Archive of Our Own

During that fateful day at the river, it took Elias almost an eternity to come back to himself. Once he did, though, he had awoken in darkness, as far as a night shadowing a room could do so. The ceiling of a foreign hut greeted him first and once he tried to sit up to gather himself, hot pain burst from his shoulder, making him recoil and surrender to the fact that he was useless like this. Regardless, he tried to examine his surroundings as far as he could do so, lying down awkwardly at an angle in order to not aggravate his bandaged wounds. During the last time he was conscious, he had been swimming in order to distract the Guardia Civil from Ibarra — to give him a bit more time to make his escape. For all he knew, his sacrifice could all be for naught and in reality, Ibarra’s fate was inevitable.

For a moment, bitterness furrowed his brow — not at Ibarra dying, but at God’s choice to let him live because why would he be the one to survive, when he was so willing to give up his life on this earth? Had his enthusiasm for such a thing dampen God’s willingness to take him in His arms? Nevertheless, He had made His choice and Elias’ mere flailing at the grasp of His decision won’t pivot anything else — Elias would only tire himself and lose the tears he should be shedding for his country. As he began to carry this truth, with all of its weight akin to a heavy rock (even for his criteria), he began to note the peculiar hut’s interior more.

The room was humble — it had no extravagance one would see in Ibarra’s home for that matter, for its mere decoration were the straw walls itself along with the essential furniture. In the corner of the room, he could see a handful of brooms, all crafted with a skill that told him that these were made by a veteran’s hands. Elias’ head throbbed, though the cause for that might be a mixture of his blood loss and the prevalent scent of herbal sticking itself to the walls; the windows, having been shut. Whilst Elias could’ve attempted to make his escape, he had lost all ardor to do so. Even if the owner had bandaged him, signalling to Elias that a good soul lived here, that observation didn’t guarantee survival.

Either way, Elias had spited God for a moment before this about his continual consciousness, and having it cut once and for all by any other means had comforted him; God had the chance to do so in that lake before Ibarra came diving in — He had the chance in the river once more, with the Guardia Civil, but now? In this small, peculiar hut that slightly reminded him of his own in the depths of the forest?

He prayed that God would have mercy.

Indeed, it seemed like He heard his prayers because as soon as Elias thought of that, the door before him opened, revealing an old man carrying more herbal medicine and intensifying the scent in the room. Elias’ nostrils burned when the man opened his mouth.

“How are you feeling?”

“Who are you?”

To reply to a question with another question was surely an instigator for a tense exchange. Regardless, the man answered calmly, “Old Selo. My granddaughter found you wounded on the shore.”

Elias looked down at himself. It was only now that he realized he had been redressed along with having been bandaged. “… I can’t thank you enough.”

Old Selo put down the medicine next to the bedside table. “I’ve introduced myself, but I shall spare you the same question. How are you feeling?”

“My shoulder hurts and I’m slightly dizzy, but I’m mostly alright.” Elias put a hand on his forehead and furrowed his brow at its concerning heat; when it came to swimming in such dangerous waters, it was natural that he would at least catch an illness other than a wound.

In response to this, Old Selo gestured to two remedies, “Take these for your head,” he said before pointing to a third one. “… And this for your wound.”

Elias put his hand down, nodded then took the first out of the two remedies for his headache first. “I’m afraid I would have to make my leave before the morning. Are my clothes dry?”

“Your pants are, yes. Your hat is intact as well.”

Elias looked down. After such an adrenaline rush, it was only natural for such an obvious thing to escape him. “Do you have a spare artillery? A bolo would do, really — I’m afraid I’ve lost my defenses.”

Old Selo nodded. “It’s only natural, yes. I’ll go look if I have any,” he said before he turned to leave.

Elias, however, opted to comment. “I can’t thank you enough; your kindness is unnecessary — odd, really, as I’m but a wounded stranger who you could’ve easily left to die.”

“If one would see you as a threat, then he must be truly paranoid.”

It was true — whilst even without weapons, Elias could certainly put up a fight, but with him in his current state, practically missing his other arm, he was no one but a mere victim of lead. “I could very much steal from you once you’ve handed me a blade, mind.”

“You don’t read to me as a man who would do such a thing.”

Elias only looked to the ground. “… Have you seen another injured man in the forest you found me in?”

Old Selo shook his head and Elias only considered this lack of proof as evidence in and of itself; however, such things are only speculation — two days hadn’t passed and their planned meeting hadn’t reached its date yet. Nevertheless, Elias thinned his lips and tightened his grip on the banana leaf that stored the cure to one of his ailments. Taking Elias’ silence as a chance to leave, Old Selo did so and shut the door behind him to go look for a spare blade.

Once Elias took the prescribed medicine, he returned, with, just as Elias specified, a bolo in hand with its blade wrapped in a sheath of cloth. Elias bowed his head and thanked him, taking the blade from Old Selo’s hands, saying once more that the man was too generous whilst he refused such statements.

“I’ll be sure to remember this.” Elias wrapped his weapon around his waist with the second, longer layer of cloth it was covered with. “I shall rest here for a while, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Certainly — go ahead; I figured that the boy who sleeps in this room would take a while to return.”

Elias nodded and thanked the man once more.

Before dawn broke, Elias left, just like he promised and wandered through the forest, vigilant and more sensitive to the most minute of noises than usual, with a constant grip on his bolo’s hilt just in case. In spite of the old man's generous hospitality, he couldn't risk him being caught between the crossfire of the Guardia Civil’s aim and him, the hunted fugitive for years and counting (at least, for as long as he still roamed the lands); he knew that with the lack of his body floating up shore would surely put them on high alert, never relenting until they found solid proof of his death. He continued journeying to his and Ibarra's spot, slightly crouched with a constant scan of his surroundings in all directions. He hardly slept and only rested when he, even with his steel resolve to never let down his guard, couldn't fight against the exhaustion weighing down his eyes. Elias didn't lie on the ground, though, out of risk that a band of thieves might mistake him for a dead body and loot him of his weapon.

He noted the passage of time through the rise and fall of light and dark, much like his predecessors often did and eventually, on the second rise of the moon, he reached Ibarra’s grandfather’s tomb, hope and acceptance filling his heart; hope, for the fact that perhaps — perhaps if there was no trick of fate, then Ibarra would be there, and acceptance, for the fact that such tragedy was inescapable, even if Elias writhed and resisted its grasp.

Eventually, Elias had arrived at the tomb, now with a burnt pile of firewood still emanating smoke — evident signs that this had burned recently.

He paused, searched the darkness and slowly, steadily, akin to an anchor weigh dropping into the waters, a bitter sprout planted itself in his throat and revealed itself to be the weed of dread.

The first thing Elias thought was what to do with himself from henceforth; it was a horrible thing to be left with one’s devices when one assumed death would take him a day earlier. If he were a dead man walking before the chase at the river, then would he be considered to be a lost soul, looking for purgatory in his pitiful state? He thought about the state of Capitan Pablo, and the lost opportunity for him to feel of use when death bound men to rationality. He knew God guided him, but knowing the fact never lightened the weight of loss — the sheer baffled state Elias could only foresee himself trudging through the world until he finds another Ibarra — another person to devote himself to because what else would a man like him do, in his current state, for himself?

Elias let out a shuddered breath and it was only when he felt the rough ground dig into his knees that he realized he had keeled over — the will in him to get up seemingly burnt to a crisp akin to the firewood before him. It seemed as if once he set his eyes upon the scene, his strength had joined the pile as well, like it had always been there when it was made, even if Elias didn’t know it. The weed imbedded in his throat urged for him to cry out, to follow the way it dried his words and left him with screams, as even the most eloquent of men would find it unnecessary to turn to his words to let out the tension in him; when faced with such grief, it was only appropriate to turn back to the noises one made when he was born, crying out for his mother — his family and all the people that made him feel that first instance of warmth.

But, Elias didn’t let himself do such a thing out of necessity and for the simple fact that even if he wanted to rekindle that memory’s flame, he would only end up putting it out with his own tears, dampening the light.

Elias had lived like a phantom then and proceeded to haunt the lands now.

Here he was again, in the same state he was when he found out that he truly lost everything, save for the fact that back then, his sheer want for vengeance drove him. Now, though, the fire had long extinguished and had been put out ever since he chose to drop the blade and dive into the Pasig river — all for the sake of one man whose fate he only assumed from burnt firewood and his lack of appearance; the very same man who had ties to the same family whom he swore he would cease their bloodline by his own hand. It was astounding how willing Elias was for Ibarra to simply hold that much power over him, and it was only now that he recognized the fact. But, it was only natural, for when it came to weighing his worth compared to another, the other would always tip the scale.

If the Elias from then would discover how easily his resolve would crumble when it came to the decisive moment that entailed him allowing himself death if only he would accomplish it, then he would say that if he was always such a coward, then why wouldn’t he turn himself in to the Guardia Civil? He thought about himself years ago, blinded by rage and dreaming of the ways he would go about his massacre; after gathering enough information, he would then integrate himself in the family as a servant, gaining their trust only to sabotage their drinks or any of their consumables with poison. There were less subtle strategies, of course, involving him slitting their heirs’ throats and scenes of him, high of joy and fulfilment, even as lead chased him down to his demise.

And then, a couple of years later, here came his target — wretchedly his savior, when he was ready for the crocodile's jaws to hinge down on him. It was the fact that Ibarra had saved his life, and Elias had to return the same that cut his resolve, as easily as that without him ever knowing or resisting.

Elias tightened his fist and punched the ground, finding a slither relief at the way the fallen branches cut through his skin and made him bled.

Even then, the pain was never enough to release his frustrations.

Days had passed (Elias wasn’t sure how many; he had stopped observing the rise and fall of the moon) and yet instead of finding some other place to take shelter in, Elias had decided to stay in the place in which its mere sight caused him such dread — at least, until he regathered his reigns.

There were instances, when he walked through the inbetweens of consciousness and sleep, wherein he considered whether he should put his bolo to use and end his pitiful life already, as an act of mercy-killing. Though, no matter how much he held onto his weapon’s hilt, and tightened his grip with a sense of self-assuredness that this was, indeed, finally the pivotal moment, Elias never thrust its blade into himself; he had still waited for a sign wherein all mystery regarding him still living were revealed, be it through the constellations or in the song of the leaves.

In the end, Elias closed his eyes and inevitably, loosened his grip on the blade.

He had run away from himself like he did to Ibarra — had dropped the decision once the opportune moment came.

Perhaps his resolve had always been weak and his rage driving him before only made it seem strong; it was these thoughts that ruminate in his mind every time the moon ruled the land, for one, brief moment. During this, Elias amused himself with the thought that the bright rock above was the true Governor General, and prayed for this absurdity to be true, for it was during the night that such truths get illuminated.

He slept, awoke still drowsy and repeated this.

From henceforth, Elias had resigned himself to simply observe from the depths of the forest, as he usually did before Ibarra, but with less fervor in gaining information about the Eibarramendias. Eventually, he lost his fervor in maintaining himself as well by letting go of his habit to shave his facial hair for the sake of keeping himself in line and reminding him that, indeed, time had passed; he didn’t care much about such things now, but he still made sure to trim his hair with his blade — what else would he do with it save for taking his own life or self-defense? For why he chose to cut his hair instead of shaving, it boiled down to the weather and the simple fact that if moved, he might as well dug his blade deeper into himself; such temptations gave no favor to him, though, as he would’ve been forcing fate’s hand.

On some days, while he was hunting for his food, he got cornered by bandits and on others, not so much. With his experience and physical strength, though, they gave him no problems save for slight annoyance at their regular interventions. Eventually, there came a brigade of them, the same ones who regularly ambushed him in the river, asking for peace and if he could join them.

“You keep sparing us, see. And it would be a shame if someone as strong as you would be against us.”

“What do you fight for?” was Elias’ response to this.

The man answered and Elias paused, before nodding.

Thirteen years spilled over into the sea and along with it, came rumors floating to shore.

In these years, Elias had joined and helped a group travel and live somewhere relatively safe until their death — a fate caused not by lead or execution, but by age or natural disease. It was during this that Elias became the family’s (not related by blood, but Elias refers to them as such nonetheless) food gatherer and defense, gathering information on possible threats, much like he did so all those years ago. It turned out that living alone, silently seething with a thirst for vengeance until even the passion ran out, had its benefits, as it was through this that Elias had sharpened his senses in the face of nature herself.

From the rumor mill, though, were words of a peculiar fellow about to stop in town — Elias learnt of this during his brief visits to the nearby town from where the family resided, looking for food and medicine not even the wildlife could provide him with.

“Simoun’s route will pass by here, yes?” A lady beside him had said to her friend as he checked the produce before him. Because of their distance, it was only natural for him to pick up snippets of their conversation.

“Oh! That no-good jeweller, is that right?”

“His supposed ‘Black Eminence,’ indeed — the fellow hovering by the Governor General’s shoulder, really!”

It was the mention of the Governor General that Elias started to pay more attention to their words.

He pretended to be absorbed in the tomato’s quality, picking up and putting down the red things ever so often to keep his façade up. Simoun was a man who, as aptly labelled by these women, collected and sold rare jewels — these historical artifacts, having traveled the world with him in velvet briefcases, only seeing the light whenever the time was right for him to show his collection. What was important, though, was his sheer influence. If he heard correctly, the man would most likely be stopping somewhere before the town — the exact in-between where the family lived. Eventually, Elias bought the needed produce and left, with a fact that could be useful in the future.

Indeed, His Black Eminence had stopped by the family’s house, asking with such impertinence whether they had a room to spare. Elias had watched the whole scene from afar, slightly suspicious of him, as one would, knowing Simoun’s dubious background and apparent relation to the Governor General; he was a vein in the complex body of the government — the very same body that rotted from its inside.

At that thought, Elias remembered him, in the somewhat faded memory of his voice, shoulders shaking with sheer passion and rage at the realization of the truth that he had been blind.

And then, for a brief moment, as Simoun spoke to the supposed father of the family, their gazes met — he, Elias, near the window and Simoun, ways away near his carriage and the path that led up to the house.

In spite of their distance and the dark glasses Simoun donned (that added up Elias’ assumption of him being a suspicious figure), Elias had to dig his fingers into his palm, trying to hide his shudder at the sudden chill in the air.

“Is he your guard?” Elias heard Simoun ask, in a peculiar accent that always struck Elias as odd for less obvious reasons, gesturing towards him; he pretended not to notice and looked away.

Perhaps he should start cutting firewood about now.

He then started to go further into the forest, trying to pay no mind to the sear on his back and the odd tug in his memory.

The morning after that encounter, Elias had then watched Simoun set up his impromptu market stall for his jewels, ordering his servants to do this and that with a natural cadence for orders. The first thought in his mind when it came to his antics was, of course: ‘How unbearable!’ It baffled Elias to see him do such a thing — to treat the space before their house as some sort of small market rather than a path leading to a home; one that should’ve been peaceful and clear of ruckus, mind. Then again, he supposed that if one was used to being part of a vein for the government, one would naturally gain the arrogance when it came to flaunting or using one’s power. Indeed, Simoun’s behavior was not too different from the friars’ near town.

During this display, Elias had cut wood and the only view he got of Simoun was his broad back and the occasional profile. Once the display was complete and all that Simoun had to do was wait for customers, much like yesterday, he turned, gazed at Elias, then smiled.

Elias hacked down a piece of wood.

What was concerning, though, was Simoun’s sudden approach, forcing Elias to stay put lest he make an impression for being skittish if he ran away because of his simple step towards him. Eventually, the distance between them was closed, just enough for the one to hear the other’s words.

Elias looked up and Simoun was still smiling, hands clasped behind his back as he peered over him; the sun gleamed behind his head, but in spite of that, Simoun never reflected its bright radiance back — it was a case of nature and positions.

“Could I help you, sir?”

“Forgive me for approaching you for such menial terms like having a conversation partner.” Simoun doffed his hat.

So, that was it.

“I don’t mind, sir.” There came the formality once more — second nature when it came to talking to men like him. Elias got another piece of wood to chop down. “You may talk and I shall listen or respond if needed.”

Simoun hummed. “I suppose you’re the type to not pay attention to rarities at all?”

“Naturally, as I could only dream of affording such a thing.”

“No lover to speak of to give them to?”

Elias let out a laugh, though it would be more apt to call it a huff of amusement. Even then, he couldn’t help but be entertained at such assumptions that he would have a life more than what he resigned himself to; he had even adopted a new name, for his real one would doom him if uttered, and why would he throw away the family’s peace because of his faults? “No, sir.”

“Is that so?” Simoun looked around. “Well, you ought to browse, anyway! The gems have a lot of history to them.”

Elias shook his head. “Such things don’t interest me, sir, but I thank you for your offer, anyhow.”

“Very well, very well,” Simoun said, then turned around only to face Elias once more. “May I get your name?” He asked this and yet he never introduced himself, even for the sake of formalities. Elias had a feeling Simoun assumed he already knew him and he was right — such things were unnecessary.

"Why so?"

"Why the suspicion?"

Elias looked down. “You talk as if we would meet again.”

“Well, perhaps we would, perhaps we wouldn’t,” Simoun said. “Nevertheless, I want to know you, even if I met you through the briefest of conversations.”

Elias paused. But, before he could open his mouth, the sound of an ever growing crowd surrounding Simoun’s makeshift market stall caught their attention, interrupting any further conversation lest a bad actor would steal Simoun’s jewels. In spite of Elias’ lack of reply and the interruption, Simoun turned back to him, smiling nonetheless.

“Well, no matter! It was a pleasure to be your acquaintance.” Simoun clasped his hands, bowed then made his way to the crowd.

The next day, Simoun promptly left, not without meeting Elias’ gaze once more and doffing his hat. Elias, in response, only turned away, something tugging at his memory once more; perhaps he shall dedicate a portion of his hours to uncovering the mystery that was that sense.

Months floated their way into the river leading to the sea of time and on the night of Christmas Eve, as he made his way to Ibarra’s grave (omitting its past history) to pay his respects, he overheard a peculiar conversation between a man and Simoun.

In the end, he hadn’t continued his journey, for another sprout of emotion had implanted itself into his throat and furthered its roots to kill off any sense of resolve Elias had, replacing it with sheer shock.

The sun was on its way down when Simoun finished talking with the ex-schoolmaster, the golden sky mellowing down as he made his way out of the forest thicket. Everything was going as planned, he mused to himself, careful not to take a wrong step and risk causing too much of a ruckus — not that anyone would have seen him, anyhow. Now that the ex-schoolmaster was updated with his plan, all that he had to do was wait until a telegram arrived and wait some more until the time was just right for his beloved, lest something would go wrong, then he would certainly not hesitate on using his current prototype, fast-approaching its completion.

Simoun shuddered a breath, the thrill of the booming shots resounding from the towns after that pivotal bang rushing through his veins as if his fantasy was truly happening; patience, though, is a virtue for a reason, so he forced his excitement to lay low and pretend like he didn’t itch for such vengeance to place itself upon his lap the moment he made his way back into the road — perhaps even finding its way to him in his carriage. The moment was closing in, though — closing in for him to enact justice on his own terms and to immortalize his love once and for all. He promised it to himself all those years ago, after he had lost everything and haunted the world, watching time tighten its chokehold on him every time he caught his reflection in windows or puddles — he wouldn’t allow himself to leave this earth until he had began the operation without the common medicine, as for such a thing to be successful, one must endure a risky operation’s pains.

Soon, he thought, as images of a father’s cry for his son, a beautiful woman framed by flowers behind her, a tender hand upon his own and a ripple of water as a man dived into its blue blurred together. Just as he was about to turn and walk towards the forest’s exit, Simoun paused, a prickle in his neck freezing him in place.

He didn’t need to turn to know that someone held a blade behind him.

“Well, what is it, then? Do you need money? Jewels? I’m afraid I didn’t plan on selling my findings today,” Simoun said to his mysterious bandit, still facing away. He had been so used to these sorts of predicaments that he had developed a habit of treating them with boredom — who cared if he got robbed, anyhow? Much like many businessmen, he had no sentiments when it came to his jewels, save for the fact that they were the basis of his influence, helping him get by with little labor save for the lip service and smooth talk, shilling people to buy, buy, buy. At the very least, they held no risk to him. He could get stripped of his influence by today, really, but did it matter? He still held a grip on the ones running on rage, much like he was.

“I have no need for such materialistic things.”

Simoun turned and, at the sight of his hostager and his blade, smiled. “Why, it’s you again!” he doffed his hat, but he remained as is, holding his bolo steady, aiming at his throat. “You ought to put that down, you know.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need you to answer me and not run away.”

“What’s your inquiry? I don’t have all day, mind.”

“… I’ve heard your conversation with a man in San Diego’s forest,” he said. “Tell me, is it true?”

“What, exactly?”

“Don’t play with me — you know what I’m talking about.”

“I know that, my dear pilot.” Simoun dropped his accent and Elias’ eyes widened. “… Or should I not call you that anymore?”

Elias tensed and Simoun saw him waver, a slight tremor in his grip. Nevertheless, his voice was steady, “Had you known who I was?”

Simoun now faced him, hands clasped behind his back. “All those months ago, yes. I was wondering where you would go after seeing me. I was expecting for you to follow me, perhaps.”

“Then, you’ve remembered our last conversation wrong!” Elias shook and Simoun couldn’t help but feel pity for how such revelations transformed into emotions that seized even the most resolute of men.

Simoun put a hand on Elias’ wrist and lowered it, doing so with surprising ease. “Now, now. I’ll put down your blade for you as you compose yourself. I was truly joyed when I recognized you, my friend!”

“Explain yourself!”

Simoun frowned. “Doing such a thing here may risk us — it’s not even as late as it could be.” Elias thrusted his bolo up, but with Simoun’s grip, he could only do so much. Simoun stepped back, continuing. “My estate; I will do so there. Understood?”

In response, Elias heaved his breaths, and looked to the ground, the hand on his blade shaking.

Reading Elias’ yielding, Simoun smiled. Even then, his dear friend still had the skill to restrain himself on such actions — to know when it was appropriate to fight and keep one’s mouth shut; regardless of his background, Elias was a smart man and because of this, Simoun found it integral to keep him on good terms — the same terms that made their bond possible. Or, would it be more apt to say that these conditions made Elias and Ibarra’s connection a functional one? They were tip-toeing regions of knowing and not knowing the other, but in spite of this, Simoun chose the former and from Elias’ words now, he chose the same thing as well.

“Come, then.”

Thus, he led Elias out of the thicket and attempted to help him up in his carriage, offering a hand but getting ignored.

The ride home was tense with silence — the air, permeating with unspoken words and as of yet unreleased emotions.

Here was Elias, sitting beside him, body feeling somewhat rigid to Simoun, as if he held his breath rather than let himself relax into his seat; this was further cemented by the ever so present grip he had on his bolo’s hilt.

“You don’t have to be so guarded,” was Simoun’s comment once he noted the sight.

In response, Elias only tightened his grip and Simoun looked out the window.

It was evident time had its toll on both of them, with its proof being more evident on Simoun rather than Elias, who now sported a beard — his hair, still roughly the same length it was at when Simoun last saw him. Had he been maintaining it, he wondered? Elias seemingly kept his grooming routine all those years ago, save for the one concerning his facial hair and all that his habit did was intensify his rugged edges — the same ones he had back then.

With the moon high up in the sky, the carriage stopped before his estate’s door and Simoun got out, offering a hand for Elias once more only for him to pay no heed to the offer, opting to use the carriage’s sides as support. Giving his hat to the servant who greeted him, Simoun led Elias to his study, the other man still silent (though, he supposed that was in his nature) as they walked up the stairs until Simoun opened the door and shut it behind him.

“Explain yourself,” Elias repeated, emotion somewhat simmering, though evident in the way he shuddered it out.

“It’s been a long time, my friend,” Simoun said, dropping his accent.

Elias only glared, his gaze piercing through Simoun’s back even as he got his pipe from his desk, fishing for his matchbox in his pocket.

“So, you’ve heard me and that boy,” Simoun continued, taking advantage of Elias’ silence. “He was quite the frustrating sight. But, if you’ve heard us, then surely there’s nothing for me to explain to you, no? He knows my one weakness and therefore, there was nothing for me to hide — the grave was in the more mythic side of the forest, after all, so no one barely goes there. Save for us three for sentimental reasons, of course.”

“I’m aware of that, sir,” Elias said, voice wavering. “I need you to explain why you chose to go through such… such lengths! I’ve sacrificed for you, sir — I was willing to die that day only for me to live and curse at God, asking why He would spare me instead of you, whom I thought had died because of your lack of appearance and the burnt firewood!”

Simoun only shook his head, pausing as he filled his pipe with tobacco before he struck a match, lighting it up. In the corner of his eye, Elias shook and pity filled his heart, the same one he assumed had been unfeeling for the past thirteen years. Once he exhaled smoke, he replied, “It seems like I wasn’t the only one who had lost something that day.”

Elias started, “This isn’t the time for such comments, sir! That last thing I want to be hearing from you is you, implying that I’ve lost a handful of my mental faculties!” His hand tightened on his bolo’s hilt once more. Had he been holding on that thing the entire time as they went up? Simoun let out a laugh, which seemed to only push Elias further to the edge of whatever cliff he stood on.

“I jest, I jest,” Simoun waved and sat down. “I suggest that you take a deep breath and calm down. I know you’re overwhelmed, and so am I; I could see your emotions pour out through the way you seem to anchor yourself on your poor blade. If it helps, why don’t you take a swing at me? I wouldn’t mind getting a scar or two — such pains are only temporary, of course.”

Elias clenched his fist and put his arm down and a tinge of disappointment made Simoun frown. “What has become of you, sir? I had never thought that you’d humor yourself like this.”

“Perhaps it was always in my nature to get my kicks off such topics.” Simoun inhaled smoke once more. “What surprises and, well, disappoints me is that even you don’t seem to understand why I’m like this. Did we not travel the same path?”

“The difference between you and I, sir, is that I hadn’t allowed such losses to corrupt my heart.”

“So, it’s a debate about the heart, then. I see,” Simoun said. He looked at Elias. “Are you trying to convince me to yield?”

“You’ve admitted to doing such deplorable acts upon our countrymen, sir — of course I’m trying to convince you to do so!”

Simoun frowned. “Time has widened the chasm between us, dear friend. What a shame that it all led up to this, especially when I was restraining myself from exclaiming when I saw you once more.”

“And it’s a shame that you hadn’t followed my advice,” Elias said. “Why had you not stayed elsewhere? Why had you not formed another life in Europe instead? Had you not gained your reputation there?”

Simoun paused as he smoked his pipe, before exhaling smoke once more, “I didn’t want to be cowardly.”

“‘Cowardly!’” Elias repeated, letting out a mirthless laugh. “If you hadn’t let your wants blind you, then you would’ve understood that it was a wise one.” Simoun furrowed his brow at this and even the tobacco didn’t soothe the irritation that coursed through him. How could his dear friend misunderstood him? Surely he knew he did everything for his country if he listened during him and Basilio’s conversation. Elias continued, “Were you not the same man who promised me happiness in return for my devotion?”

“And were you not the same man who devoted himself to me?” Simoun said. “I, too, assumed I had lost you that day and what else would I do with myself if I knew my beloved was gone and you had died because of me? Would you truly board some ship to Europe and find another name, woman and friend, all while their names writhed for vengeance?”

“The man I swore my life to was Crisóstomo Ibarra, sir.”

Simoun regarded Elias; his shoulders had stopped shaking the more they debated amongst themselves and the tone he used with his words were steady — a resolute one that even Simoun, with his disbelief at the current state of his friend, could acknowledge that Elias was sure of himself when he said this.

There was a pause before Simoun said, “And I am not him?”

“You’ve renounced your true name for the sake of survival,” Elias continued. “What ties do I have to you now save for the knowledge that I knew who you were? I’ve said this before and I’ll say it once more: I will not follow you myself.”

Silence.

Simoun frowned. “Well?”

“That is all.”

“What a shame.” Simoun shook his head. “Oh, my offer for you to swing at me is still applicable, mind. My pain tolerance has gone up to the point I could say that even if you stabbed me here, I’d die without feeling a thing. Go on — I can prove it to you.” He stood up and opened his arms, but Elias backed away. Simoun met his gaze, disbelief and anger speaking the truth in spite of Elias’ calm words. “… Or do you not want to finish what you started all those years ago?” He lowered his voice.

Rage flashed in Elias' eyes, but it never boiled over. He looked down at the ground, a habit Simoun sensed where it came from.

“… I’m leaving, sir.”

“So soon?” Simoun closed the distance between them. Elias stiffened at his footsteps, but he never stepped back any further. “What about dinner?”

“I’ve done… all that is necessary.”

“But I don’t think I’ve done so yet.” Simoun tried to look at Elias’ face, but he turned away. He stepped back and sighed. “Is this goodbye?”

Elias met his gaze. “We’ll walk separate paths from now on, sir,” he said. “But, we’ll meet again.”

“You’re aware that I could very much kill you now, no?”

“I’ve grown used to paying no heed to my life.”

Simoun smiled. “If that’s the case, then…” He forced Elias onto the door, caging him with his arms and forcing the air out of him. “… Convince me.” He grabbed Elias’ wrist and flipped him over in spite of him trying to back away. “Fight for my yield.”

“Sir!” Elias choked out, swinging his hand at Simoun only to be stopped by his grip on his wrists. In retaliation, he kicked back at Simoun’s shin, making him loosen his grip.

Before Simoun knew it, Elias had shoved him away, leaving him scrambling to balance himself. Simoun groaned.

“Oh, you’re still quite energetic from before.” Simoun hunched over, rubbing his injured leg.

“I’ve already excused myself, sir. What could you possibly gain from assaulting me when I’m about to leave?” Elias caught his breath.

“Just testing you; just seeing.”

“Seeing if I would put my blade up before you again?” Elias spat out. “If you want to hurt yourself, then do so without my assistance!”

“Who said anything about such things?” Simoun got up. “It was a simple experiment — your assumptions could be so hurtful, my friend.”

Elias said nothing, but Simoun heard him through the way he clenched his jaw, a flash of something furrowing his brow before it disappeared just like that.

“Have you lost your faith in me?” Simoun walked towards Elias, but much like last time, the reply never came and his hat had shadowed his face. Simoun let out a slight laugh and a low voice, said, “You chose to jump back then, didn't you? Did you not foresee my fate from my words? Perhaps you’ve forgotten or misheard as well.”

“I’ve overstayed my welcome tonight, sir.” Elias put a hand on the door handle. “Goodnight.”

Before Simoun could reply, Elias had left through the door, forcing him to stare at the space he was once at. Simoun stayed there for a while, before breaking the silence with a sigh and sauntering off back to his desk.

There, he thought and wondered.

Elias left the estate with a slight stagger — not because Simoun had injured him, but because he had to support himself as he walked with the weight of the burden that was the realization that the chasm between them became a continent. He paid no heed to the odd look he got from the servant waiting by the door as he heaved his breaths, clutching his chest and forcing it to be his sole reminder that indeed, this was reality in spite of how much his world spun, akin to the dreams he had. Contrary to his disbelief then and even now, the eyes that lie behind those shaded glasses were the same ones that lighted with a passion only naïvety could grant. Would it be cowardly for him to admit that he was relieved he never took them off, lest he would have less of a hold on his will?

He continued walking with a hand on the wall and the dizziness that plagued him turned into a want to lurch out the bile that crawled up and settled at the back of his tongue. He was grateful he refused Simoun’s invitation to dinner, as regardless if he ate at his home, the want to throw up would always follow him out the door, and all the dishes he had (if appetite was possible) would go to waste — a natural progression of the emotions that toiled within him. Elias moved the hand that clutched his chest to cover his mouth, fearing that he’d sully the streets with his vomit before he got back to the forest. And he didn’t even get the chance to refuse Simoun’s carriage ride back. At the thought of the journey back, his stomach lurched. Knowing their conversation, though, Elias sensed that his want to throw up would intensify because of his distance — even his self-control being useless in the face of emotion.

In spite of that, Elias had fought back when it came to Simoun’s behavior; he hadn’t done so in the expected sense, but he resisted when it came to the obvious taunts — the goads and the reminder both of them only knew: “… Or do you not want to finish what you started all those years ago?”

Elias slammed his fist down at the wall, making him the brief subject of other people’s stares at the sudden action. Then, he began walking again, relieved of the memory only to be replaced with a more urgent need to empty his stomach. Simoun had said everything he had to say and confirmed Elias’ suspicions, but even then, could he possibly believe in the delusions he had fostered? He had dropped his accent once he knew who he was talking to, and yet he found it necessary to play the role of His Black Eminence — the devil in the details — in front of him; his eyes remained shadowed, but a flash of truth reflected upon them anyway. Elias quickened his pace back to the thicket as instinct’s urgency flared within him.

Here he was again — in denial of even the most obvious facts presented to him for the sake of his heart. He was playing the fool once more, like he did all those years ago! Had he not learned when it came to this man? Or did his simple belief that with fate, God should handle such things hindered him? The urge to curse Him screamed in his veins once more, but the moment he reached the forest’s beginnings, he had lurched over and vomited, emptying his stomach of his rage and all the things that made up despair.

Distance was needed between him and Simoun in order for Elias to regather himself; it was only natural after the sheer state Simoun left him in after their conversation — if it could be classified as such with the lack of listening on Simoun’s end. Nevertheless, after Elias composed himself, he went on doing what he sought to do: being the ever so present observer from the shadows and putting out flames where he saw fit before they would ever combust from the revolution’s oil — easing the bitterness of those who lost the most and helping them up in order to not be corrupted to the point where they held the same pessimism as Simoun.

They hadn’t talked to each other face to face ever since that day.

That was, until the initial date of the pivotal moment came.

Elias asked for the estate’s master before him to the servant at the door just like always — just like before. What surprised him, though, was the servant’s response.

“Mr Simoun? He’s currently bedridden, sir.”

“‘Bedridden?’” Elias regarded the servant with a bewildered look. Had he been injured? Though, knowing his reputation, it was natural for him to have enemies out for his blood.

“Oh, no, not in that way, sir.” The servant shook his head. “His body is in good health. It’s difficult to explain, sir, but take my word for it — ”

“ — No, no, let him up.”

And then, the supposed bedridden man appeared before the door, leaning on its frame with a tell-tale flush — his hair, more unkempt than usual; this time, there was no barrier hiding his eyes.

Liquor wafted towards Elias.

“Sir! You shouldn’t be up and about!” The servant tried to help Simoun up, but he refused his offer with a hand.

Simoun shook his head, then beckoned Elias in. “Come, now.” He didn’t wait for Elias to follow him up, already climbing up the stairs to his room as soon as the words left him with slightly staggered steps and a sway.

Seemingly baffled in the same way Elias was, the servant took a while before he stepped aside, allowing Elias to enter.

When Elias stepped into Simoun’s bedroom, Simoun’s back was faced towards him; the first thing Elias noted other than that, was the two bottles of wine, chilled by a bucket along with supposedly empty ones sitting next to it. He couldn’t tell how much Simoun drank from the way the bottles’ contents were shadowed, but with how alcohol clung to his person and had an evident effect on him, he could tell it had been a while.

“Have you come to mock me?” Simoun broke the silence, still facing away from him. His voice was low and it was only through the miracle of silence that Elias was able to piece together this.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Yes, yes!” Simoun turned, revealing that he’d been holding a half-empty glass, eyes wide as some form of manic spirit overtook him and shook his tone. “I see that you’re as sharp as ever!”

“What happened, sir?”

Simoun paused, then lowered his drink, still smiling oddly. “What happened today? Could you remind me, my friend?”

The endearment grazed Elias’ skin and made him grimace, but he answered with a steady voice, “I heard that the signal was scheduled for today; many men died because of your indecision. You were responsible for them, and yet you’re here, partaking in drink when you haven’t won or lost anything.”

Simoun put up a finger and pointed at him, shaking his head. “Your intellect hasn’t failed you yet, my friend,” he said, “but you’re wrong on one point.” Taking advantage of the silence, he continued. “You’ve missed news — town gossip! Have you been too caught up in the foliage? A dove died today! A dove! A beautiful dove!” In the midst of his words, he broke out into laughter — the type one could only muster when one realized that he, truly, was on the brink of despair; his laugh wasn’t hollow, as it was filled only with one’s amusement at one’s demise. Elias’ reply died before he could think of one, appalled at this display and the realization that, indeed, the man he knew years ago had died in that very river that turned him into a ghost. “I’ve been toiling to save her, you know — toiling on ways on how I could do so whilst taking those… damned fools down and give them what they deserve!

“She lived for thirteen years without knowing that I lived for her — lived in misery and cursed God in spite of being in a nunnery. And, in a cruel act of fate, He took her from me before I could give her joy.”

“I understand your grievances, but to sacrifice so many lives for the sake of one is borderline blasphemous!”

“Oh, I’ve renounced Him a long time ago, my friend,” Simoun bitterly laughed. “You tell me this, and yet if you and I exchange lives, I guarantee you’d do the same for the sake of saving your lover.”

“You’re simply plastering your ideals onto me, sir,” Elias bit out. “If such a tragedy struck me, I would choose another route that wouldn’t compromise anyone who had no fault.”

Simoun began to walk toward him and Elias still met his gaze as he approached him like some form of predator sizing up his prey. “You’re a noble man, my friend; a noble man with matching ideals! But, the fact is that they’re useless in the face of this climate, which is doomed with a wretched ailment until a good doctor realizes and begins the painful, yet necessary process of curing her. You do realize one could only wait for so long until one dies from illness? You’ve seen how I tried to be patient and go about enlightenment through less violent means, and yet look at where it landed me — dishonored and my future wife, miserable!” Then, he grabbed Elias’ shoulder with a vice grip and shook him. “‘Curse that wicked Crisóstomo Ibarra! Curse him and his father with their values only whispered by the devil!’ Am I wrong? That’s what they say all the time, no?”

There was a crazed look in his eyes that if any other man had been seized by him, he would surely fall onto his knees and start begging for mercy, but Elias only clenched his jaw, anchoring himself by clenching his fists.

Simoun continued, “You’re honorable! Yes, you are and yet, you’ve made a mistake.” He shook his head and leaned closer, lowered his head a bit to whisper. Remnants of alcohol mingled in Simoun’s breath as his words brushed against Elias’ lips and, from Elias’ reaction alone, an outsider might as well assume Simoun had cut his mouth. “You’ve doomed both of us when you chose to spare me. When the opportunity came for you to betray me, you’ve made another mistake. I ask you again: why had you jumped when you could’ve foresaw my fate?”

Elias froze as a shudder not even he could suppress wracked down his spine. Simoun moved the hand on his shoulder lower and now, his palm rested on his hip, just above where his blade lay.

A pause came and went before Elias replied, in a similar tone to Simoun’s as to not shatter the strange fragility in the air.

For why he wanted the fragility to continue, he wasn’t sure himself.

Regardless, he spoke, “I saved you so you could have a chance at happiness — I’ve jumped in order for you to live.”

Simoun gazed at him. If Elias had looked into his eyes any longer, he might’ve read the glaze in his eyes as a flash of regret.

Elias continued, “Perhaps I thought that you would’ve heeded my warning. Then again, men like you would go through lengths to get what they want, regardless of the consequences.”

Simoun’s huff of amusement made Elias look up and it was during this that regret vanished from his eyes, replaced by cold irony. “You’ve become a ghost in vain,” he said, then unsheathed Elias only to offer the blade to him.

Elias saw his eyes widen in the steel.

“Why don’t you correct yourself today?”

“Sir — !”

“ — Oh, cease your exclamations, would you?” Simoun spat out. “Or do you want me to encourage you to do so? Do you prefer your fists? I could do that,” Simoun dropped the blade with a piercing clang. “You hesitated before and you keep repeating yourself! You said you’ve died for my sake, so why don’t you heed my wishes? You’ve followed my wants time and time again before — offered your body to me — “

Elias tensed. “ — Crisóstomo Ibarra died that day.”

“And I’m about to as well.”

Then, Simoun poured his wine onto the floor, its liquid splashing onto Elias’ feet. Elias flinched away at the sudden coldness, but before he could balance himself, Simoun rammed a fist into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Elias stumbled and tried to protect himself. There was a sharp shatter — it was the glass Simoun nursed, now splintered into pieces on the floor.

Elias watched Simoun turn to the bottles atop his bedside table and drink from one. Simoun staggered back to him, a fist aiming for his face, but Elias caught it. He rammed a knee into Simoun and he toppled backward.

Simoun hissed, “A prelude?”

It was an unknown force that made Elias snatch the bottle from Simoun and drink from it until the liquor spilt from his lips and dripped down his chin.

The bottle was empty by the time Elias finished.

When he met Simoun’s gaze again, he could see fire looking back at him.

It was the very same force that made Elias put down the bottle, clench his fists and shove Simoun onto his bed. There was a jibe from him — about how he expected for him to punch him first and then shove him, but Elias didn’t remember — he was already straddling him and, would it even be possible to burn his non-existent pride? He had already done so years ago — in that boat, when he let Ibarra pick him apart, crying on his nape, all the while Elias wondered to himself how far he would go with pleasuring him. He had defied his ancestors with a drop of the blade — a jump into the blue; what would they think of Elias, giving into him again, only this time, it was he who had done crimes against the common folk as well? There was a choice from God when Capitan Pablo had died, and yet Elias chose, followed, and he chose once more, and followed like a damned hound.

But, there was no room for shame to haunt him because Elias pulled apart Simon’s cravat and Simoun took off his shirt. Elias didn’t have to think anymore because the liquor was getting to him and made his vision swim; appreciating its scent was unnecessary — it was just all for show and why would they pretend to be decent men at this point? At some point, Elias decided to forgo caring about buttons and tore Simoun’s vest. Closing his eyes, he leaned down and closed the distance between them and tasted fruit and the zing of arousal. When Simoun’s tongue slipped into his mouth, that was when he loosened and realized the grip he had on his vest, losing a quarter of his strength in his bones, but fanning the flame of passion within him.

Elias ground his hips against Simoun’s erection, but before he could undo his trousers, he was underneath him. And now, Simoun stripped him bare as he ran his lips across his nape, collarbone and chest. There was no care when Simoun did this — no hesitation preluding passion and sorrow’s seize on him like before. If there was any melancholy, the liquor hid it well and what remained was an undiluted fire, hastened actions furthered on by a lack of restraint and a sense of competition; they hurt each other with their kisses and triumphed when one faltered because of pleasure — marked out their victory through bites and scratches on skin. Elias dug his nails into Simoun’s back — forced him close to him as Simoun took in Elias’ nipple and rolled his tongue against it.

His breath hitched and he turned to face the wall, wrapping his legs around Simoun’s waist to further trap him; it was like Elias was caving into himself all over again. At the very least, the small mercy God granted him was that he couldn’t see his face reflected back onto him, for the sight might’ve sober him and break down into tears, in distress for why he opted for sex instead of violence when sleeping with the enemy entailed an immediate loss. But he was here, and Simoun’s palm encompassed him. He held his chest here, groped him there, and now he was retracing his movements from all those years ago, leaving Elias in his mercy, liquid fire emblazoning his very skin.

Elias heaved his breaths by the time Simoun pulled away and much like before, watched him drink from a bottle on his bedside. His eyes were on the liquor dripping from Simoun’s chin when Simoun held his face and met his lips. First, there was the cool-warm wine; cool, from the ice and warm from Simoun’s mouth. Second, there was the liquor’s dizzying effect rushing through him once more — because of their position, Simoun forced him to drink, so he drank. Now, Simoun licked up the roof of Elias’ mouth and Elias shivered as he sought out more of the liquid, sucking Elias’ tongue. Elias fluttered his eyes shut; he lost his grip once more. Not the most resolute of man could resist the way arousal made him malleable. On a regular day, Elias was a fearless man who held his head high. On this hour, though, he was but a man driven by instinct not even he could trust, as liquor muddied his conscience.

Simoun pulled away, still holding Elias’ face and forcing his lips open. Elias felt it first: the warm, distinctly human sense of spit dripping onto his tongue. He held his breath as he burned — both from shame and searing arousal. His emotions fought with each other as he could do nothing but swallow, and this was Simoun’s way of marking him — of furthering the fact that he had been defeated long ago. Elias came apart — singed black like firewood, once burst aflame, only to be a hollow iteration of itself. A shiver ran down his very core.

Whether Simoun immediately reached for the bottle again or not, Elias had no care because cold liquid came dripping down his chest and Simoun licked the liquor up — drank him in. Was this what it meant to be drunk off someone? Elias thought as Simoun held his chest and rubbed circles onto a nipple, leaving him breathless as he uselessly clung onto him — more proof of his defeat. Simoun drank the wine from him, using the curves of his body to guide the liquid toward him and lick up what remained. There was the sound of metal clicking against each other, there was Simoun’s hands moving Elias’ up to the bedframe and now there was leather forcing his arms up; cold steel bit against Elias’ wrists.

Simoun trailed down, down and down, following the way liquor marked itself on Elias’ body. His lips had met his abdomen, naval, inner thigh and Simoun had to lift Elias’ legs to clean the wine that pooled beneath him, pulling out a moan out of Elias at the contact. Simoun met Elias’ gaze and it was easy to break out of the wretched cuffs he forced upon him, but there wasn’t any strength left in him — rather, there wasn’t any will. And curse God for neglecting to make man infallible; curse the Devil as well with his damned temptations for why must Simoun be the man that made him malleable? Why must Ibarra be the one who ceased every rational thought in his mind and made him decide it was worth it to grant one man happiness because the hilt of injustice had cut him?

Warmth pressed against Elias’ hole and he let Simoun lick into him, his thighs losing their strength, only for them to fall back against Simoun’s palm. Perhaps the reason trickled down to lightning remembering to zap down the tree once more. Elias closed his eyes and let Simoun take him apart, and apart, and apart. He hitched his breath when his tongue pressed against his warmth and did so again when Simoun’s fingers sank into him and thrusted up with his moves. Here he was: laid bare and unravelling by the second in that room as his head swam amidst Simoun’s skill. Elias didn’t know he ground his hips until he felt Simoun tighten his grip and hold him in place, pinned down by the dark.

To seemingly mock Elias’ predicament, Simoun trailed a hand to wrap it around Elias’ cock, meeting gazes with him as he slowly pumped his length. In his eyes, Simoun asked, What would you do when you’re pushed to the brink by me?

Elias’ answer was to close his eyes and endure the blazing heat that charred his skin.

At some point, Simoun left him and because of this, Elias fooled himself for a moment that perhaps it was over. He let out a shuddered breath and clenched his fists against the leather restraints. The want to dampen his cheeks gnawed at him, but before he could hold his tears back, there was a sound and Elias had to grapple with himself once more. He held his breath when Simoun entered him — endured the shiver wracking his body at the way pressure filled him and kissed up to where he felt its weight beneath his throat. Elias gasped as a drop of sweat trailed down his forehead.

Was it a matter of endurance because of Simoun’s touch or of the fact that he had dug his own grave and had to lie in it until their passions burnt out? In the pauses between Simoun’s thrusts, Elias remembered his bubbling conscience he forced back into the waters with the use of liquor and bodily pleasures; he retraced his steps from before — forgets this everytime Simoun fucked into his warmth and knocked the air out of him. His eyes glazed over, but now he was breathless; he thought of the boat and the grieving man’s hesitant touch, but now the man before him took and took.

Simoun mapped out Elias’ skin with a tongue — bit down and added more of his proofs onto him. Beneath Simoun’s palm, he left Elias in-between flinching away and aching for his touch. With Simoun, though, such contradictions occuring was only natural. Moments blended into one another and eventually, Simoun’s pace quickened and Elias, bearing his brunt, could only spill out moan after moan. Elias desperately clinged onto nothing and because of this, dug his nails deeper into his palms and worsened the leather’s bite (which felt like an extension of Simoun’s canines) against his wrists. Liquor eventually sent Simoun staggering his moves and Elias watched a drop of sweat trail down his flushed face as he hissed in breaths.

From there, Elias gazed at Simoun once more and a flickering flame met him.

But before Elias could let the sight sink into his memory, Simoun cried out and everything led up to this.

The tension within Elias built and built until the foundation that held him crumbled, leaving him with pieces of himself in a swift, yet agonizingly slow manner. Elias looked up at the ceiling as he took in Simoun’s warmth, taking in the remaining aftershocks of what happened to him — what he did to cause this. He closed his eyes and moaned in spite of himself when Simoun pulled out — it was a pathetic display, but if he lived like he did for so long, should he mind his pride?

There was a whisper that Elias only realized came from him when Simoun looked up.

He didn’t remember what he said or perhaps asked for, but Simoun’s lips were on him again; what made this the outlier was because Simoun didn’t seize him with this.

In a manner that suggested Simoun could hardly speak, he said against Elias’ lips, “Forget him.”

The correct answer to what Elias said was that it didn’t matter because everything ceased to be justifiable in the bedroom.

So, why must he know?

Elias woke up in the morning with an ache haunting him.

When he opened his eyes, the space next to him was empty and the evidence from last night, save for his very body and the room’s scent, had been cleared.

He rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling. In the midst of nothing, a hollow pain that had been numbed long ago made itself known.

Elias let himself unravel.