09. long live the dead

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a butterfly reborn

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The butterfly garden was encompassed with music. A lean young man in white stood at the gazebo, nimble hands playing the violin. The whole place seemed to thrum in anticipation by every note the person strikes; he stands there, back straight and eyes closed, his face not betraying a single emotion. The picture perfect form of elegance.

Those who pass by the window near the garden stop at the sight. Some even linger and whisper. They speak of hushed tones of the name ‘Shaiapouf’, the very young man who was playing the violin. They said he was a bit off in the head, a bit odd for a young master.

He could play the violion, write poetry, recite any book you present him with, he was excellence itself — but the thing was he always seemed like he didn’t want to be anything. No, perhaps it would be better to say that it seemed like he was always waiting for someone to tell him what to be.

They whisper that he has an identity crisis, that it has manifested so long in his brain as a child that it will never be removed even when he grows. They speak of it like it’s a secret, but Shaiapouf knows of it anyway. He knows what they say about him. He knows how they compliment him but insults him at the same time.

He does not care about what these simpletons say.

He knows he only cares about one person’s opinion — but for the life of him, he could not remember who it was.

There were always dreams, though. Of a shadow of a man. Of a king. Of a place far away. Every time he wakes up from these types of dreams, his throat always seem to hurt. Every time he wakes from dreaming, he feels like there’s poison in his veins.

Even though he’s been plagued by these dreams for years, he still could not remember who this man was supposed to be.

Not until that day in the drawing room.

Shaiapouf’s maids and butlers were huddled together in a table. All eyes centered on a piece of wooden board.

“What is this?” asked Shaiapouf. The people around the table tense and jolt.

One recovers and replied in a respectful manner. “It is a chess board, young master. Forgive our indulgence, we were only passing time.”

Shaiapouf ignored his apology. He couldn’t care less about the way his maids and butlers pass their time. The only thing in his mind right now was the board. “A chess board, you say?”

One of his maids started to say something, but Shaiapouf was no longer listening. His eyes were firmly on the board. There was something here. Something familiar — something he could, perhaps, use to remember.

A checkered, wooden board. The mere sight of it makes Shaiapouf want to throw it away and rip it apart. It incites anger on Shaiapouf, and he hates it for making him lose composure. He hates Komugi for—

Who?

Which name did he—

(Komugi. Komugi. Komugi.)

And in that moment, he remembered.

He remembered names. Faces. Voices.

Meruem. Komugi.

The king. His king. And an eyesore. A liability that made everything fall apart—

Shaiapouf gasps. This was too much. He clearly remembers now. A life. He had a life before all this. Before all this emptiness of not knowing who he should answer to, he had someone to serve.

Shaiapouf had a purpose.

What, exactly, was he doing here?

Oh where, where in this world could he find his sire? Where was his king? Where was the sole reason of his birth, his only purpose? Shaiapouf was made to serve. He was made to abide to the king’s wishes.

But his sire was not here. Komugi took him away from Shaiapouf. She took the king to some filthy place. She removed Shaiapouf’s purpose and it was infuriating. It made Shaiapouf mad to his very last bone until he’s left trembling with anger, with fury, with wrath.

The calmness he had drilled into himself always starts to crumble when he thinks of that woman and his vile, vile actions. How dare she?

How dare she take away his only reason for living?

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

Shaiapouf’s life has never been his. And perhaps this was the reason why they took his ashes from his life before and made him live once again in another world. Perhaps the gods had decided he should have another life to live for himself and not for others. That maybe he lived for too little back then. That they regretted he could not experience even a year of living.

But what use was this life?

Shaiapouf did not want this. He wasn’t the least bit grateful. He did not need another decade to live, he didn’t need what they would call another chance. He’s already dead. He’s served his purpose under the king. He’s done what he could do to be a worthy royal guard. If his sire was not here, then he shouldn’t be.

There’s no point to living a minute more. No point to living a day or a year longer.

Shaiapouf wishes he could go back to his ashes.

(In a place, far away, a young man gets to be reborn in another world, another time.

Given back a breath, a life.

But why give a life to someone who doesn’t even know how to live?)

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[s.] pick up your ashes and breathe again.