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The reverberating clack of Cale’s shoes against marble was loud in the quiet hall, dim light peering in through the windows to light his way. It was late in the evening, and the sky was beginning to bleed into the darker hues of the dying sunset as he contemplated a novel, remarkable fact:
The title of "Father" had, at some point in time, gained itself some deeper meaning in his personal dictionary.
He was blindsided by the realization not a week after the end of the war, with all the subtlety and gentleness of an armored tank, sitting to the side of Duke Deruth as he enjoyed breakfast with just the Henituse family for the first time in a long while. The air was no longer awkward when he sat with them to eat, as it had been the first day he arrived; instead, a pleasant warmth had permeated the room and settled over his shoulders, right up until the thought crossed his mind.
It wasn’t a bad realization, just…foreign.
Even if he went through all his records and sifted every ounce of his memory, Cale couldn’t pinpoint when exactly the title had started to change in his mind. Couldn't pinpoint when it began to remind him of the silver-speckles in rough brown hair, the bags under gently crinkled eyes, the baritone of a self-assured voice. Either way, it was the realization of that change that had him walking down the familiar halls of the Henituse Estate just a few days later, clad in the black of his uniform.
Cale hadn’t had a father as Kim Rok Soo, and he had never thought much about it beyond that. It was just a fact; he did not have a father, and once he aged out of the orphanage, he never would.
Then, he opened his eyes in a body that wasn’t his own, and there Deruth stood, and Cale called him 'father' only because that was what was expected of him. A title utterly lacking in sentimentality.
At some point, though, Cale noticed that this was no longer the case.
His feet stopped in front of an embellished door, carefully hand carved with thoughtful intricacy.
Even though he couldn't explain when, or even particularly why, that title of 'father' stopped being a title at all. Not even as a courtesy. It became something he could picture, an image irrefutably attached to the face of Deruth Henituse.
It truly wasn’t a bad realization. It just wasn’t good either, because it left an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach as a carefully stowed away thought pushed to the forefront of his mind. Anyhow, there was something he had to do.
Placing his hand against the dark wood, he briefly ran his fingers over the golden turtle crest engraved into the door. The metal was smooth and familiar under his thumb, gleaming as though it were brand new, and it occurred to him that he was likely the only person in the mansion with that particular habit. He kind of wanted to see it worn down from the pads of his fingers, and he recorded that thought along with the feel of the crest under his thumb before firmly stamping it out.
If he hadn't grown to feel about Deruth the way he did, he probably wouldn’t have even considered doing what he was doing now. Something that could meet his oh-so desired slacker life with a swift decapitation. But each day was another day he came to understand the depth of care Deruth had fostered for Cale Henituse, and another day he came to realize how much care Kim Rok Soo had begun to foster for Deruth, and the unfairness of the situation began to settle irritability in his gut.
It didn’t feel right for Deruth to continue believing in a lie.
That was a fact he’d acknowledged long before his little epiphany at breakfast, but It was the kind of secret that was far too heavy to tell in the middle of a war, far too charged to say while anticipating a battle. Now that the war was over, and the battles were won, he had no good excuse to keep Deruth in the dark.
Lifting his hand, Cale knocked softly.
“Father, it’s me.”
The threat of war was over, but peace was still on the precarious perch of a sharp, brittle edge, right where it had always been. His people were healthy, happy, at ease for the first time in a long while, and very aware that there was nothing they could do to make it stay that way. No matter how Cale felt, now was the time. In his lifetime, at least, peace had never been one to stick around.
“Come in.”
The doorknob seemed colder than usual as he turned it, colder at least than the many times he’d turned it before. A moment later, he was seated in his father's office, head leaning loosely on his hands as he turned toward the window. From their position on the second floor, he could see Lily, Choi han, and the wolf children training in the yard outside, framed by the gentle sway of the trees and the setting sun.
"Cale," Deruth began, his smile tired. The mounds of work piled on his desk were incessant and inevitable to the point that you’d think they were glued to the wood, but Deruth had never once denied Cale an audience. "What did you want to discuss?"
Cale got straight to the point. He’d always hated people who danced around their issues, a fruitless and unhelpful game of cat and mouse.
"Father, do you remember the God of Despair's abilities?"
The mood soured like the flip of a switch
Just saying the words caused bitterness to coat his tongue and wrinkles to form in Deruth’s brow.
“Of course." It would be quite strange if he didn't. "We spent days searching for some kind of cheat to keep you out of that test.” Deruth's mouth lifted into a small, brittle smile, sad and amused. “Violan was damn near ready to knock you out and volunteer instead.”
A bothersome sensation pressed down on Cale’s chest at the image of his mother frantically flipping through piles of research for his sake, though he hummed in acknowledgement. He’d have to tackle her too, and his siblings, but that could wait till later. One thing at a time.
"Miss Cage probably told you that he could create illusions and feed off the despair they caused, but he also had the ability to push through to other dimensions. You saw the cintamani, yes?”
Deruth nodded, face graced with a frown. Cale recalled he'd been somewhat apprehensive of the existence of other worlds at first, but he'd trusted Cale's word without a moment of hesitation. He’d also seen the cintamani for himself before it broke, but by then he had already discarded any remaining disbeliefs. Cale continued.
"The God of Despair is not the only God that can transport people between worlds. Father, you and I share a dislike of the Gods for similar reasons." Deruth’s brows furrowed, unsure of the path their conversation was headed towards.
“That we do. Are they bothering you again?” The longer it went on, the more he seemed to worry it was a path he wouldn’t like. "The gods tend to do as they please, without regard for mortals."
"Right."
(Observing his son, some kind of warning began to sound in Deruth's gut.)
Cale let his eyes slip shut, calm in a manner that would seem content, almost lazy. (Except, his shoulders were drawn tight—as though bracing for a wave they couldn’t see. Deruth observed him carefully, peering at his face. In the silence, he could hear the shouts of the wolf children as they trained outside, and what was usually a good reminder to keep working hard suddenly seemed almost unnerving.)
Cale considered how to go about this next, and for a moment, the silence dragged on.
"...Cale?"
(When those sharp eyes opened again, Deruth found they looked less like his son’s and more like those of the Commander.)
"Almost three years ago, the God of Death interfered with our world."
(His voice was unvaryingly monotone.)
"...How so?"
Cale ignored him in favor of continuing to look out the window, a hand tapping against his thigh beneath the table. The next words were already prepared on his tongue, but pushing them out felt difficult, like trying to drag his hand through mud. Hm. That's a gross thought.
"It wasn't the first time he messed with our world, but around then, he did something…” A few considering taps against his thigh.”...major. He turned back time. By decades, in fact, through a catalyst by the name of Cale Henituse."
A crease appeared in Deruths brow, confusion rising to the forefront of his mind and dragging with it a creeping concern.
"Originally, the war with the Indomitable Alliance and the White Star was not a quick war. It lasted a full twenty years, and amongst the casualties were the people of the Henituse County."
A few more considering taps. Maybe he was thinking too much about how to phrase things, considering that no matter how this played out, he’d already prepared for the worst. He would still have every connection he needed to fend off any future threat, and more than enough wealth to his name to let his family live in comfort for the rest of their lives if he had to cut the Duchy off. He would be fine, but somehow the thought made his chest hurt, so he decided to take another moment to consider anyway.
"The only member of the family who didn't die in the battle at the Henituse Territory was Cale Henituse, who joined the army to fight beside Commander Choi Han for the duration of the war."
"Cale, I'm not sure I—"
"He died while witnessing the loss of the war at the age of forty."
(The silence that settled following those words fell over them like a numbing chill, to the point that Deruth hardly registered that at some point, he’d stood up. The nervousness that’d curled in his stomach had since elevated into a pounding confusion, one that muted Cale’s words before he could attach any meaning to them.)
"At that point, the God of Death intervened. Cale was well within his domain by then, and so he offered him a deal. It detailed returning to the years before the war broke out, with only Cale retaining his memories of future events."
(The place between utter incomprehension and too much understanding was not a good one to be frozen in, but his head buzzing a mile a minute to retain every word left Deruth rooted in place. Boiling confusion at the front of his mind, a sinking feeling of realization simmering in the back. His mouth opened, ready to urge Cale to stop, needing a moment to understand, but before he could say anything, the unsteadiness of Cale’s shoulders caught his eyes first.
His shoulders were shaking.
His eyes widened in shock, swirling thoughts wiped clean in an instant and discarded in the face of something much more urgent. He reached his hands over the desk to grasp Cale's shoulders, as though be could steady him, but his hands were grabbed and firmly lowered to the table before he could move.
Cale’s hands were cold.)
He looked away from the window, meeting Deruth’s eyes for what was, he realized with mild surprise, the first time since he entered the room. Deruth sat back down.
(With their eyes still locked, he realized with astonishment that Cale’s hands were shaking too. His mouth went dry.)
"There was a catch."
(It was odd and uncomfortable to hear Cale of all people speaking quietly, voice soft and fleeting like an ember carried out by the wind.)
"In return for turning back time, Cale Henituse would have to… I suppose you could say, leave his own body."
"...What?"
(Suddenly, Deruth's own voice was nothing more than a whisper too.)
"His body would be reset to the age of eighteen, to be taken up by someone else, and he would be transported into the corresponding body in another world. Transmigration."
“...What?” He said again, somehow softer.
(Deruth tore his eyes away from Cale’s face and down to the stiff, pale hands resting over his own. Stiff, but familiar, because they were the same hands that he had held for the first time when Cale wasn’t even a day old, had let latch onto his finger in awe. Hands that had held his on the day of Jour’s funeral, had hugged his hunched figure as he sobbed. Hands he’d felt such a deep guilt for when they first picked up a bottle, and that he took such great joy in when they first reached out again after so many years. )
“Similarly,” Cale’s expression flickered as he continued, but both their eyes were poised squarely at the table. “The soul of the body he was transported into was transmigrated back into his own body. Almost three years ago.”
“...What?”
When Cale didn’t answer, only an uneasy but expected silence was left to fill in the gaps. Cale slowly removed his hands from atop the Duke’s and folded them in his lap, and when they went cold, the chill spread up into his arms, and just kept going. The Duke’s gaze didn’t leave the spot where his hands had been just a moment ago.
“It was a bit hard to bring up during the war,” The words felt thick on Cale’s tongue, sounded like a half-hearted excuse even to his own ears, but it was the truth. “Because it was dangerous for me and the Duchy. But you deserve to know.”
The Duke said nothing. Instead, his hands, which he hadn't moved from the table, slowly drew up to rub over his face. He kept them there.
“...And this means…to be exact?”
Cale’s expression flickered again, searching for a way to respond that wasn't too insensitive. No matter what he said, he felt his throat would close around the words.
“Your son is gone.”
Quick and concise. Straight to the point.
(Cale had often expressed his distaste for people who danced around their issues. Within the last three years, certainly, but before then as well.)
When the Duke peeled his eyes open to stare into Cale’s, Cale knew immediately that he was searching for answers. Answers he didn’t know how to give, wasn’t sure he had the right to offer, and so he couldn’t bring himself to be anything aside from quiet and calm.
“He’s…dead?”
“No. Just somewhere else.”
Deruth lowered his head back into his hands.
“...I don’t usually trust the God of Death,” Cale said softly, “But he says your son is living well, and even he isn’t terrible enough to lie about that."
Another tap against his thigh. "...I met him once. He said he was happy.”
An oddly static-like sensation washed over him when the Duke remained silently frozen in place, one Cale hadn’t felt often but knew intimately. It swept through him once while he stared up at a gray sky, trapped beneath pounds of rubble. Again, while explaining distantly to his teammate’s family that the next time they saw her, it would be in a coffin. Again, when the coffins tripled, among them those of two people he treasured, and he could only stare blankly at their pictures while others mourned.
Tap, tap, tap.
“He is also not alone in that world,” Cale said into the silence, not entirely sure whose pain he was trying to ease. “Jour Thames reincarnated there.”
The Duke snapped up in shock, eyes wide and beginning to shine with water at the edges. Fear and pain pulled at his features. More than anything else, he seemed shocked. But even while searching for it, Cale couldn’t find the slightest hint of anger in his gaze, and oddly it was not comforting.
Deruth was a very good man.
A man that, while unable to care for a child while carrying the weight of grief, had always acted with his family in mind.
“...Jour is with him?”
The voice that came out was fragile, and small, and so unlike his fathers that Cale wished there was a way to stop it from imprinting into his memory.
“Yes. She’s with him.” He thought for a moment, before adding on, “He’s taking good care of her.”
More silence passed between them as the Duke thought to himself quietly.
It wasn’t just Deruth he planned on telling—he would come clean to everyone. To the Duchy, to Ron and Beacrox, to On and Hong, to his friends. But Deruth had been such a presence in the life of Cale Henituse, had watched him grow up, had seen him in so many ways, that to not tell him first seemed like a sin.
Still. Watching his eyes shut, hands clasped together, something heavy gathering at the corners, Cale couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made a mistake.
It was dark out now. Dark enough that Cale had to squint to see the wolf children outside, but the sound of their determined yells held strong as they trained on through the evening. He felt a bit assured, knowing that even if he was no longer wanted here, the Duke would at least allow the wolf children to remain and train on the property.
“...Is he safe?”
A quiet, strained voice rang out. Cale’s lips pursed. His work as Kim Rok Soo couldn’t be considered safe, not by anyone's definition, but…
"I think so."
The Original Cale - no, the new Kim Rok Soo that Cale had met seemed like a capable person despite his reputation. At the very least, he would stay healthy enough to care for the young Jour and his teammates. He was sure of that.
“...If he’s there, then who’s…here?” Deruth murmured, gesturing to Cale with a hand.
“If you’re asking who I am, then I am Cale. Before that, I was Kim Rok Soo; age thirty-six, from Korea, Earth 1. I woke up here with some knowledge of this world’s affairs, but I didn’t choose to intentionally occupy your son’s body.”
“...I see.” Deruth swallowed. “...Leaving…was it his own choice?”
“Yes.”
Well, the new Kim Rok Soo technically agreed to the deal, but the only alternative he really had was death.
“...Were you forced to be here then?”
“I didn’t come here by my own volition, but this life is mine now. We’ve both agreed to live the rest of our lives with these names and faces.”
Deruth watched him, eyes sad. Tired. Cale didn’t know what else to offer.
“I can’t get him back for you. I’m sorry.”
Another moment passed between them, and then Deruth sighed. The tension leaked out of his form, crumpling him against the chair, in a way that could only say tired, tired, tired.
Cale felt it too.
“...This is a lot.”
Of course it was a lot. Losing a child was a lot more than a lot. Cale couldn’t imagine it, spent his nights actively choosing not to imagine it, because the claws that sunk into his flesh at the thought alone were so unbearable he’d rather burn away the mere concept of it than let their grip solidify. Once the claws were there, they only ever loosened when he felt two puffs of warm breath against his legs and a scaly, grounding weight on his stomach.
Deruth quietly picked up a glass on his desk, jolting Cale out of his thoughts as he took a few small sips, then set it back down with a clink. He rested his head against his hands.
“I’m sorry too.”
Cale’s tilted his head, a brow furrowing.
“Why?”
Actually, he didn't really want to know, because Cale wasn’t sure whether Deruth was apologizing for something he’d done or something he was about to do. Either way, he couldn't exactly take back the question, and he wouldn't be difficult either.
If they needed him to leave for a while, that was fine. If they needed him to leave permanently, that was fine too.
“I suppose, I just thought…you were brought here so suddenly. That must’ve been hard for you.”
...Oh.
Caught off guard, Cale only managed a surprised “Not really?" In response.
Deruth smiled at him, the pain on his face melting slightly away—or maybe just taking on a new form. “I guess you always insist that things aren’t difficult for you.” He muttered, and at Cale’s silent confusion, opened his hand.
Cale grabbed it without hesitation.
“...Do you think of me as your father?” Deruth asked, eyes fixed on their hands. Like this, Cale could feel the rough calluses on his palms, indicative of the heavy weight of a sword and the long hours spent gripping the reigns of a horse. He could also feel how the tips of Deruth’s fingers shook, and he felt his mouth press into a thin line in response.
When he glanced up, though…Deruth seemed okay. His fingers were shaking, and his eyes were red, and he was crumpled in his chair like all the fight had left his body, but he seemed, somehow, okay.
Cale didn’t know what to make of that.
“Of course.”
Deruth nodded, smile bittersweet but still in place. His thumb brushed gently over Cale’s hand.
“I think, for a while, this will be strange for both of us.” He said, cupping Cale's hand with both of his own and squeezing. “But be under no illusion. It’s as you said; this life is yours now, and you are my son now. There’s nothing in this world, or any other, that could make me give that up.”
It took a moment for Cale to realize that his own fingers were shaking now—and when he did, he had only one more question on his mind.
“He’s not dead, so we won’t hold a funeral. How else do you want to honor him?”
Deruth sighed thoughtfully, thumb still brushing against his wrist.
(Cale's wrist was worrying thin between his fingers. Deruth let the feel of it mix with the rest of the heavy things crowding his office and settling in his heart.
He thought hard, and It was a painful, but not all that surprising conclusion he came to; that he’d probably spent just as much time with the Cale in his office in the last three years as he’d spent with the Cale somewhere far out of his reach in his entire lifetime, and that sent spires of guilt and regret and sharp, aching grief through his chest.
It was always the thing he regretted most throughout his considerable years. The weight of withering away for years while his child waited for him, shoulderd hurt for him, gave up on him, used to press heavy on his shoulders—a debt he wasn’t sure how to pay, a crack he wasn’t sure how to mend. Even the days he spent locked up in this very office, wheedling tirelessly at paperwork that could wait, the tragedy of his Jour fresh on his mind, a heavy shame would set him ablaze the moment he heard the knocks of small fists against his door.)
“I wish I could apologize to him.”
He said at last.
(After so many years of small mistakes building until they broke, he thought he’d been given the chance to finally make things up to that child who used to knock on his office door. The chance to finally give what was deserved. To show love, to show want, to show that his family would give anything for Cale to be happy again. But the person here was not the same person as back then, and the child who most deserved to hear that apology was incomprehensibly far away.
His chest tightened, pressure building behind his eyes. He slipped them closed. Chose, for now, to focus on the too-thin hand resting over his instead.
If he would never get the chance to apologize, the least he could do was not repeat his mistakes.)
“I’ll hold onto him. I’ll never let him go again. But I won’t let you go either.”
(He was no longer willing to hide while his children waited for him outside his office door.)
Cale’s hands tightened around his, not really on purpose, and Deruth gently tightened his as well.
(These were not the hands that clutched his fingers as a baby, or the hands that comforted him at Jour’s funeral. These were not the hands that would present him with flower crowns in spring, or clutch the leg of his pants on a long walk.
But they were the hands that wrote letters home to Basen on long voyages, and that Lily would happily grab to drag around the training ground. They were the hands that bore the weight of a silver shield lifted high over the territory, and the ones Deruth held while praying at a silent bedside afterwards.
Regardless, they were the hands of his son. His sons.
And If the son he'd watched grow up, the son he'd hoped to lift so high he could touch the stars, only to let him fall again and again…if that Cale was reunited with Jour, Deruth thought that, one day, he could live with that peacefully.
Right now, another Cale was sat before him, one just as much his child as Lily or Basen or his dear Jour’s little boy. Deruth kept a tight hold on those pale hands, and only smiled gently when they lifted away to wipe at the first tears he’d seen either of his Cale’s shed in a long, long time.)