistake!"
"Aww, you know I love you, don't say that!"
I teased because, hell, why not? I could poke fun at him all day. He grumbled, and me and her burst out laughing. He sighed like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. God, he's such a drama queen. He's practically glowing with angst right now, I swear!
Fast forward through some more useless, unproven theories to the meat of the issue.
"But let us return.
Return to the Capital.
It is known—albeit shrouded in theatre and allegory—that upon reaching the capital, the man shed his past. His name was never uttered again, and none could pry it from him.
The story turns from history to legend here, for within a decade of his arrival, the heir to the throne ascended—not through violence, nor solely by divine right, but through wit, popularity, and an alliance forged with a nameless, smiling bard whose songs made enemies pause and allies weep.
What love they shared!
Unwritten, perhaps, but also unforgotten. One had wit like a flame and the other music like a river, and between them they turned court into stage and politics into rhythm. Their children—descendants of crown and chord—reign even now."
As I finished that sentence, her voice chuckled as she leaned in closer. "'Descendants of crown and chord'? I wonder just how much time they spent coming up with that moniker? Half a second, perhaps?"
Hah! Fuck that! A drunken dare probably chose it!
"Nahhh, too much time. Whatever came first, they stuck with it!" I grinned like a jackass, and it only got wider when I heard his whisper behind me.
"…I thought that was a nice title…"
Jesus, really? You're gonna defend this crap? What is it with these people and their flowery bullshit titles?
"His name became legend, yes, but his title became truth: The Saint of Music.
It began, many believe, as a jest.
The irony of sainthood resting upon the shoulders of a tavern singer, a court minstrel, a bard who played tricks as often as he played strings, flutes and keys. And yet, no title has since felt more deserved. For with his aid, the crown stabilized. The capital blossomed.
Here enters the figure who would become, in time, the Holy-Paramarch of the Classism Church. Younger then, brash, and burning with vision. He and the Saint argued endlessly. They duelled in debate halls and competed in miracle-making. They shared wine, and poetry, and—some say—an unfathomable respect. One soul sang and the other listened, and somewhere between them, truth found harmony."
I thought back to that pale face and muttered, "He's still kicking around down there somewhere, should I give him a scare?"
Instantaneous replies.
"Not unless you want him to join us, I'd say not!"
"He'll die from it!"
Both of them behind me gave similar reactions, and I laughed, flipping through a few more pages of crap I was not interested in revisiting. God, I do NOT want to read about that damn war. Once was bad enough. If I see another soldier's guts spilled on the page, I might throw this book at someone.
"…And then came the Sundering.
A disaster spoken of in screams and scripture. The fracture between the Human Kingdoms and the Darkone Kingdom had to be mended—those who had once been enemies, now kin born under the threat of those from so far away that distance became but a suggestion.
In those twilight years before the final chord, the Saint moved between both courts. Beloved in one throne room, trusted in the other. And between these blades of history, he brought not peace—but pause.
Enough pause for preparation.
Enough time for the renowned and well-loved Matriarch—the brilliant human visionary whose hands, heart and blood crafted the first unified human sect to rise in battle beside the Darkone Armies instead of against them.
The same Matriarch who claimed she had heard the Saint's woes and had been a confidant to him perhaps to the same degree as the Holy-Paramarch. Who carried an instrument she never played but wore like a relic. She died long ago, but her sect remains: scholars, healers, musicians and cultivators who carry her flame—and, by extension, his…"
I couldn't help but pause at this, thinking back to her. That woman sure had been something. I wonder why she didn't choose to stay with us here… then again, she had her own shit to deal with… Maybe we'll meet again…
"Even in catastrophe, the Saint did not falter.
His magic, it is said, could tame storms and bind curses in verse. His familiars—creatures of impossible beauty, half-light and half-lore—walked beside him, not as servants but as equals.
They were divine in design, paragons shaped to act as heralds of the gods. And yet, they bowed to no altar but his. Even the Classism Church was forced to rewrite a handful of doctrines regarding them.
These familiars, four in number, are still depicted in glass and gold across the churches, shrines, and operatic temples.
A swirling nymph of water, ice, and mist of unparalleled beauty. A wolf with laughter and blaze mingling equally in its breath. A songbird of whisps that sung in storms and whose appearance was a blessing to bards everywhere. And the last, a great steed made of stitched roots and flowers who protected a forest so vast, it could be a realm in its own right.
They are called The Harmonicals, and their worshippers number in the thousands…"
That's some bullshit right there! I wasn't even aware they could just disobey the gods like that! Fucking surprise of the century that was! I couldn't help but think back through how much we had grown together, from simple obedience, to defiance, to camaraderie. I miss hanging around and fighting shit with them…
"Of his disciples, only two are ever named in the oldest canticles. Their songs still spread across continents. The melodies they birthed are used in birth rites, coronations, and even executions. Each disciple left behind their own legacy of lyric and spell, but all of them, without exception, ended their lives seeking him again. None succeeded.
It is also often remarked that the Saint left behind few relics, but that the ones he did are... miraculous. Artifacts of the highest order, in fact.
Chief among these are the instruments forged by a single blacksmith family, once unknown, now exalted across nations. Their forges ring still, using metals only whispered of, and every instrument bears the mark of the Saint's favourite symbol."
I felt my gut twist. Yes, the paragraph talked about how I helped the family, about all the good I had done. But it glossed over what actually happened to my disciples. Oh hell, of course this fucking ties into my mess! Fuck me sideways with a pitchfork!
"I really hadn't expected them to go crazy and kill themselves like that… it was fucking heartbreaking!" I muttered to myself, voice shaking like a leaf in the wind.
I could've saved them! Could've. I just hadn't figured out how to back them, but I would've found a damn way! Instead, I had to stand by like a goddamn spectator, watching it all go to hell. I slammed the book shut, my hands twitching as I tried not to tear it in half. This part always fucking gets me, no matter what story it is!
I was losing it, barely keeping it together before I started screaming my head off. Then, out of nowhere, two sets of soft hands latched onto me, stopping me cold. I blinked, and before I knew it, the book was yanked from my hands. Oh great, here we go...
"Calm down," one voice purred, soft and steady, like I was a freaking child.
The other voice was less gentle but still oddly soothing. "You're fine. We're fine. Everything's fine."
Yeah, sure, nothing's fine, but let's just pretend it is because this woman is taking control now, like I asked for it! The book was passed off to him, and of course, she took over. I couldn't even get a word in.
"Not everything was bad, see? The Artifacts are stable; your name has risen that blacksmith family up in the world. Your teachings are still here, and you will never be forgotten! This book is proof of that!"
Fuck off. Yeah, sure, I didn't give a rat's ass about what'd been written down about me. Doesn't fix what's gone wrong. Doesn't change the fact that I failed.
A few kisses later, and the sob story was back to full speed. Time to finish this...
"Many claim he died during the Sundering. Others say he ascended with the other casualties of that disaster into the stars. Some believe he walks still, aged not a day, smiling in the guise of some street performer, vanishing after a single song.
No grave has ever been found. No corpse laid to rest.
The Holy-Paramarch, before his retirement, was once asked in a rare interview whether the Saint still lived. He laughed.
"We don't ask the wind where it sleeps," he said. "We only listen for its return."
And so the Saint remains. Not dead, not forgotten. Just... unseen. His echoes live in tavern strings, in children's lullaby, in desperate prayers sung with more love than faith.
And perhaps that is his final miracle: that one can disappear, and yet remain immortal through song, charm, and the quiet rebellion of joy.
We do not know his true name.
We only know his story.
And we sing it still…"
Oh, yeah, that's real cute.
Quite a few chapters and details were left out, some things that probably shouldn't have been, some things that definitely should have. I tossed the book onto the floor with a grunt, watching it disappear in a puff of smoke.
What a fucking conclusion, huh? I threw my head back like it had personally insulted me.
"That," I announced, pointing at the place where the book puffed out of existence like it had pissed in my drink, "is the most poetic load of horseshit I've ever read."
He snorted. She chuckled, low and amused.
"Come on, some of it was accurate," she teased, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder. "The bit about the border-town? The pub?"
"I sang songs and drank wine for like a month and they made it sound like a goddamn pilgrimage." I leaned back on my hands, staring at the ceiling like maybe divine mercy would fall out of it and smother me. Do people really buy this crap? Do they think I strolled in, halo glowing, dropped a song, adopted a kid, and saved the world? Is everyone just... stupid?
"Look, I don't mind the dramatics," I added, "but I'd really appreciate not being canonized as the lovechild of a choirboy and a trickster god."
The book reappeared behind me and he looked at it with the same reverence one might give a bottle of cheap beer after realizing it was empty.
"They made you look good, though." His voice was calm, but I could tell he was trying to hide his giggling as he stared at the book cover.
"I am good," I said. "I'm just not that kind of good."
I'm the kind of good that stabs someone and lies to save my kid, not the world!
He snickered. I shoved his shoulder. "Go fuck off and polish your fancy spear or whatever it is you do when you're not being annoying."
"I don't—"
I stuck my tongue out at him like a rational adult would. He left with a roll of his eyes and the quiet thud of boots, mumbling something about ungrateful saints. That left me and her. She shifted closer and I didn't stop her. Of course, I can't stop her. Who in their right mind can?
Her fingers found my jaw and turned my face to hers.
"You didn't hate all of it," she said with a smirk.
"No," I admitted. "I hated most of it. But some parts... yeah."
Her kiss was slow. No fireworks. No sudden harp music. Just lips, warm and familiar, and the soft sigh that followed after.
"You could always write the real story," she murmured.
Yeah. I could. If I wanted everyone to know, that is.
"Maybe," I said.
She lingered another moment, eyes like candlelight and quiet affection, then slipped away with that walk that made poets forget their rhymes. I stayed behind. Sat there, staring at nothingness, eyes flickering to the painting someone had commissioned of me down below that I'd recreated in the room. I looked at that sharp face and grimaced. Is this what I look like to people? A myth wrapped in song lyrics and fancy metaphors? I've cried while tuning strings. I've killed people. I've saved fewer! God, if they only knew.
I looked up then.
And my eyes found you.
Yes, you.
The reader.
Holding this stupid book or scrolling like a voyeur with nothing better to do. My mouth curled into a smirk.
"You're still here? Well... don't get too shocked! You learn a few things about your world when you reach this… status, let's say," I muttered.
I thought through what she had said a moment ago and couldn't help but chuckle, "Maybe—just maybe—you'll get to read the real story."
My fingers tapped my thigh once. Twice. "You'll just have to keep turning the pages. Or scrolling, depending on what the budget allowed us to do."
I grinned, teeth and trouble.
"Let's just say, it all started with me dying like a complete idiot."
END