Chapter Text
A drawing of him and Rudo on the ceiling.
Regto blinked, deathly still on his back.
All he could focus on past the agonising throb that tore his stomach apart, his voice failing him as the perpetrator squatted between his spread legs stared down at him unseeingly behind the mask, pushing the broad sword further inside of him was the drawing of him and Rudo on the ceiling.
When did he make that? He drew that so well.
Regto’s eyes threatened to roll backwards, and yet, regardless of the pain that rocked him, the grip on his book didn’t weaken. Veins popped over the skin as the attacker on top of him seized his wrists, shoving him to get it. It would be challenging to clean up all of this… blood’s hard to get rid of.
“Unhand it.” The man in the cloak warned, looming over him. Regto threw his head back, feeling lightheaded as he clutched his book tighter. “Hrrkkk-khh.”
Internally, he could feel and hear his lungs bubble with blood, his trachea spasming to widen for more air intake. Regto couldn’t fight back to get the man off of him, but he was sure as hell he would make it as hard as possible to not let him get his book. His eyes flickered forward, down where his head craned upwards to look anywhere else except for the man. Then back at the invader, sword mercilessly pushed deeper inside him, centimetres shy from his spine––
Outside the door, the two men inside the house could hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Creaaak.
The door handle rotated. A head of white hair with darkened tips stood at the doorway. “Hey Regto, you won’t believe what happened. Ran into Chiw––—”
Oh. You tell her?
A distant voice in his growing panicking mind wondered. His son froze, hand holding the handle. A half smile was visible (to Regto, that smile was 100% a smile) contorted into fright.
No. Regto paled. Rudo. No. No no no no.
The house made out of metal sheets and utter hope he and his son had made their home felt cold and suffocating in an instant. Regto tried to speak, dread surging throughout him. Blood filled up his airway and he choked, blood splatters painting his dirtied chin. Get out of here! Get out, get out!
“Ru–– ghhkkrr *gag*!”
The masked man on top of him got off of him and ran away, and it was from that point forward reality did not make sense for him any longer.
For a logical man who appreciated coherency life felt disconnected from him, and everything went felt too fast and slow concurrently.
His son’s voice hysterical and face up at his, petrified and damn-near sobbing, still in a state of shock.
His leg locked up and Regto barely remembers tugging at his thick wool hood and speaking at him, hacking up blood as he tried to talk to him. Then, his son’s face being jerked away from him and screaming overlapping over each other, a foreign man’s that’s blurring at the eyes.
“Stand down!” The silhouette chastised him. Regto lolled his head over to face him, half-lidded. “You’ll aggravate your stab wound. We’ve apprehended the assailant so stay awake for now.”
They caught… the masked man? Already?
Regto didn’t even want to sit up. He lifted his head and looked at the dresser by the door, his sight wavering as three blurring figures handled out a smaller figure in white out the door, thrashing and shaking in cuffs. His brain felt like it was too big for his skull, too confined and aching in his head.
“I didn’t do it! That’s my dad–listen to me!!”
However, his hearing didn’t betray him.
His eyes snapped open and Regto turned over to eject the rest of the blood that was in his airway before getting on his hands and knees, hair strands sticking to his sweaty forehead and casting a shadow over his crazed eyes –– looking terrifying crawling over to the struggling guards detaining his son.
The stranger beside him, whom he had figured out to be an Apostle, held his shoulders with firm hands. “Stand down! Don’t move! The sword is at risk at harming your spine––“
“Let ‘im go!” Crimson painted his teeth, knuckles pure white as his shaky hands turned to the Apostle beside him, grabbing onto him. Red transferred to the guard’s pristine clothes, and he disregards the disdain that overcomes the officer’s face. “T’ll th–hrrkh!” Regto throat restricted, but he didn’t care. “T-tell them t’ let go of ‘im. My son. Th’ts my son!”
“I didn’t do it! Please, listen to me!” Rudo pleaded.
“Hrrkk– let go of him!”
The Apostles were hesitant, weapons still drawn and handcuffs on the boy’s wrists, but uncertain if he truly committed the crime. They stared at each other, wondering how to act.
Glaring at the unmoving guards doing absolutely nothing, Regto dug into his inner pocket with his head resting on the bloodied carpet, heaving at his exhausted state. The closest Apostle to him raised his gun in caution. “Out with your hand where I can see it!”
If they weren’t going to let go of his son–
Regto glowered at the man with his hand on his Watchman book, open to the exact page he wants.
–he’ll force them too.
Regto thrusted his hand out, palm facing the two Apostles manhandling his child.
“Let him go!”
His pupils largened, anchor blue coloured eyes shifting entirely into a vibrant indigo blue. The book in his possession burst into an alive hue of indigo and black, colours crackling and merging. From the tip of his reaching fingers, threads of this indescribable glow sharpened into a spear and pierced through the air – stabbing the two men in armour. Both freeze, and a moment later, lets Rudo go like men possessed, their eyes, brown and green, whirling into blue like his own. The handcuff hadn’t been properly fastened and falls off his baby’s wrists. Rudo rushes over to him, panic-stricken, sweat rolling down his face and heart pounding too hard for his delicate body.
The Apostle closest to them points his firearm at them, aghast. Like he had witnessed to something he shouldn’t had in the first place. Something he should’ve never had known, ever.
“Hands behind your back. You too, kid. You’re both going to the Pit for resisting arrest, committing attempted murder, causing serious bodily harm and witchcraft on two Apostles.” He spews the word like rubbish.
Rudo’s shoulders quiver, petrified. Regto brings him closer to himself to embrace his son for what might be the last time he ever does it.
The Apostle presses his gun directly to his temple. He has no choice but to put his hands on his back, grimacing at the broad blade still inside of him. Rudo follows suit and handcuffs are placed on their wrists.
Regto fades in and out of consciousness.
He’s forced upright by an Apostle behind him, walking down the road with handcuffs behind his back connected to heavy long chains that grazes the ground. Rudo’s walking with him, eyebrows pulled down with a thick patch of blood stained into his jacket.
Through a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, or sheer will, he’s still breathing with that blade in him. A dead man walking to his second death with his son alongside him, someone they could not spare. Cruel. They are just so, incredibly cruel.
Even as he had begged them please, not my son. Not Rudo. Not my innocent child with me, they had ignored his wishes and lumped him in the accusations of him being a witch.
The stretch of his wrists as his body weighs him down is flat out horrible and further intensifies the pain in his stomach. His vision blurs but the voice of his son’s cry makes him turn to his left, and Regto’s heart tighten.
The tribe’s folk and the rich folks have gathered in front of them in a large swarm, something Regto would’ve never thought would be because him and his child would be hung over the Pit.
“Shh... R’do. It’ll allll be okay…” he drawls. He doesn’t believe it himself.
The white-haired boy looks over to him; eyes glossed with infuriated tears. His heart breaks.
For the sake of his baby’s life, he will.
Rudo murmurs: “it’s you,” out of hatred. Regto subconsciously catches it.
Air blows through his dark, midnight blue hair. It takes several seconds for Regto to realise he’s falling midair and so is Rudo. He throws his hand out and calls out for him, hands outstretched, and Rudo’s smaller fingers grips between his digits.
Tears flow freely from the angry child’s eyes, and he screams with promises of eradicating each and every one of them, tribe and rich folks alike.
It is now he notices that the sword is gone.
The pain is so great he can’t feel it anymore.
It’s a blessing in disguise.
His eyes flutter open to a sky of filthy green, clouds grey and mysterious, and Regto’s shoulders ache. His scarf is wrapped around his neck too tightly. He brings up his hand to loosen it but finds it occupied with Rudo’s grip, so his right hand comes and yanks on the white and gold cloth.
He can’t move. His lower back’s all tingly and his ankle hurts.
It takes a several more seconds for Regto to react to the foul, disgusting smell.
He turns over –– away from Rudo –– to vomit the rest of the free blood in his still exposed wound.