A Ballad Unsung

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/40230330.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Romeo x Juliet (Anime), Original Work
Relationship: Tybalt Volumnia de Capulet/OC
Characters: Tybalt Volumnia de Capulet, OC - Character, Polaris
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Post-Ending, Isekai, ratings will change, Angst and
Hurt/Comfort, Lost Memories, Lost Love, Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder - PTSD, Immortality, old-fashioned values, Sorry this fic is
gonna be using super flowery lingo, Epilogue, Breaking the Fourth Wall
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-07-11 Updated: 2023-12-13 Words: 18,939 Chapters:
5/?
 A Ballad Unsung
by Effenay

Summary

Ere to the land of Neo Verona, three years after the Great Descent. In these years Tybalt
watched time leave him behind as the kingdom slowly heals from its scars of Montague's
reign. In these quiet years, the festered hatred for his tyrant father wains, but was never able
to let go of it. Amidst abundant harvests and the ever growing prosperity of the land, a
stranger falls from the sky, bearing a likeness to that of the land's Patron Goddess Escalus.
By a series of misshaped circumstances, Polaris of Gildaar fell upon the realm of Neo Verona
unwillingly, bound by contract to forever travel across countless worlds. Amidst her period of
mourning and regret, she encounters a rogue whose life bound by hatred mirrored that of her
own past mistakes.

Notes

Alrighty. Confession time: this was perhaps a fanfic long-time coming. When I was 15 or 14,
I first watched Romeo x Juliet and didn't enjoy the anime at the time. Despite me finishing
said series, I remember how the only reason that kept me going was none other than the
intriguing arc of Tybalt's character. Back in the day, I didn't engage with fanfics, even less so
with the thought of shipping characters together who weren't cannon at all.
And in an irony of ways, I found myself shipping the man with my earliest OCs at the time,
'Polaris'. It was an uncanny experience to watch a character in the show whom I found myself
shipping with an oc that bore a similar backstory to hers. But as time followed through,
getting into Ao3 and fanfiction, growing up and seeing changes to how I view my original
characters; well. I felt that even though the concept at the time was supposedly super mature,
I wasn't mature enough to fully grasp the themes of this story.
Now that I am older, I felt that perhaps I could try and write this story after revisiting the
series with a more experienced lens.
For that, I give you a 10+ year-old idea in its fully written form.
I hope you enjoy.

See the end of the work for more notes

 She fell from the Sky

The wind caressed his black tresses as he rode the white steed across the sky.

Two children sat in front, squealing in delight as the dragon steed soared above the clouds,
before diving down. Blue silhouettes of mountains divided the horizon; rugged hills between
forests and plains. The capital walls stretched over the misted hue. Below them a small
clearing of trees where workers are seen tiling the lands as others crafted the new vineyards.
Three years after the Descent, and hardly a trace of old Verona’s blemishes could be seen. To
think a few yesteryears ago, the entire continent ruled the skies without anyone realising it.
For in place of the white void, lies the sparkling waters of the great blue sea.

The little girl and her brother marvelled at the sight, ecstatic cries of awe and shrills would
escape their small mouths.

A faint smile crept on Tybalt’s lips. Three years prior, he would have dismissed such naïve
expressions. Yet prosperous Verona had waned his pessimism in recent days. Perhaps much
of this has more to do with the sense of accomplishment of being able to finally fulfill his late
brother’s wishes.

“Hold tight,” he said to the children.

The children clung to him, screaming gleefully as they swooped close to the trees before
climbing back up to the sky. Their laughter carried over by the breeze. Soon the sun climbed
up to high noon; informing him it was time to bring the children back to the orphanage. He
steadied the white equine and turned the reigns to the nearby settlement.

“What’s that?” the brother pointed.

Tybalt raised his head, aligning his sight to the direction of the boy’s finger.

“Look! Look!” the sister bounced on the seat.

The rogue tried to follow whatever it was they were pointing, only to find nothing but a clear
horizon. “What is it?”

“Can’t you see? There’s something falling from the sky!”

“Falling from the sky-?” his eyes narrowed.

Just as a precaution, he rode to the hill where he had left his personal dragon steed. After
assisting the children to dismount the saddle, he raised his head. His gaze flitted from one
patch of clouds to another, seeking for a glimpse of a shadow falling within his vantage. The
children’s words sounded ominous, knowing what it entails if what they saw wasn’t just a
trick of the light against the sun.

And lo and behold, he saw it.

Is that-!

He turned to the children; the soft expression he wore now barely visible as he asked; “Do
you know the way back to the orphanage?”

“Yeah,” the siblings nodded, holding each other’s hands.

The rogue whistled for his horned steed to come and mounted onto his saddle. “Stay out of
trouble.”

He flew to the sky, clapping his reigns to signal his urgency. The dark equine snorted with a
grunt before galloping in the air, its wide wings beating as fast as its master demanded. Tybalt
was rarely like this. Foolish riders always died falling off from heights deadlier than this. So
why? Why concern himself with this one?

Turning his gaze to the sun, he found no stray dragon steed in sight. Just ahead of him lies a
person plummeting towards the ground, falling miles and miles away from death. With
another clap of his reigns, the equine hastened. The gap between him and the falling figure
shrank within a heartbeat. His steed dove closer, allowing its master to reach for their flailing
hand.

“Grab on!” he stretched out his hand, only to miss their wrists.

Cursing under his breath, he guided the creature closer to them, catching them by the waist.
Wrapping his dominant arm around them, he pulled them close to his chest with a little more
force. By the feel of their small waist and softer chest pressed against his own did he realise
this was a woman in his arms. He grunted, struggling to keep her from falling into the abyss
with one arm.

“Hold onto me,” he said curtly.

She made no reply as he made room for her to properly sit at the front of his saddle. A pair of
trembling arms held him by the torso, her head buried into his shoulder. Tybalt had no time to
ruminate what little proximity they had as his steed led them down. Upon landing on solid
ground, her arms persisted their tremors, her panted breath warming his skin as she pressed
her head against his shoulder like a terrified creature. All that Tybalt could see from her was
the mess of brown locks that were pitifully held together with a coiling braid.

He was at a loss, locked in an awkward position as this stranger he rescued clung to him
pitifully. And yet, to see a woman in such a frightened state was enough to garner his
sympathy, embracing this terrified creature in hopes to ease her tensions. A rogue he may be,
no matter of how violent a life he led, it had always been against his very nature to be
indifferent to a woman’s tears.

In a few heartbeats did he feel her loosen her arms despite the visible quakes on her
shoulders. Disentangling from him, she raised her head, revealing her serenely features. Eyes
flecked with an emerald sheen; flat lips and a small, pointed nose. By the patron herself, her
face could rival that of the many portraits and sculptures of Escalus if it had not been for the
wounded line across her left cheek.
“P-pardon me,” she ducked her head.

For a moment, he lost himself before regaining his bearings.

“Has your bridle been cut while riding your steed?” he asked.

“Bridle?” she turned to the dark equine and jolted. “Horn? On a horse- bearing wings?!”

He arched his brows. “You’ve never seen a dragon steed before?”

“I… I have not, good sir,” She wrinkled her nose as she looked to the horizon to the ground.
“Lord, this creature is far too tall than what I’m used to.”

He dismounted from his saddle and spied the horizon from which they flew from.

Not a feather or trace of her origin.

The stranger flitted her head from the steed to the ground, clutching the sides of the saddle
for dear life. Pensively, she stuck her bandaged feet forward and awkwardly landed on the
ground with the hem of her tunic caught on one of the saddle’s buckles. Only then did Tybalt
note of how ‘medieval’ her attire appeared. Rather than skirts, shirts or dresses, beneath her
cape were layers of strange tunics held together with thread-bare strings. Earthen stockings
wrapped in bandages were in place of shoes. Women of the higher courts would assume her
to be a barbarian of sorts if they were to lay their eyes upon this wasted beauty.

“Confounded object,” she grumbled as she unpegged the old fabric from the buckle. “Be it a
hurdle, breetle or this- thing. There’s always a hook on them somehow.”

Tybalt ignored her words and eyed her with suspicion, catching her attention.

With a quick smile, she bent forward in a bow; “Many thanks, good sir. It must have been a
sight to see someone descending from the heavens.”

“I am no stranger to the sight of men raining down from the sky,” he retorted. “it is the fate of
untrained fools to fly to such heights and fall to their deaths-”

“-For that I am ever thankful for the rescue-”

“-I am not finished.” He paused, taking a better look at her. Her face alone made her at least
two years younger than himself. What was more pressing was where and how she came
about, falling in the sky from goddess knows where. “Even with all that in mind, I cannot
dismiss the nature of how I found you; falling from the farthest reaches without a steed to
guide you.”

She turned her head up, eyes searching for something in the air and grimaced. “…Before I
answer, where is this place?”

“…Gradisca, countryside of Neo Verona,” he answered. “You’re at least half a mile away
from the farmlands under the stewardship of Lord Illyria.”
She briefly looked at him before she eyed the plains, with a grimacing lip, she sighed. “This-
this wasn’t what I-”

“?”

The woman shook her head. “No matter. Its not important. It is… well- one more thing.”

Tybalt folded his arms. “What is it?”

“Is this place, per chance a country of the Northern Realms?”

He narrowed his eyes, her question merely confirmed one of his possible conjectures. “By
your words, you’re a traveller outside of the continent?”

“A more straight-forward answer would suffice, good sir,” she insisted. “It’s really
important.”

“…I don’t know what you mean by the Northern Realms,” he huffed. “But it’s only been
three years-recent that this continent had descended from the sky-”

“-the sky?” her eyes widened.

“-Yes, woman, this country is known as Neo Verona,” he found his patience slowly wrung
out of him. “Now that you’ve held me long enough, out with it.”

She overlooked his impertinent words and answered; “I’m… as you assumed, where I hail is
farthest from here. I’ve been separated from my companion, you see,” she pointed to the sky.

“Companion?”

“I was riding on his back until we crossed a tempest. Before I knew it, I fell off his back. The
sky blackened till you found me falling mid-air.”

“You’d expect me to believe in such a tale?”

“Take it as you like, good sir, I am neither mad nor a liar.”

The more he tried to comprehend her words, the more he doubted. Are these the testaments
of a mad woman who escaped someone’s cell? Spare her face; to account her words and attire
together would easily come to such a conclusion. But then again, more incredulous things
have happened within these passing three years. So much so that he had decidedly took her
words like a grain of salt.

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ll take whatever you say for now. Find it a mercy on my part.”

“Mercy, good sir?” she rested a hand on her hip. “I assure you I am not mad, despite all that it
sounds.”

“I believe you,” he said, returning his attention back to his horned steed. “But if I find that
your strangeness has brought trouble in these parts, expect that I’d come forthwith to deal
with you.”

She forced a smile, relaxing her shoulders before she surveyed their surroundings. “Neo
Verona, hm? I can’t say I am ever familiar with a nation with such a name.” -her smile melted
into a flat line, dropping her gaze as if the reality of her circumstances had finally dawned on
her- “Once more… I have…”

It had been a while since he had seen such a sullen face. In the years of Montague’s tyranny,
forlorn faces and despondent gazes were commonplace of every street he walked. For a
traveller to have fallen from the sky and land upon foreign soil was enough for Tybalt to
sympathise with her plight. He wasn’t normally like this; to easily be soft before such
expressions. Tybalt knew of the many times he turned his back upon those who didn’t benefit
him. A woman’s tears mayhap ticked a gut instinct to soothe her woes, but these quiet years
must have taken it to a greater effect.

The rogue turned towards the newly established village and pointed his finger at its direction.
“Gradisca’s farming village is half a mile on foot,” his finger then aligned towards the misted
capital’s walls, “Over there lies the heart of Neo Verona’s capital. If you intend to travel
there, I’d suggest you to discard those rags if you wish to avoid being mistaken for a beggar.”

The stranger blinked; her lips curved into a small smile. “Thank you, sir. I’ll remember it.”

“Even though Neo Verona is prosperous, these parts outside the capital still fall victim to
banditry. It’d be unwise for a woman of your complexion to traverse these plains
unaccompanied.”

“Fear not, good sir. I am a master of the blade and shield,” -she lifted her cloak to unveil her
weapon dangling at her hip- “I’ve fought enough battles to know how to guard my virtue and
coin.”

He eyed the weapon’s pommel and scabbard; its design was intricate and old-fashioned. For a
moment he suspected her an actress had it not been for her knightly posture and the scar on
her cheek.

“You say that you hail from a land farthest from here,” he began. “News of lands beyond this
continent is scarce and almost non-existent. Have you come here as an envoy?”

She shook her head. “‘Fraid not, good sir. I’m no more than a nomad, as much as I am a
hermit on a pilgrimage.”

“Very well,” he then mounted his steed. “As much as I’d like to pester you with more
questions, there are matters I must attend to. But if you are in need of an escort, I can-”

“Thank you for the offer, but I must decline,” she shook her head. “I’ve already troubled you
long enough.”

“I see.”
Heeding those words, he gave a small nod before signalling the creature to take flight. He
took one last glimpse of the stranger below and travelled his way towards the capital. As her
figure inched away into a speck, a slither of doubt lingered in the back of his mind.

___

She watched the skies, her face frowned anew. Eyeing this foreign land’s splendour, the
wanderer’s heart retreated back to the gravity of her situation.

“Once more… I am alone,” Polaris took a deep breath to stave the tears from falling. “…
Aquila… I’m sorry I cannot take you with me this time.”

It was ever a wonder how she was able to hold it in and forced a smile before the man. Those
grey green eyes he bore spoke of wounds far too deep in contrary to the gazes she had been
acquainted with.

His eyes were like his, but different. Though more youthful and resolute.

“Will you forget?” she asked herself. “Or will you remember me the next time we meet?”

Polaris eyed the disappearing silhouette of her rescuer, her heart addled with dread at the
thought. As opposed to his words, she turned towards the direction of the woods; expecting
no soul to find her there.
 A meeting beneath Escalus's shade
Chapter Notes

Sorry, this isn't edited, so ><

Months later

Standing before the gravestone of Leontes de Montague, tyrant of old Verona, old thoughts
churned in his mind at the carved pillar of stone.

How ironic.

More than Escalus, where Romeo and Juliet’s bodies lay; Tybalt would stand before his
loathsome father’s grave more times than he could count. More times he had cursed before
the tyrant, angrily lashing at how much hell he was put through. But in recent days, he found
no words left in him to speak; but rather that his thoughts remain empty and the bitterness in
him lingered in embers.

A soft breeze fluttered his long cloak, letting the scraping of leaves and the rustling of grass
speak in his stead. A melancholic, bitter silence lingered as he stared down before the grave.
As the winds gave rise to playful whim, the sound of footsteps approached his way. He
turned, unsurprised to see Lady Portia carrying with her a white bouquet of lilies.

The minute their eyes met, her brow raised a little, only for her to greet him with a regretful
smile.

“I see you haven’t stopped visiting,” she gave him a small nod.

Tybalt said nothing, his gaze retreating back to the grave before them. Romeo’s mother bent
her knee before the grave to rest the bouquet at the base of the stone. She then clasped her
hands together, closed her eyes and began to pray in conversation with the silent dead.

He had always wondered, if she knew whose child he was. Tybalt grew up in the hands of
fumbling maids who had no care of his life. Abused; neglected; forgotten; yet tormented. The
kind of hell where he would drown in lukewarm hospitality; and treated like the last
bargaining card against any or all potential dangers Camilo would try to escape from. Even if
he were to confront this woman before him of his true lineage, by now, she would have
known of it. As much as he hated Montague, even he knew he bore the same likeness as him;
that in itself would have told her enough.

“There is not a day that goes by,” Portia began, cutting away his thoughts. “When I think
back to the last time, I spoke to him. How I thought ‘I pity him’ for what he had become.
That for whatever font of love left in him was taken over by his hate. In all his splendour of
making the house of Montague rise to power, the world leaves him nothing but this humble,
unmarked grave.”

“If a tyrant’s grave would be known, the hatred of the people would stir,” Tybalt said coldly.
“Those who suffered in his reign would not hesitate to trample upon his remains and
desecrate its stone. For the sake of Neo Verona, none should know of his final resting place.”

Portia’s lips curled into a small smile. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I only did what I had to, on the boy’s behalf. If the boy had lived, he would do this much for
him.”

“Very well,” she nodded. The former noble stood up, turned to face him before she gave him
a formal bow. As she began to take her steps to leave, she paused and said; “I pray, you’ll
come and visit my son one of these days. I’m sure he would have been delighted to get to
know you better.”

“Hmph,” Tybalt curtly nodded back, watching the silhouette of her slowly disappear into the
distance.

Of course, she would have known, he gave a short, mirthless snort.

Just as he was left to himself and the grave, the winds picked up, rustling and slowly
plucking away the loose petals from the white flowers. Carrying them into the wind, and unto
the direction where the Goddess tree stood. The rogue’s frown returned, Portia’s words
murmuring in his mind.

He doubted that Lady Portia bore no love for the man, but be it in either sentiment or guilt;
she still visited Montague’s grave. The crook of misfortune was never spared to those who
crossed paths with the tyrant, as Tybalt found his life’s embers of vengeance flare and wane
in these passing years. And yet he still hadn’t brought himself to stand before Romeo and
Juliet’s grave as often as the tyrant’s grave.

Shaking his head to absolve him from more pressing thoughts, he turned his back towards the
tyrant’s grave and walked down towards the Escalus.

The path she walked from the forest led her to the open plains where the large gates of the
capital could be seen.

“Lord above,” the traveller scoffed. “To think this world could erect such pristine walls
without a need for endowments.”

Wesley’s tales of the Northern Realms was said to have no magic nor endowed abilities; a
realm where society’s needs are more basic, yet, advanced. Gildaar, her homeland, was no
shining city, but she had thought the toils of endowed-less societies would have appeared
more primitive and difficult to live in.
She strode towards the gate, her presence ignored by the guards as she pulled her hood over
her head. The first thing that greeted her were the sights of the people’s well-tailored clothes.
Women wearing tight-waisted dresses with blooming-wide hems like flower blossoms that
dangled upside-down. The men’s clothes were also strange. Some wore stocking or layer-less
pants for bottoms and short tunics to cover their torsos. Some wore them ragged, others
appeared pristine.

She laughed to herself; witnessing the oddities of this advanced city made her self-conscious
of her own rags. To think the Mountain Tribes’ fashion were already perceived as outdated
compared to Gildaar’s capital.

“He truly meant what he said, looking like a beggar before these people.” If it weren’t for her
own unique circumstances, she would have easily stood out in a crowd like this.

Polaris ventured deep into the city, her bandaged feet stepping on small humps of clean-cut
stone. The cityscape was stuffier than Gildaar’s capital, despite its large landmass. For a
country of its size, they managed to build this city with such intricate paths that twine and
bend. Winged horses casually flew over her head; the cobblestoned roads beneath her bore no
crack or crevice. What stood out the most was the vast number of towering houses that
twisted and wound around the riverbanks and waterways. Even Gildaar’s rugged and uneven
plains was able to distribute a generous amount of land for every house within the capital. It
made her wonder what possessed the people to cram so many buildings within such a small
perimeter rather than expanding their borders.

She pinched the corner of her hood, wide-eyed with every turn of every street. A burst of
childish fascination gripped her heart, one small path leading to another. Never had she found
it more exciting than to be lost in such an intricate, labyrinth city. Compared to those
haunting days where vigilance was a virtue in the streets, Polaris felt liberated in the freedom
of exploring this strange new world. In that moment, the burden felt light on her back; regrets
temporarily forgotten. She cocked her head back, smiling as she said;

“Isn’t this an interesting city, Aquila-”

Then she remembered.

He’s not… here.

Her feet felt cold against the cobblestone floor. Her chest weighted at the sight of that empty
space beside her.

I wonder if he’s doing alright? I hope he isn’t pulling off any feathers for losing me.

She knew the bird well-enough to know he’d be able to handle things on his own. Just as she
knew he must have panicked for suddenly going missing from his back after that terrible
tempest. Polaris shook her head, deciding that no progress would be made by wasting away
her time ceaselessly.

I pray you’ll be alright, old friend. Please stay safe.

Before long, her aimless wandering led her to a place where an overgrowth of grass and
white flowers grew. These white flowers that covered the ground were ones she had never
seen before. The vicinity itself was strange, for an overlay of rubble stones covered in moss
and vine root were scattered in odd corners and places. Remnants of elden pillars of stone and
carved walls lay in a broken heap, or stood idly against the greenery. She raised her head up
and, in her awe, she halted her steps at the sight.

There a great tree stood proudly at the centre of this strange place. The very earth
surrounding the tree sank like a waterless pool, filling the indents with an overgrowth of
flowers and tall grass. The very roots of this great tree worked like a bridge for many to cross
and clamoured around the base of its trunk.

But was surprised her the most, was how much power she sensed upon setting foot upon its
earthen floor.

The wind was particularly strong but gentle that day. Many Veronians often believed the
winds as an omen of blessings or curses. But in recent years since the Great Descent, the
spring breeze was often perceived as a sign of the Red Whirlwind’s guidance. That ill-
fortunes will turn its tides for those who have felt its gentle caresses.

As Tybalt drew closer to Escalus, the winds greeted him like an old friend. Those who
gathered around the tree marvelled at its presence, their hands clasped together or held onto
their respective beloved’s hands in reverence. The rogue never saw himself a devout man of
the church of Escalus, not after the conniving priests who had fallen far from their own
teachings during Montague’s rule. But even by standing before its colossal presence evoked
that same sense of helpless reverence that often made many into people of the cloth.

Contrary to his initial belief, there were fewer visitors than what he had anticipated. The
fewer numbers alone were enough to make it easier to for him to comfortably visit the grave
as he slowly made his descent. He could blame that Farnese playwriter for all the fame this
tree had earned, for his tale bespoke of Romeo and Juliet’s tale of love; alluding to their final
sacrifice that forever shaped Neo Verona’s history. The play alone crafted an urban tale that
in praying before Escalus would grant a lonely heart’s wish, or eternalise the bond between
young couples. It was just a sigh of relief for him to see so few had come to pay their
respects.

As he slowly crossed paths with the old ruins, memories ran through his mind’s eye on that
day. The day he and a few of Juliet’s entourage attempted to save her from her doomed fate.
How the earth shook beneath their feet. How he witnessed his half-brother slain by the veiled
priestess.

Three years since then.

He had not the heart to pray before the tree, knowing that the dead could neither speak nor
hear. No spirit lingered there; none but Escalus itself. The darker, gloomier part of him felt
that this world was undeserving of grace and self-sacrifice. But even that part of him
continued to wane, just as he questioned himself what kind of life he should live for outside
of his vengeance. Dismissing those thoughts, he made wide strides down the path until he
stood before Escalus’s roots.

As the small visitors made themselves scarce and tarry on with their busy lives, he dared to
cross its roots until he stood before its base. A strange, tranquil mood greeted him, robbing
him of his previous fears and all the shame and anguish that happened in the past. Before its
deifying presence, he found himself understanding what reverence felt like.

He laid his hand on the bark of the twisted wood, unaware of the smile he made as he softly
spoke; “It’s been a long time.”

Lifting his gaze to the height of Escalus’s branches, no golden fruit hung; only flower petals
of red and white fluttering down with its leaves. There wasn’t much to say before the great
tree, for he had no desires for their blessings or well-wishes. No thoughts but to watch and
listen to the sounds of the rustling of leaves that swayed upon the winds. After a while, he let
his hand hang by his side, ready to resume on making his rounds around the capital.

Only then, in the corner of his eye he spied a hooded figure standing a few feet away. It
startled him a little, having not felt their presence for the entirety of his visit. All it took was
the sight of their bandaged feet did the rogue realise who it was.

The woman from before.

It was odd how he could remember her now, when the entire circumstance of their encounter
was anything but ordinary. Their eyes met briefly as she stepped closer to the grand tree; her
strides were nimble as a leaf floating on a breeze. She turned her green gaze to Escalus,
stretched out her sleeve-covered hand onto the surface of the wood.

“No doubt about it,” she muttered. “This tree is sentient and alive.”

Alive? He raised his head up to the tree.

Pulling her hood back, she rested her forehead on the tree’s surface and closed her eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Not now Aquila, I need a momen-” The woman froze and turned to face him, raising her
brows in astonishment. “You. Were you referring to me?”

The rogue crossed his arms. “Who else is here apart from you?”

“Oh, um, yes. Of course,” she sheepishly chuckled. “I guess that makes perfect sense.”

“You said this tree is alive,” he head-pointed at Escalus. “What do you mean by that?”

With a quick smile, she turned her attention back to the tree. “It’s faint, but I sense a pool of
radiance from this tree. After all, all mystic creatures carry at least a small pool of radiance;
some greater than others. The stronger the being, the larger the pool.”

“Radiance?” he took a step closer.

“Oh! Where are my manners. I’ve forgotten places outside aren’t familiar with such a thing.”
-she laughed bashfully- “Radiance is the source of power that grants authority over the laws
of nature. It is what enables one to preside over an element or land. It grants them the ability
to manipulate the world around them. Only the living and sentient are able to generate a pool
of this power, hence why-”

“-this tree is alive, as you say,” he concluded.

“Yes,” she nodded.

He squinted at the colossal tree, realising what this revelation could imply.

Does that mean Juliet’s spirit reside within Escalus?

He eyed the woman from head to toe, unsurprised how she never rid herself of those rags.
But for a self-proclaimed nomad to bear such a strange knowledge now seemed suspicious.
By those ominous words alone conjectured an image of the veiled priestess who slew Romeo
that day.

“Who are you? And how do you know of this?” he demanded.

The woman’s smile once more grew mellow, her gaze now appeared reminiscent. “…That’s
quite the surprise. It’s been so long since anyone has ever asked me that.”

He kept his attention fixed on her, waiting for her to answer his question.

“Normally, no one would have been able to see me. Let alone remember or recognise me,”
she continued. “That’s quite the feat, you know. Only so few people are able to see me, let
alone acknowledge that I exist.”

“What foolish prattle are you on about?”

She put one foot forward and bowed before him, her courteous poise unchallenged by his
harsh tone. “My name is Polaris, good sir. Thank you for remembering me.”

“Don’t think too hard on it,” he retorted. “Is it so rare a chance to notice someone of your
sort?”

“My affliction often led many to overlook my existence,” she raised her arms to emphasize
her earthen attire. “Believe me when I say that even if I were to bathe in a fountain or lake,
no man would even have the privilege of seeing me naked.”

‘Privilege?’ he snorted at her brazen words.

“It’s true. By the Lord of Life, I swear I am not joking.”

Tybalt lifted a corner of his mouth. “If it is as you say, then why am I able to see you? Let
alone remember our last encounter?”

Her eyes gleamed, “Oh, so you do remember it!”

“How could anyone forget such a dastardly incident? Anyone who had fallen from such a
height would have at least turned a few heads if they were passing by.”

“I assure you, had it not been for my affliction, half my troubles would have easily been
fixed. If you hadn’t been there, none would have been there to spare me from the inevitable.”

He found it difficult to believe her words, but decided to let the details slide for now.

There is a bigger problem at hand.

“You’ve given me your name, but you haven’t answered my other question,” his tone grew
harsh. “How did you- how are you certain that this talk of ‘radiance’ implies that Escalus is
alive?”

“Escalus?”

He scoffed, “You speak as though you understood it, yet you don’t know the name of this
tree?”

She pursed her flat lips, tilting her head a little to the side. With a small huff, she shook her
head.

“Rest assured, I merely speak of the tree’s radiance because the land in which I am from is
abundant with such pools of power. I know not what Escalus is, let alone that it was the name
of this tree. But upon setting foot upon this ground, I felt a wealth of radiance residing within
it, down to its roots.

Now, pardon my ignorance good sir. Les you forget that I am a stranger in these parts whom
you have rescued just moons ago. Did you expect me to know of the name of every tree this
nation had bestowed, let alone know of its significance?”

Though her argument was sound, more questions sprouted from her mere words alone. He
then eyed the area surrounding him, noting the visages of potential visitors approaching their
way. Turning his back to her and cocked his head over his shoulder.

“Follow me,” he gestured.

Not waiting for her response, Tybalt began his strides as she complied with his demand. He
led her down to a place among the ruins where the ocean meets the land and immediately
turned to meet her gaze.

“Polaris, was it?” he began. “You say that the land you hail is abundant with such ‘pools of
power’. Then how are you even able to determine that this ‘radiance’ exists in Escalus
itself?”

“I’ve already told you what I know. I sensed the tree’s radiance the moment I set foot upon
it.”

His brow deepened, knowing this wasn’t the right question to be asking. If this radiance she
spoke of suggested the tree’s sentience, then it can only mean two possible outcomes. The
more he thought of it, the less certain he became about what this entails.

“Pardon me, sir-”

“It’s Tybalt.”

“-Tybalt,” she nodded. “Would it help if you could share me your thoughts so that I may be
able to put your mind at ease? We can start by explaining to me what sort of tree Escalus is,
then maybe I could understand what ails you.”

Upon reflecting on her words, he decided it be best to concede.

“Escalus is the patron goddess of this land. This tree had blessed the world with a bountiful
harvest, wealth and prosperity.” He observed her expressions, expecting her to ask questions.
Her eyes narrowed, but kept her lips closed. “Across all of Neo Verona, this tree is deified in
the form of a maiden with wings in portraits and sculptures alike. It was Escalus’s will that
blessed this land to rise to the skies. T’was also Escalus that brought us here to the Great
Descent.”

Polaris turned her gaze to the direction of the tree, her eyes narrowing as she listened to his
words.

“A patron goddess, was it?” she finally said. “In the form of a maiden with wings… That-
certainly wasn’t what I expected to hear.”

“What else were you expecting?”

“The mere concept of a goddess patron in itself wasn’t what I had expected. Though, on the
matter with a maiden with wings…” her hand slides to the side where her blade hung. “That
certainly changes things.”

The woman then turned her gaze towards the side of the ocean, her eyes seemingly searching
for something amidst the horizon.

“Though, I must ask, sir Tybalt,” she added. “Is the talk of Escalus so scandalous that you
would bring our conversation here, so far from the public?”

He paused for a moment, noting her perceptive nature.

“All of Neo Verona only knew of Escalus as the goddess maiden with wings. Only fewer
circles knew that Escalus’s true face is that of the tree.” he then remembered how little she
knew of this land, let alone the matter of its politics. “…It was only three years recent that I-
we discovered that Escalus was the root of all life of Neo Verona. And how Escalus relied
heavily upon a maiden’s life as sacrifice to ensure its survival.”

“…I see.” Polaris closed her eyes, released a long breath and made a knowing nod at his
words. She turned her gaze back to the tree- “I must confess, despite my knowledge of
matters of radiance, I am by no means an expert of it. The tutelage I’ve been given was no
more than a common word of practice of my tribe. Everything else outside of it, I’m afraid I
cannot give you clearer answers, but I am happy to answer them as best as I could.”
Her words piqued his curiosity. If a stranger of her kind is able to sense power from Escalus,
then what of the other nations? Are there lands beyond their own where beings like the
Escalus are so commonplace?

“Tell me,” He began.

He had to know. Tybalt had to know what lies beyond that blue horizon if it means making
sense of the tragedies that had befallen this land.

“What is the name of your motherland? Are there other countries past the oceans similar to
it?”

She opened her mouth to speak, only to lower her head as she shifted her eyes away from his
gaze. By her expression alone seemed to him that his question hit a nerve.

“…Gildaar.” Her tone grew hesitant. “Gildaar is where I hail. But I’m afraid I- I’m not
familiar with other lands apart from here and my motherland.”

“Why are you suddenly reluctant? Didn’t you just say you’d answer my questions to the best
of your ability?”

Polaris forced a painful chuckle. “Pardon me, it is nothing to worry about. I was just caught
in my own thoughts, that is all.”

By her expression alone told him it certainly wasn’t ‘nothing’ to her.

“Ah,” she drew in a deep breath, recovering her confidence as she continued. “I cannot truly
give you a straightforward answer, I’m afraid. For one, Gildaarians themselves have only
ever heard of tales of the Northern Realms. I, for one, grew up with such tales. From the best
of what I know, Gildaar is the only land I knew of that are familiar with the presence of
radiance and radiant-pooled beings.”

He frowned at this, realising how little he had known about the world outside of Neo Verona.
Assuming that this ‘Northern Realms’ she spoke of are nations outside of her homeland; he
could only make a conjecture that the land called ‘Gildaar’ wasn’t an ordinary country.

“And despite all appearances, you’ve only ever been to two places thus far,” he remarked. “If
that is so, what brought you here to this land?”

Polaris gave him a meek smile, clasping her hands together behind her back.

“Atonement.” She answered.

“Atonement?”

She then turned her back towards him, her gaze fixed on the blue horizon line.

“I’d rather spare you the worser details, sir Tybalt. But if you are so curious to know, then
how about this. If ever we meet again and you remember me; try not to be a stranger, then
maybe I can indulge you a little more.”
 A shared exchange
Chapter Notes

Sorry again for this isn't edited.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

To the best of his ability, it was clear as day Tybalt had no inkling of what had transpired for
the rest of his day.

One moment he stood before Montague’s grave, the next moment, he wandered the streets of
the capital, collecting his dues for information. By the time he settled into his quarters in a
feasible inn, he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts turned.

So far, from his small web of spies, informed him of a growing concern among the
assemblymen. Word of whispers claimed of a growing discourse within Neo Verona’s
twilight district. Rumours of a secret Montague bastard may be among their midst and is
secretly plotting to overthrow the new governing establishment. On matters of the assembly’s
newest policies, the discussions of trade and tax re-evaluations were still ongoing.

Despite all of Neo Verona’s prosperities, the twilight district remains; where gambits of
nightly pleasures and questionable vices were tolerated. In the wake of the Great Descent, it
was ever a wonder how this district remained intact, despite all losses. Though it now stands
a hollow shade to its former notoriety, nonetheless, it prevails within the shadows of
prosperous Verona. It was only natural that Tybalt helmed a faceless mantle to keep watch
over its activities. Especially when these places stood as a breeding ground for avarice and
would-be tyrants.

Brushing past those matters for now, something in his mind persisted to demand his attention.
Something important yet seemingly insignificant that he seemed to overlook.

He could vividly recall his meeting with Lady Portia and her small request.

He remembered standing before Escalus.

And then…

Nothing. Nothing else happened.

The rogue vaguely remembered taking up the task of following up on Portia’s request.
Remembering the brush of morrows towards the deceased; braving himself to visiting the
tree that stole Juliet’s life. There wasn’t much to say that particularly stood out on that day,
apart from the troublesome notes and the brief moment of solace. And yet, that stranger
fervour persisted him to remember, tugging at him like a neglected child that demanded his
attention.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue and rolled to his side on the bed.

To hell with it.

He sat up briefly to extinguish the small lamp-fire on his bedside; retiring his head upon his
pillow as the darkness blanketed him. Moon beams streamed down through the gaps of the
drapes, dying the entire room in a dark, silvery blue. Tybalt glanced at his sword hand, his
mind retreating back to the baseless rumours surrounding the ‘Montague bastard’ before he
closed his eyes and let slumber claim his wake.

Upon that night, Polaris sat at the base of Escalus, raising her head up to the silvery night.

Night times of Neo Verona was vastly strange compared to Gildaar. The moon was brighter,
wider, just as the sky seemed wider than the land. Barely a mountain to supress its view, let
alone a sentient cloud haunting its borders by the sea, contrary to Gildaar’s weathered
guardian. In its stead, the winds would billow so effortlessly without a care as the capital was
situated close to the open sea. But most of all, the people in their waking lives live in idle
bliss, from dawn to dusk, the city lights of its houses would flicker lively from afar.

The city itself stood like a portrait of the peace Gildaarians craved for. What the Half-shaded
Moon craved for. What she thought she fought for. The sight of it alone evoked a partial envy
towards the happiness of its citizens, just as she easily succumbed to fascination in its strange
tranquillity.

“Is this what its like? To live in the presence of a deity?”

She turned her eye to the tree and rested her hand upon the surface of its rough and twisted
bark. Beneath her fingertips she felt the flow of radiance streaming like a river within its
heart. From the root, to the branches and back down onto the ground; the flow of its power
returns what it receives as it fed itself to the soil.

But something lingered in the back of her mind.

Its pool of radiance will eventually fade, and all of its little authority over the land will be
lost. It isn’t that the tree itself is dying. It only meant that its influence over the land will soon
be forfeit. She had seen her fellow endowed lose their radiance, losing the abilities that had
earned them so much praise.

Will sir Tybalt be pleased if I were to tell him? Or will he be disturbed?

Her impressions based from his words; Neo Veronians were unaware of Escalus’s true nature.
It meant that it would make no difference if the tree would lose its influence upon its earth.
After all, they worshiped a maiden with wings, not a tree that stands as the root of the land.
Her thoughts then turned to the man himself and pondered if they would ever meet again. If
the past had ever taught her anything, it was so that her endowment had barely permitted
many to remember or acknowledge her existence. If the people would know of her face and
her name, the chances of being forgotten would lessen. But even among those who do
remember her-

“-This cursed endowment,” she muttered to the tree. “To think that all I ever yearned for…
All I ever dreamed of becoming. It was all- fruitless.”

Reality truly was a cruel mistress. One that would carelessly throw away dreams like a dying
bird into a gyre. Even after a few months, she had continued to wonder how longer will she
be able to endure this new life in this new land. Upon a relative acceptance, did she ever
realise how much she had relied upon her feathered friend Aquila in those trying years. And
now that they were separated, her mind now idles towards all the sins of the past.

“Lord of Life,” she whispered. “If this truly is the fate I deserved, then I beg of you. Let me
feel more pain as punishment, not let me drown in this tranquil place.”

For the blood I spilt. For the hopes I crushed. I should have been there, standing before the
gallows.

Polaris hugging her knees as she reminisced the peaceful days she took for granted. Where
the birds would sing, and her tribe feeding and speaking to their feathered friends. How the
scent of forest spices blend with the fresh dew in her early mornings. Where the land was
larger than the sky and the people dressed in traditional ethak garbs. And when bedtime
beckoned her, Wesley would sing her one of his Northerner lullabies. And from those
memories, she opened her mouth and sung out a tune from those bygone days of innocence.

*“Trees they do grow high and

the leaves they do grow green.
But the time has gone and passed my love
That you and I have seen.

It’s a cold winter’s night my lord that

You must bide alone
The bonny lad was young but a-growing.

O’ father, dear father,

I fear you’ve done me harm
You’ve married me to a bonny-boy
But I fear that he’s too young

O’ daughter, oh dearest daughter

But while you stay at home with me
A lady you shall be while he’s growing-”

With the autumn harvest steadily approaching, the vestiges of summer came with a bright sun
and a cold breeze.
The days pass like a blink of an eye; and on that particular day, the streets of the capital
seemed livelier than usual. Upon the reopening of festivities that have been neglected since
the Great Descent, the people petitioned for a memorial in honour of the lives who were lost.
And in its present, here Neo Veronians prepared their goods with the assembly and the
bourgeois funding for its support.

Tybalt walked the emptier paths, staving away from the public eye as much as possible.
Echoes from market stalls orated their sales of their goods; from food stuff to well-fashioned
wares, there was no end to their enthusiastic pitches. As costs became manageable to the
average citizen, there was no telling when the city’s underbelly would ride upon the back of
prosperity. And so, he made his strides among the crowds and crossed the isolated streets,
observing the city on different corners and crevices. As he crossed the main square where the
newly masoned fountain stood, he ceased his steps for a moment.

There, a missing piece of his memory returned to him upon a familiar silhouette.

Once more, his mind played him tricks; chiding at him for forgetting the one person who had
imparted him knowledge no countrymen could give. That one missing memory that plagued
his waking mind for the past several days, persisting to make its presence known in the form
of empty restlessness. At the sight of that thread-bare cloak and bandaged feet, he finally
remembered.

‘-if ever we meet again and you remember me-’

He made wide strides towards the distant figure, his mind flooding him with those missing
pieces in his mind’s eye. How could he forget? It had only been days since their last farewell.
And yet-

The figure seemed unaware of his presence as she crossed from the bypassing bridge and
onto the crowded square. Tybalt clicked his tongue as he pursued her, avoiding any human
obstacle as best as he could. She wasn’t difficult to find amidst these individuals. Not with
those notable garbs that were woven from old hempen threads. Upon reaching her at an arm’s
length where there were less people, he stretched out his hand to clap her shoulder. But right
before he could reach her, she spun and thrusted her sheathed weapon just inches away from
the side of his neck.

Her gaze bore a ferocity of a skilled assassin, her stance guarded before she loosened at the
glimmer of recognition in her eyes. With an arching brow she retreated her weapon in a half-
panic, setting it back to hook it onto her side.

“…Pardon me,” she stammered. “I thought you a thief.”

He frowned. “And what sort of woman responds to a thief with a sheathed sword? An
unsheathed blade is more effective than the latter.”

“Certainly, but I’d caution against it,” she murmured her retort.

To look upon her so closely now put the pieces back in order in his mind.
Polaris.

A strange woman who shared her insights on the mysteries of Escalus.

Now that he remembered, there was little he knew of what to say. With the lure of her
mysterious nature immediately demystified, he found it difficult to conjure up a single
question.

With small step forward, she reluctantly asked; “Do you… perhaps, remember me?”

He gave her a curt nod.

Polaris gleamed a euphoric smile, seemingly overjoyed at the notion of being remembered.
Tybalt couldn’t help but fold his arms in amusement.

“Is it so rare a feat to be remembered?”

She laughed, “Good sir, you have no idea. Certainly, this meeting in itself is worthy of
celebration.”

What sort of life had she led to find joy in this? By the simplest smile, he was beginning to
understand what might have warranted this response. Having to remember her passing
remark of her unusual circumstances of being forgotten, a thought crossed his mind.

“And what do you hope to achieve, wandering in the streets like this?” he asked. “Did this
‘affliction’ of yours aid you in avoiding the watchful eyes of the carabinieri?”

“Carabinier-? Oh, you mean the guardsmen?” she tilted her head. “As you guessed, this
cursed endowment allowed me to slip passed the guards, but as for the former question…
Well, you can say I merely wish to take in the sights I see if I am to remain stranded upon this
land.”

She turned her attention to the crowds, prompting Tybalt to follow her gaze. Men in working
clothes set their ladders against the stonewalls, tying banners and changing flags in
preparation for the oncoming memoriam. Women and men alike had already begun to pin a
small bouquet of roses and irises on almost everywhere within his vantage.

“What sort of event warrants these blooms?” she asked. “Is it a ceremony, or celebration?”

“One that honours the lives lost to the Great Descent,” he answered.

Polaris raised her head up to him, “The Great Descent… I remember you mentioning that.
And you say that the land once hailed from the sky?”

“Aye,” he nodded. “With our history lost to us for generations untold, no one would have
known how Neo Verona was able to hold itself up for so long.”

Glancing upon their surroundings, Polaris smiled and said; “If you are willing, walk with me,
sir Tybalt. I wish to hear more about this land and what transpired to its present prosperity.”
He looked at her dubiously, “And what do you hope to gain from knowing our ways?”

“Nothing,” she answered. “Absolutely nothing, but to satiate my curiosity. I grew up hearing
tales of wonderous heroisms and tragedies, you see. Tales of wanderlust and high hopes that
came with overcoming villainy for the sake of prosperity-” she paused, “-I merely wish to
know, how a nation like this was able to overcome its darkest hours.”

He narrowed his eyes; “The struggles of Neo Verona aren’t something for an outsider’s
amusement, Polaris. Let alone satiate one’s curiosity.”

“I didn’t mean to demean your struggles,” she quickly said. “I ask in all sincerity.”

“Then why make mention of stories of valiant heroism? Why assume that our struggles are as
simple as that of bedtime stories?”

She rested her hand upon her hip, shaking her head, “Bird’s beak, that certainly wasn’t my
intention. I only asked because I wish to understand your ways. Perhaps my wording is
wrong, but as I mentioned before, I mean it in all sincerity.”

Despite her words, she retained a calm smile, as if to overlook his brash questions in favour
of a peaceful exchange. A part of his pride wanted to retaliate, but he knew better.

“I see.” He said curtly. “My apologies. I misread your intentions.”

“None taken,” she nodded. “Ah, but on the matter of misreading one’s person, I can’t really
blame you for assuming me to be some intelligible wild-woman who wanders on a whim
without cause.”

Tybalt raised his brow, taken aback by her words. “I said no such thing.”

“Your eyes did,” she playfully retorted.

“Huh?”

“A mouth can lie, a hand can steal, but the eyes speak honest and truth of how they look upon
the world,” she chuckled. “Or so the saying goes among my kin. Now, will you take upon my
request, or will you leave this wild-woman to her own devices and continue on wandering?”

It took a moment for him to digest her words, then scoffed a little at how she speaks at her
own pace. He admitted it amused him a little, how she can speak like a playwriter yet inform
him like a tutor. Without him ever realising it, the thought brought a genuine smiled upon his
usual frown.

He wordlessly offered Polaris his arm to her, to which she gladly taken it with ease.

“Lead the way, sir Tybalt and I shall follow.”

“Just Tybalt. There’s no need for formalities.”

With her hand hooked with his arm, he glanced once more at her strange attire. The very
sleeve of her was long enough to cover her hands, with a large, hand-sewn eyelet for her
thumb to poke through. As if to prevent the length of its sleeves to be in the way, in was held
together in ribbons of cloth around her sleeve-covered palms down to her arms. It made him
curious just how advanced or primitive this ‘Gildaar’ was to have this as her usual attire. Her
eyes wandered to the surviving spires and glanced upon the crumbling walls. Tybalt had no
inclined destination, realising that escorting her while he patrols might work as a good cover.

“Do all your kinsmen speak like you?” he asked.

“…What a strange question,” she remarked.

“Why strange?”

“Hm… I must confess, I’ve never really thought about it.” She said with a short pause. “Is
the way I speak so strange to your ears?”

“Your eloquent choice of words gave me an impression that you are either someone of a
noble-upbringing or that your countrymen are taught a variety of wit and manners.”

Polaris laughed, shaking her head, “That’s quite an impression you have, Tybalt. Certainly,
there are different sorts of dialects and mannerisms in Gildaar, but it all depends on which
territory they hail. But even in my upbringing, let’s just say I was brought up rather
differently from my own kin.”

Her smile then grew to that familiar sombreness he saw before.

“It’s all so strange. How I can speak of it so fondly now that I have parted from that land,”
she sighed. “Especially when everything there is anything but good.”

“What do you mean?”

With a small tilt of her head and a shrug, she answered;

“Gildaar is… a land of many scars. A land festered with vengeful minds and unforgiving
deeds. And by the sins of their forefathers, the people assume themselves as avengers of their
forefathers’ injustices. Worser still is how slow we are to realise our mistakes; and how little
is done to remedy it.”

The sudden shift of her tone brought a solemn mood, her words evoking memories of the
tragedies that befell under Montague’s rule. And for a moment, he felt he understood her
more.

“…What are your impressions of this city?” he asked.

“It is a good city,” she mused. “With a strange taste for spires and complex roads and
buildings. As for its citizens, they seem happy and content with their lives.”

“Despite all that you see, even prior to the Great Descent, there was a worse calamity that
Neo Veronians had endured,” He then led them down into a narrow alleyway and continued
to walk. “Prior to its fall, this land was ruled under a tyrant. Born from an insatiable avarice
against the very family he overthrew. And even after the tyrant was slain, Neo Veronians
dared not speak his name among their kin. As if the very name of him would open the
wounds of their hatred over his oppression. To answer your question, despite what you see,
there are people who still dwell in the past. Hundreds of them. Perhaps a thousand of them.
But there are those who have the resolve to look past their pain to find a future where all may
prosper.”

The strides they make were steady as the narrow path they walked led to the open canals of
the city. Tybalt turned them to walk along the waterside, a few people walking past them
without a glance at their direction. A few times, he glanced upon her profile as he waited for
her response, returning his focus on the road ahead as they continued onward.

“That is… quite the surprise,” she said quietly. “The eyes of the people show their
willingness to be happy, yet I never suspected fair Neo Verona to carry such a weight. …That
was terribly insensitive of me to ask of this to you so lightly.”

“No need to think it about it too much,” he said. “An outsider like you wouldn’t have known.
It can’t be helped.”

“…I suppose you are right.”

A moment of repose silence fell between them, granting him a moment to observe their
surroundings as they walked. Upon seeing that there wasn’t much to take note of, he turned
them to the direction of a busier street. Noting on the present silence between them, he
decided to fill its gaps with a question that had lingered in the back of his mind;

“You said on our last meeting that radiance lingers on every sentient being. That your
homeland is abundant with it. You describe it as a means to control over the laws of nature.
Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Polaris shifted her hold on his arm a little, donning a pondering look before she answered;

“Hm… as I told you before, I am no expert on the matter entirely. But when I say that Gildaar
is abundant with radiance, I meant that there are Gildaarians, and to an extent certain
creatures that are born with such pools of power. They are what we call the ‘endowed’. They
are beings gifted with an authority or influence over a particular rule of nature; from the
casting of light; to the raising of fire; hearing one’s thoughts; even down to reading of
prophecies.”

That took him by surprise, then realised the cause to his lack of memory of her.

“Then this supposed affliction of yours-”

“-is an unfortunate case of my endowment, yes,” she nodded.

“…Then what is this endowment of yours?”

She gave him strange look, then reluctantly answered; “…Assimilation.”

“Huh?”

With a deep breath, she explained; “It’s… difficult to explain. The endowment I have allowed
me to remain unnoticed by many, and at times, I am able to… mirror the endowments for a
moment’s notice. As I said it is difficult. And for as long as I could remember, there have
only ever been-” she then counted her fingers with her free hand, then stopped as if it dawned
on her “-five. Five individuals who lived long enough to remember me… Haha…”

And with that, her head slumped in obvious despair. He was beginning to pity this poor
woman just by her explanation alone; finally understanding what sort of plight she might
have endured by her circumstances. A part of him had begun to doubt if it was ever wise of
her to even share this knowledge with him, let alone speak of the wonderous existence she
calls ‘Gildaar’. He let that thought slide for now, and decidedly began to inquire on other
things.

Their stroll continued on, with his companion staring and asking short questions for what
purposes certain buildings were made for. He answered as curtly as he did, getting the sense
of what her country lacked in contrast to his for every question answered. And upon the
inquiry of clothes and how they were made, he answered that only tailors, armourers and
housewives and maids would know of the secrets of its craft. The question alone gave entry
for him to ask of her own clothes. And in her answer, she said;

“As a child raised from the Mountain Bird tribe, it is to be expected that all should know the
craft of weaving dilla threads into ethaks,” she tugged at the tunic she wore as emphasis.
“Trade from the capital is almost impossible, and so we harvest our goods from the dilla
trees, string its sap and bark into silk threads and weave it into these robes. Not all of Gildaar
would wear these things, as most would prefer taking upon the ingenuity of Northerner
industry to thread more sophisticated clothes.”

He couldn’t deny how it impressed him, as he never took much thought of a labourer’s woes
in the simple harvest of hemp and cotton. And as noon had passed, his patrol around the city
had reached its last spot, his wariness averted a little when he saw that there were no pursuers
in the midst of their stroll.

“Tybalt.”

“Hm?”

“You don’t happen to be someone important in this kingdom, are you?” she asked.

“…Whatever gave you that idea?”

“…Don’t be alarmed when I say this, but,” she leaned in closer to his side and muttered. “It
seems that you are being watched.”

From a great distance where they stood, he saw familiar silhouette of one of his spies
standing by the bottom edge of an aqueduct bridge.

This does not bode well.

 “It seems I must take my leave here,” Polaris said, releasing her hold of his arm.

“So it would seem,” he said darkly. Tybalt turned to face her; his expression now stoic as he
asked, “Will we meet again?”

Polaris blinked in mild surprise, then gave him a warm smile;

“If you remember me the next day, I shall be waiting there by Escalus’s side from dawn to
dusk.”

Those words, laced with that smile gave him a tug of warmth in his chest. His lips quirked a
smile with curtly nodded, before it melted back into his usual furrow when he turned his back
on her.

If I remember, she says.

As he made his strides, his cautious instinct sharpened as his mind returned to the present
problems that linger in the shadows of prosperous Verona.

Chapter End Notes

*The song Polaris sings is in reference to the poem/folk song 'The Trees they do grow
high'. If you want to look it up, its the Diane Taraz version on youtube.
The more I write this story, I realise that this version of Tybalt seems kinda OoC. I
mean, for real, does it seem out of character of him? Part of my tired logic is that this is
post-epilogue Tybalt where we've seen him seemingly grew softer and less vengeful.
But if this doesn't feel like Tybalt at all... well... sorry. This fic was written as a means to
get my writing groove back.
 Confessions of a criminal
Chapter Notes

Unedited.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Some years ago

Heated streaks ran down the sides of her face as the rain pierced through the hardened soil.
The deafening rain competed with the roars and cheers of impassioned spectators. Her
bandaged feet felt cold, her heart grew heavier the moment they jeered for their prized
moment.

Clinks of heavy chain clashed against the damp wood. Slow ascending footsteps climbed its
way towards the executioner’s platform.

“Not you,” she whimpered. “Why did it have to be you-!”

Despite her words; her presence; her reputation; Polaris of the bird tribe remains a sight
unseen among the crowd of angry Gildaarians. It wasn’t their fault. Her endowment made her
this way. But that was not the point; that didn’t matter if she was seen.

Sacrom Frosthand is taking the fall for her crimes.

And she was made to bear witness to it.

“Lord Sacrom, no…” -she took a trembling step forward- “This can’t be happening…”

Another step.

Her mentor stood at the centre the platform for all to see. The herald raised his arm to
demand silence from the crowd. He then lifted a parchment sheet before him and declared;

“By the decree of the Imperial Telenars! Lord Sacrom Frosthand is sentenced to death for the
following charges. For conspiring to overthrow the imperial Telenars; amassing Gilaar’s
southern tribes against the Jewel. For contempt and defaming the Imperial Telenar’s virtue
and law. For supporting Blood Mage tribes by supplying endowed children for their
sacrifices-”

With each charge, the crowds bellowed and roared in contempt. With every charge he was
accused of, her ears throbbed till it was about to burst.
“-For each of these charges, Sacrom Frosthand is stripped of his rank and sentenced to
death.”

Her memory ran rampant in her mind. The blood mages took advantage of their revolt and
used Frosthand’s banner to excuse their nefarious deeds. And in her foolishness, she had only
realised it all too late. Amidst her role to lead the hundreds to fight against the imperial army,
the blood mages hid among their midst.

It was her, not Frosthand who was stained with pools of red. And yet-

“And yet-” she gritted her teeth.

This is wrong. This is all wrong! Lord Frosthand, why? Why would you do this?

His lean face wore a calm reverie. His soft eyes resigned to his impending fate. His calm
demeanour made himself clear; he had no regrets in this decision.

In that moment, her heart was set ablaze.

Not again.

Within that moment, her mentor’s silhouette overlapped with Wesley’s. Memories of all those
tainted years mirrored this dark day. She felt the pulse of her radiance flow through her veins;
her hands immediately returned to her blade. With her sword hand, she pierced her thumb
onto the sword’s needle; awakening her weapon through her own blood.

With an anguished cry, the warrior slashed the first body in front of her. Her first victim
barely noticed their death.

“I won’t lose you again!” She leapt forward, kicking down another living obstacle. The
crowd’s cheers turned to panic as the pain in her heart guided her sword to another victim.
Hell bent to charge towards her destination; with a furious cry, Polaris stretched her auburn
wings and leapt above the crowd to plunge her sword onto another. As a guardsman fell, the
soldiers were now alert, a handful of them set their endowments alight.

Five fire raisers. Two wind singers.

The pulse of her radiance adapted to her enemy’s abilities; her blood-smeared blade became
an extension to her arm. ‘Mage’s wrath’, the land and parting gift Wesley had ever given her
began to glow. Its crusted surface of iron rust lit into scarlet runes, setting the blade alight for
all men to see.

“Magecraft!” a soldier alarmed.

Her mimicry endowment brought forth fire to slash at the front; the wind aiding her in
lightness and speed, cutting down two more who stood in her path. Three winged-folk
soldiers surrounded her; she thrusted her sword into the earth; releasing a shockwave of
radiance to push them back.
Polaris turned to the direction of the platform; her desperate eyes met with Frosthand’s
harrowed gaze.

Why? His eyes told her.

She throttled another soldier down, not knowing how many were killed. But in that moment,
she didn’t care; the rush of radiance had loosened her rational. Nothing mattered, nothing but
him. And just at that moment before she reached the stairs-

The executioner slew Frosthand by the spear.

“NO!”

The shock of the impact had him stunned, gasping as his body fell off the platform like a cut-
down tree. With the wind at her side, she flew to him as fast as she could. The warrior barely
caught him; his body weighted like ingots of iron.

Time froze within those passing moments. Her mentor dying in her arms. THe clashing of
blades echoing behind them.

“Why?!” she cried to him. “Why did you have to do this-!”

He coughed, his weary hand reaching for her wounded cheek. “Foolish child…”

Drops of her tears mixed with her victim’s blood fell on his face.

His breath haggardly spoke; “I release you… Pol-ly… from the lie we- told ourselves… That
Wesley… taught you- You. I. we are shackled by his words… and led us astray-”

I don’t understand!” her grip on him tightened. “I should be the one who deserve-”

“-We have poisoned you with words,” he interjected, his voice now weakening. “And led
you… wrong- Polly… Live. And learn… and be… free…”

Silver eyes grew dull; his pulse ceased throbbing.

“No,” she shook him by the shoulder. “Nononono you can’t do this. Not again. Please, no
don’t- don’t leave me alone!”

Her vision blurred as pellets of rain continued to fall. A painful grip held her arm, dragging
her away from Frosthand’s lifeless body. Polaris retaliated with a shriek and tried to swing
her sword, only to be struck at the back of her neck, causing the world to grow dim.

Present

Tybalt walked the narrow streets.

With the sun melting into a scarlet hue, he discerned the assembly’s meeting would have long
since ended for the day. Even as the day reached its twilight hours, the people put effort into
decorating the entire city with corsages and banners. Once or twice, he’d walk past people
with armfuls of bolts of fabric and long planks of wood and a bucket of nails. A few times
some street urchins would run within his vantage as they answered to small errands for a
meagre coin.

As his shadow casts itself onto the cobblestones, the mere thought of being called upon
irritated his nerves. But to be sent a wilted rose and a notorious crest from one of his spies
wasn’t a thing he ought to overlook. The message it implied was more than obvious.

Upon crossing the eastern bridge, he saw the foppish blond leaning against the wall at the end
of the bridge at the appointed meeting place.

Francisco.

Now one of the leading figures of the country’s assemblymen, these three passing years made
him no less a nuisance than when they had last met. To be dressed in common robes meant
this meeting was to be an inconspicuous appointment.

“I hear your eyes and ears are still sharp as ever,” the assemblyman coyly smiled.

Tybalt leaned against the wall opposite to the man, folding his arms as he glared at him. It felt
like an age since their last exchange, not since the day they bore witness to the goddess’s
wings on Juliet’s back. It wasn’t hard to guess this womaniser had come before him to inquire
the matter of the raised rumours as of late.

“Vassals of Montague who benefitted his reign have gathered with the intent to seek your
council,” Francisco said solemnly, then gave forced a chuckle. “But you already knew that
didn’t you, oh prince of shadows.”

“Stop wasting my time if you’re here for idle chatter,” Tybalt scoffed. “Why must I waste a
breath upon the fools who worship my very enemy?”

“It is true then,” Francisco’s jovial tone mellowed. “That you hold a centrepiece of the city’s
web of information?”

Tybalt frowned.

“A few members of the assembly have recently begun to cast whispers of doubt,” Francisco
persisted. “And a few have chanced upon the word of your linage. Some, I dare say, seemed
more than eager to eliminate you before you become a threat.”

“A bastard son of two rival houses bears no merit for the council of fair Verona,” Tybalt
retorted. “What would anyone gain by attempting to put me upon the seat of its empty
throne? Try as they might if they wish to eliminate me, but even you and I know my place
among the shadows acts as one of the city’s anchors.”
Francisco then folded his arms. “Neo Verona’s prosperity will now rely upon the shoulders of
those capable. Hand in hand, the people have earned each other’s trust through both
hardships and earnest deeds.”

“And did the matter ever occur to you that there are things that even your precious assembly
couldn’t do? Don’t tell me you have forgotten the means by which you yourself had done for
her sake,” The rogue shook his head. “My confidants merely exist to keep order in places
where neither of you cannot. For every prosperous light, lies a shadow overlooked. If I
haven’t enacted these leverages in the twilight district of our city, whoresons like the dead
Tyrant would have begun their plot to reinstate chaos.”

“I did not come here to beg for your council,” Francisco interjected. “I’m here to recruit
you.”

The words made Tybalt’s hands hang to his sides, furrowing his brow.

“Your ability to discern the nature of others is as valuable to our reformation. Though I’d ask
of you not take its seat as Prince, to have you in our halls will be more than a benefit as a
spymaster.”

“And have at me like a dog tied to a leash?” Tybalt scoffed. “Don’t think me a fool. A favour
I will claim for the right price, but to bow before your assembly defeats the purpose of it.”

“Then what of those who plot against your very existence?” he retorted. “Surely, you cannot
hope to rid them by the means of the blade.”

At this he mirthlessly chuckled, Tybalt shook his head; “There are other means to rid a man
from his meagre threats. I’ve already known their names, let alone their past deeds. Even if
these men were to aspire to rid of me, there are lynchpins I can unlatch to make certain they
won’t dare show themselves before the public.”

Fransisco gaped at him incredulously, then reverted back to his confident persona. “Has it not
occurred to you that your very threats might have further encouraged their demand for your
blood?”

“What I do is for Neo Verona’s sake. What I fail to comprehend is why men of your council
would choose such louts into your assembly, despite their past tidings.”

“The same reason I chose to recruit you into our fold.”

“And play the part of this ‘good citizenry’ charade?” Tybalt scoffed once more. “Better that I
handle matters outside of the law rather than to live two-faced before the people. Besides
that, my confidants do not answer to laws but to the depth of one’s pockets. If not so, there
are still disparaged citizens whom your assembly cannot reach. Let your assembly run its
course to your ardent ideals while I watch over the city from my side. Until the day Neo
Verona no longer demands my services, I will continue to watch over it from the shadows.”

“Then what of Montague’s supporters?”

“What about them? Last I spied, there were no supporters left for the Tyrant in his final days;
only lucid nobles who benefitted from his lavish edicts.”

Francisco’s frown deepened, only to shrug as he feigned a smile. “Well then. I suppose there
is no meaning to dissuade you.”

The assemblyman then made his strides as he said; “If that is your duty to Neo Verona, I
should assume this tip will serve you to good use.” -he brandished a folded note before the
rogue- “As you are aware, banditry persists in places where prosperity strides. But I’d prefer
you take a gander of these reports that have plagued the forested roads towards the capital.
Do as you see fit, I’d like to hear of your exploits sometime.”

Tybalt eyed the note in hand before receiving it, Francisco took a turn to walk down
alongside the river’s edge. It was clear that men of his calibre were duty-bound by their oaths
to Capulet’s cause. He had an inkling of an idea that the assemblyman harboured an ill-fated
love for the late Juliet, just as Neo Veronians bore their admiration to the Red-Whirlwind’s
legacy. As for Tybalt himself, there was no true meaning behind his cause in keeping his
candid web of spies. Only that there was a profound sense that whatever the tyrant had left
behind, others are bound to follow ensuite if the kingdom’s shadow won’t be addressed.

Or at least, that is what he told himself.

Nevertheless, he unfolded the note and surmised its contents before he tucked it away into his
pocket. With his appointment finished and any necessary inquiries addressed, he turned away
to the opposite direction, taking the steps towards the direction of Escalus.

Upon his arrival, dusk had begun to settle as the sun had already begun to sink into the land.
There, he saw Polaris sitting by one of the stone ruins, appearing to be playing a pipe to
herself. As he drew nearer, the wooden, high-pitched sound that escaped her instrument sung
a melody that felt strangely foreign and nostalgic. The melody was slow and tempered with a
mellow expression, the kind one would associate to that of mourning.

At the end of the melody, she rested her pipe on her lap, turning her head towards the dying
sun and rubbed her eyes with the back of her sleeve-covered hand. With the wind fluttering
her cloak, she tucked it closer to her before she closed her eyes and began to sing in the same
tune;

“Upon the hill, they wearily gaze

‘All eyes on me and be amazed.
My sins are clear; my blade dyed red
No more shall you be full of dread.’

‘For more than life, and more than death

I lived for more than a hundred men
Take aim, take heart, I will concede
In payment for the sins I lead.’
He asked for more, he asked for less
No herald claimed for his request
For stained his hands, with blood and steel
But fate demanded for him to heal

‘Bring forth your malice you deflect;

Bring forth your kindness to reflect.’
Said forth the Lord of Life with zeal
Who stayed his hand for his land to heal

‘Why spare me justice and claim my soul;

Throw me down and take me whole’
The mage’s cries then pierced the skies
‘Enact your vengeance and take my life!’

But here once more, his Lordship said

‘Live forth your life, and do your best;
For in atonement will you find rest;
Go seek the lands and have your fill;
And there my promise I will fulfil.’

Then soon the mage became a man;

A pilgrim who travelled across the land
To seek, to care, to heal, to rest;
And thus abandoning his bloody quest.’

As she hummed the tune in place of words, Tybalt watched her figure against the fading sun.
There was something about her song and the dusken sky that demanded a solemn silence. As
if the song carried a weight that was etched onto her person. At the tossing of the wind
against the long reeds of grass, she ended the song with a short sigh.

“I see you haven’t forgotten,” she turned to meet his eyes. “I’m glad.”

He smiled in turn and walked to stand beside her.

“I’m beginning to wonder who among us has more time to waste,” he remarked.

“Oh, I cannot deny that,” she laughed. “As a faceless nomad with no proper titles or history,
as it were, I dare say employment is almost impossible.”

“And more or less have the capacity to avoid paying our taxes,” he added.

She laughed harder, shaking her head. “I won’t deny that is one of the barest conveniences
that come with this accursed endowment. But… Well, I suppose you can say that even if I
want to do things right, I am… uncertain if it truly was the right thing to do.”

He raised a brow in confusion.

“Ah, don’t mind my idle words,” Polaris shrugged. “I must confess that my time in isolation
has left my mind to wander thoughtlessly to my past mistakes.”

He looked upon her profile, how her gaze was kept to the instrument in her hand. It became
apparent that he was inexplicably drawn to the mellowness of her gaze. How she befitted the
gloom of moonlight’s glow, as if her very essence kept the secrets of this world. And even if
he were to find out everything of her, what then? Would her presence be as enticing as it was
before? The questions she brings forth from him had only led him here to this very moment,
yet, he didn’t know if the secrets she kept was worth knowing.

Polaris then placed a hand to the space next to her. “Care to join me?”

Without a word he gave a curt nod and took her offer. Upon closer inspection, the instrument
on her lap looked worn-down as the polished wood appeared to have lost its lustre. Now that
he sat next to her, he could clearly see the large gashed line on her left cheek. He had
wondered for a while what sort of life had she left to have given her a permanent scar.

“That song,” he pointed. “What is the story behind it?”

“...It speaks of a man who walked the path of blood.” She began. “In Gildaar, magecraft is
forbidden for its art stems from the drawing of blood. The song had sung of a mage who
regretted his bloody path, who sacrificed many to fuel his magic. And despite his sins the
Lord of Life granted him a second chance. And in that chance, the mage discarded his craft
and became a pilgrim to serve his penance. Forever wandering to atone for his sins.”

“Is it the same for you?” he dared to ask.

Polaris eyed him with an arched brow. Only to then relax her features with that mellow smile.

“Aye,” she nodded. “A part of me felt, since we had first met, that your sight is stained with
blood.”

Tybalt raised a brow.

She chuckled, “I know it’s rather presumptuous of me. In my years of living in the battlefield,
over time you could tell if someone had taken another person's life or not. The eyes of a killer
look upon their world differently than those who do not.”

“You fought in a war?”

“Hmph. It's hard to say it truly was a war. Less than a war, more than a revolution.” She
turned her gaze back to her instrument. “It was a failure of a civil war, but one that dealt with
schemes and skirmishes. But even then, in the end we... our ideals... under the banner of
desiring for change, we had only brought more sorrow and malcontent.”

The sudden unveiling of her past didn’t seem as surprising as he had anticipated. Not with the
callouses he felt from her hands. Nor the fluidity of her motion when she raised her sheathed
sword against him by accident. With those perceiving eyes of hers, she had already sensed his
own bloody history.
“No war is ever victorious,” he said. “Let alone a revolution.”

“Aye. It’s always funny to me, in all its blasted ironies,” she shrugged. “As a child, I aspired
to be a hero and muse for all the balladeers to sing-” She raised her scabbarded sword in the
air. “-With sword in hand, and a feathered beast as my conspirer; we’d slay our enemies
three-fold more. And in our victory, I’d stand before the great Telenars, dressed the finest
silks to be knighted and heralded as a saviour.”

The mirthless chuckle that escaped her lips only fed to her grief.

“Oh, how foolish you are, Polaris of the Bird Tribe,” she lamented. “Wherefore thine enemy?
Wherefore thine friend? …Wherefore thine self if none are present? And even in the simplest
act of accepting my well-deserved punishment, even that was stolen from me.”

And with those words, her eyes glistened as the moonlight gleamed upon the land. Though
she spoke in riddling phrases, her grief resonated with him. But a part of him found it
profoundly ridiculous for someone who had tasted murder to lament of it so easily.

“What right do we have, to lament over our dead?” he chided. “The moment you ceased to
stay your hand; a killer does not deserve to lament over their actions. What right do you have
to regret upon it now?”

“No,” she shook her head. “No sir, I fear you are mistaken. You are right to believe that
warriors have no right to lament over those whom they’ve slain. It is not those whom I’ve
slain that I regret. It is the deaths I’ve caused is what I regret.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am perhaps, the greatest fool that has ever walked the land,” she tightened her grip on her
scabbard. “In the heat and drunkenness of our ideals, all of us failed to realised that a war
upheld by ardent ideals isn’t heroism. It was tyranny. And with it, I led my comrades with
that drunken stupor. The worst of it was that in that delusion, no one blamed me. None who
remember and know me never blamed me. That in its stead, they assured me I was not at
fault; that I was doing what needs to be done. And I-”

A tear fell like a raindrop from her wet cheeks and onto her scabbard. Then another. And
another.

“They told me, it’s not my fault,” she sobbed. “They told me I was enacting a long-deserved
justice. What fools we were! And the worser still, was in my deluded mind, I truly believed
them. And with it, when our revolution failed, when I should have walked upon those
gallows for all to see; my mentor he… he stood my place. And claimed it all to himself. It
was selfish, harrowing and wrong! I deserved their scorn and all their hatred. And yet here I
am, worlds apart from my own kin; waiting for death or punishment. How I loathed me. I
hated all of me, and I still do.”

Tybalt sat still, hearing the words of a woman weeping in repentance. His heart wretched
over his misunderstanding, never realising the gravity of her words. Yet it amazed him still,
how she was able to play such light words despite how broken she was.
With a careful hand, he wound his arm around her back and slowly drew her close to his
chest. Even now, he found himself weak at a woman’s tears; reminding him of his days when
there was no room for comfort in his life. In his arms, he felt her hands squeezing the fabric
of his clothes as she clung to him, trembling in her grip as she sobbed. With a careful motion,
he smoothened the back of her head with his hand, a swell of emotions he never thought he’d
felt again.

Polaris then retreated from his grasp, withdrawing herself away before she turned her eyes
away from him. Rubbing her eyes once more with the back of her sleeve, she forced a smile
as she struggled to speak as she sniffled.

“Damn my tears,” she laughed. “This wasn’t a matter I intended to speak to anyone about.
I’m not a woman deserving to weep. Not after my sins-”

Tybalt shook his head. “What manner of creature are you to say such a thing?”

“H-huh?”

“If I were one of your slain, I’d bask in the thought of your guilt, and curse you to a fate of
endless sorrow and weeping.”

She paused for a moment, then laughed once more. Whether it was for herself to stave the
sorrow, or for other reasons, it surprised him.

“Oh poor, miserable me,” she feigned. “Forever will I be cursed in sorrow and misery by the
makings of a ruffian, who cared none for my pain.” Polaris then released a long breath, her
smile now seemed warmer. “Goodness, sir. If that was your way of comforting the miserable,
you certainly have a strange way of doing so.”

He smirked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“If I were a delicate of a flower, I’d have marked your cheek with my hand.”

“If you were one, I doubt you’d even dare to cross my path.”

She tilted her head. “How so?”

“Hmph. Has it ever occurred to you that I am no more than a dangerous man to cross?”

Polaris eyed him, as if to perceive the validity of his statement before she turned her gaze to
the now darkened sky.

“And what of your sins, Tybalt,” she said. “What warrants your reputation as a dangerous
man in the streets of the capital?”

At this he frowned, contemplating on what to say in turn.

“Are you always so upfront with your curiosities, Polaris?” he asked.

“I am what I am,” she shrugged. “Call it a habit, as it was the only means to cut through a
person’s intimidating words.”

“Then does that mean I intimidate you?”

“I’m saying that to call yourself dangerous is but a means to steer people clear from what’s
really troubling you.”

He scoffed. “Is that the sort of mindset all Gildaarians have to make such a conclusion?”

“…Is it? Doesn’t everyone think like that?”

This time it was his turn to laugh, shaking his head as he replied. “Polaris. When a man says
he is dangerous to a woman, he is warning you of the terrible and vile things he could do onto
you.”

“And if I say that some women like the danger?” she retorted with a grin. “I won’t be
surprised if some Neo Veronians of the fairer sex had already been beguiled by your
handsome charms.”

“Then they’d be fools to think so.”

He didn’t miss the part where she had complimented his face, but decidedly chose not to
think of it too deeply.

“Alas, in all sincerity, Tybalt. Thank you.” Polaris gave him that warm smile as her eyes,
though red from her tears, no longer glistened. That alone was enough for him to feel
relieved.

“It is a pleasure.”

And for a moment, a still silence fell between them. Nothing but the wind and the rustling of
leaves filled its gap. The sudden confession of her past made everything seem profound, as if
he was the only one whom she had told him of it. It was then Tybalt began to feel that she
was his secret. He had many secrets for himself to keep, but this particular one was
something he was not willing to share. As if this time spent between them was a haven from
all matters regarding the shadows that dwell within Neo Verona.

“I’ve been curious about this for a while,” Polaris then pointed at the white blooms that
covered the grass. “What is the name of these flowers?”

Juliet.

“Iris,” he replied, his memory now returning to the night of the Great Descent. His mind’s
eye recalling that dark day of Romeo’s death and Juliet’s sacrifice. A part of him envied this
woman beside him, for he was more or less prudent on matters of speaking out about his own
past.

“Iris,” she said softly. “How strange a bloom these are.”

 “The iris is the sigil of house Capulet,” he said briefly. “The noble family who once reigned
all of Neo Verona.”

The nomad blinked, then stared at the flowers.

“Capulet, you say?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“…But then…” she murmured. “What is the name of the tyrant you speak of?”

“Leontes Montague.”

Her expression stilled, eyes agape at him as if a lightning had struck her.

“…Then this place. This land. This world,” she muttered. “Was this all a tale of fiction?”

Chapter End Notes

So... a bomb dropped. I hope you enjoy :D

 A Sanctum from the rain
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Many years ago

As a little lass, Polaris would be tucked into bed by Wesley and set a stool next to her bed. In
his hands, he’d smoothen the surface of a water-damaged tome; the smell of old ink on
strange parchment would linger in her nose as he opened it. Such were the days of her
idleness and forever dreams. She owed all her aspirations to this man, who had shared with
her tales of the Northern Realms. And with these tales speak of heroes and heroines, a victim
of fate’s sealing hand and warriors who triumphed over their hardships. And once in a while,
he’d tell her of tragedies of man’s cruel hubris. Of tragic fates of fallen heroes that fell into
destiny’s design. Of punishable crimes that greeted the tormented and selfish villains.

As her child-self sat eagerly against the headboard of her bed, Wesley’s wrinkled hand
slightly trembled with every flick of a page. It hadn’t occurred to her then, that this man was
more aged compared to the youthful complexions of her tribe. As a child she had only
assumed that those who hail from the Northern Realms were just different from their youthful
faces. At the slight furrow of his brow, he closed the book and took in a deep breath.

“There’s a thought,” he began in his warm, kindly voice. “What about I tell you another of
Shakespear’s most notorious of tales.”

“Notorious?” little Polaris tilted her head.

“Infamous,” Wesley replied. “Well-known for not being liked. Anyway, there is a tale most
valiantly told by famed actors. A tale of two Star-crossed lovers.”

“Star-crossed… lovers?”

“A couple whose fate are entwined with ill-luck.” He then turned to grab a coverless book
from one of the shelves in the room and returned to his seat. “The tale I shall tell you is one
of tragedy and loss, but at the centre of it, love and all its cruel passions that it leads. One of
its most famous iterations at that; Romeo and Juliet.”

From there, he began to summarise the tale to her. Of a family of two noble houses that were
entwined with an unnamed rivalry. Where the hero of this tale, Romeo was but a fool in love
with another woman who did not return his affections. And as the son of Montague, he
slipped into his family rival’s ball and fell in love with the Capulet’s daughter, Juliet. And in
their first meeting, both had not known of each other’s families and made an attachment to
each other’s hearts. But as they discovered each other’s origins, they were tormented that this
love can only end in misery.

The details of its tale were vague to her now, but she was able to recall key pieces of it. Not
once had she thought this tale to be as engaging as Hamlet; or as funny as A Midsomer
Night’s Dream; or as terrifying as McBeth. But as expected like every tragedy Wesley had
summarised, the titular characters of Romeo and Juliet dies by their own hands and foolish
misunderstandings.

At the end of it, Wesley rested the coverless book on his lap and said; “By all accounts, no
matter the tradition or realm; we are all powerless to love’s commanding presence. Be wary
of love’s claws, for it may ensnare you, Polly. And most importantly, be wary of what your
heart wants against society’s claims.”

“But Gildaar isn’t the Northern Realms, Wesley,” little Polaris said. “Gildaar isn’t ruled by a-
um… a monarch. The Telenars are appointed by the Oracle’s blessing.”

For a moment, Wesley’s leathery face grew weary, then smiled with a nod.

Present

“…Then this place. This land. This world,” she muttered. “Was this all a tale of fiction?”

A moment of epiphany was cut short by a single droplet that fell onto her nose. One drop
became three before a curtain of rain fell upon them. She instinctively raised her arms above
her head in a poor attempt to shield herself from the rain and raised her gaze to the sky. As
the night wept onto them, Polaris huffed in slight agitation, and turned her gaze to Tybalt.
Realising there won’t be an end to the rain, she let her arms fall to her sides, smiling
defeatedly at their sopped demise.

“Sir Tybalt I believe I owe you an apology,” she jovially said, despite the rain. “Had I known
the clouds would crawl over our heads, I’d have asked for a different hour of our meeting.”

Tybalt turned his gaze to the city and frowned. “It would take miles before we could reach
the closest shelter within the capital.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Tybalt turned towards Escalus, eyes narrowing at the direction of the ruins. Polaris hung her
head low as the haunted thought peered in her mind’s eye.

Capulet.

Romeo and Juliet.

Wesley what have I gotten myself into?

She pondered if he heard her careless mutterings earlier.

The man then turned to her and offered his hand to her; “Follow me.”

She glanced at his open palm and saw the callouses formed in places where he held his blade.
In insignificant observation, she admitted to herself right before she grasped the hand that
was slightly larger than hers. His grasp over her hand was firm yet gentle in his grip, feeling
his warmth against the cold rain like a candle she once cradled for meagre warmth. That
sensation of the tumbled stones beneath her feet; the cold rain pouring down upon them; they
were real as the warmth of his hand.

This man too. Is he not part of a writer’s design?

Polaris tucked the thought away, letting the man guide her past the great tree as she found her
footing grow steeper uphill with each step. Soon they reached a ruinous labyrinth; where
rainwater fell from broken pillars like lone waterfalls and overgrowths of root and shrub
invading the masonry of broken stones. As the night sky rain fell like tears, it was near
difficult to navigate her footing amidst the small pools of rain and rubble.

Turning towards him, she saw the cloak upon his broad back thoroughly soaked to the point
of its cloth clinging onto the contours of his sculpted form. “How much further?” she raised
her voice against the rain.

“I recall a place that could spare us from this tempest,” he said loudly in turn. “That is, if the
roof above it still remains.”

More broken walls of stone passed them by as he led them further uphill until she spotted a
peculiar looking alcove ahead of them. The structure was swaddled with large roots and
overgrowth, the alcove itself looked no more than remnants of a small room as spouts of
rainwater fell at the edge of its entrance. Wordlessly Tybalt led them inside to find that not
only was the ground dry, it was adequately spacious to shelter them from the storm.

“Bird’s beak,” she huffed as soon as the rain no longer fell over their heads. “How fortuitous
of you to even remember such a place.”

Tybalt turned to the ruins outside the shelter, his gaze despondent like a man haunted by old
spirits. The sight of him troubled her a little, for she had known many with those eyes often
spoke to her of their long and arduous history. An earnest impulse of wanting to assume how
he felt prompted her to turn her head away; silently chiding at herself for the desire of
pestering him for his thoughts.

“This place.” He sudden said. “This entire hill was once a hallway only known among the
ruling families of Neo Verona. A secret path to Escalus.”

She perked her head up, spied upon his profile once more before she looked to the ruins
through the storm. From broken walls to lines of stone; cobblestones addled with puddles of
rain, mud, and grass. In her mind’s eyes, she could now see how it may have looked in the
past, imagining it in ways that Wesley had often described to her of his old life in his
homeland.

“…This room was all that remains of where the tyrant had last lain,” he added intuitively.

Polaris raised her brow at him who now seemed less inclined to meet her eyes and finally
understood the meaning behind that gaze. A silent fury dwelled within those eyes; but the
kind that had long since cooled, yet persisted like a spark of dying embers.
She drew in a deep breath and muttered; “A tyrant’s grave. It seems a touch too generous to
ever grant him such a thing.”

“Far from it,” he said. “It hadn’t crossed their minds at the time. Much of the people’s
concerns were focused on where to find their next meal, or seeking out their loved ones
among the rubble. It just so happens that a few stumbled upon Montague’s rotting corpse
here, which was once an embalming room.”

Polaris looked over her shoulder, observing the lack of a stone table and shelves within the
broken room. Much of its remains mayhap been swallowed up by the overgrowth of tree
roots and budding shrubs. “Did they bury the man?”

He furrowed his brow, his words that followed came out a touch too bitterly; “Just so.”

The wanderer bit her lip, holding herself back from the words that threaten to spill from her
mouth. The want of asking more out of him felt far too insensitive on her behalf, not while
the matter itself seemed far too difficult for him to share. But by his bare words alone told her
enough to piece together one of two things. Either this man’s intimate knowledge of the
matter meant him as either a servant of the tyrant’s courts, or that he was someone closely
related to him. Both possibilities could only ever explain his familiarity on the matters of the
tree and all the rest of what he said related to the kingdom.

But even so, she had barely known the man, so what right does she have to ask this much of
him?

She closed her eyes and shook her head to herself, aware of how sensitive of a matter this
might have been for Tybalt.

“I’m sorry,” she decided to say. “It must’ve been difficult for you.”

A silent reprieve followed as the rain spoke in their stead. Followed by the sound of his
bootsteps steadily approached her. She raised her head up; their eyes met once more and felt
an air of trepidation between them.

“Why do you look at me so?” she asked.

A ghost of a smile graced his lips; his rain-soaked hair made his complexion more refined
against the cold night air. And in that moment, she remembered her mentor’s words of
warning about men and their basest desires.

“After bearing your bleeding heart to me, you suddenly act docile as a rabbit,” he mused.

“Mine apologies. I did not mean to assume.”

“No,” he shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive. But rather, I’m merely touched by your
thoughtfulness.”

There was warmth in those words, but not the fatherly warmth she had often felt in Sacrom or
Wesley. To experience his warm embrace felt akin to the time when Wesley comforted her,
and yet in many ways Tybalt was far different from him.
“…Does it still hurt?” she said quietly, tearing her eyes away from him and stared at the gap
between their feet. “Recalling upon the past, I mean.”

He then brushed past her to lean against the wall on her side of the broken room, his face
grew pensive as he drew in a long breath. “It’s only ever been years since then. Nothing could
be done with what has already been passed.”

Tybalt’s words grew still into silence, prompting her to glance his way. This time he kept his
eyes on the ground, the slight shimmer it reflected was enough to make her understand.
Polaris soon joined him to stand next to him, leaning against the wall shoulder to shoulder. A
part of her wanted to reach out to touch him. To grant him solace in some way without
impeding on the line between them.

Feeling the warmth of his shoulder against hers, she leaned a little against him; making the
clothes on her back feel colder in contrast. For fear of her words being insufficient for him,
she gentle pressed her side against him, letting the silence and rain breech their gap in turn.
Soon the rain outside grew heavier with each passing moment as silence extended its hand
between them, prompting her to worry.

“This storm won’t pass so easily,” she began. “I doubt it will rest any time soon.” She turned
to him- “Have you any plans for the morn?”

Tybalt shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

“No family nor friend await your return?”

“None.”

“Then what will you do then?”

He gave her a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“The likelihood of the storm carrying over into the morning may be imminent,” she
explained. “I’ve the means to make do with the stones given to me, but what of you? Will
you stay here for the rest of the eve? Or will you take your leave of here sometime soon?”

She posed the question on his behalf, yet it took him a moment to realise-

“You intend to make your quarters here among the rubble?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Is it a problem?”

Tybalt ran his hand down his face, recalling her passing remarks and felt foolish for not being
able to see through it. “I should have known.”

Polaris tilted her head at him, query apparent in her serenely features.

“Then all this time, you’ve lain your head on soil and stone?” he said, unable to hold back his
astonishment. “Only a madman would do such a thing!”
“Is it truly that unfathomable?”

“Yes!”

She took a step back, folding her arms as her brows knitted pensively. Tybalt gave out a long
breath, thinking himself a fool for overlooking the state of her lack of proper commodities.

Is it a wonder why she dressed herself like so in such a manner.

“Should I be right to suspect your kin to live like vagabonds?”

Polaris opened her mouth, clearly insulted as she put her hand in her hip. Her expression
alone immediately made him regret his words.

“Are you so sheltered to assume that all travellers live like vagabonds?” she huffed. “Or is it
that Neo Veronians are sorely lacking in living with the land? Aye, there are plenty a soul
who’d dwell among the forests and trees. But to call us vagabonds?”

“Then what else should I describe the very nature of your circumstances?” he retorted.

“Insulting my circumstances and insulting my kin are as different as the land and sky, sir
Tybalt. Yet in one breath, you have managed to achieve both.”

Tybalt wasn’t willing to back down on his words, not while he knew he was right on the
matter.

“I did not say such a thing with the intent to insult you-”

“-But nevertheless you already have, good sir,” she interjected.

He paused, her words stung at his pride; yet nevertheless, he knew she had the right of it.

“I never meant to insult you, Polaris,” he said again as coolly as he could muster. “Only that I
find it hard to believe a woman of your intellect would live-”

“-Like a vagabond as you put it,” she huffed again. “Tybalt, I’ve lived ample enough years to
know my ways of living beneath the open sky. But to assume my kin; my tribe to have lived
no more than derelicts? Why, slander me in jest, call me a derelict; a vagabond, if you will.
But leave my kindred out of this insult.”

“I never said you to be one.”

“Aye, but a vagabond is more or less much the same, is it not?”

Tybalt narrowed his eyes, watched the way she pressed her lips into a thin line in her
irritation. The state of her dress was at its poorest he’s ever seen, the hems of her layered
tunic dripped endlessly from the rain. Her dishevelled state, added with the knowledge of her
current living conditions had only fuelled his concerns. Though she deigns it an insult, he
knew full-well of the hardships that come with living without a home. How often he’d seen
beggars and derelicts in those dark days of the tyrant, deprived of their pride and dignity as a
human being before others. Having lived as a street urchin for a time on his sixteenth year, he
knew a woman like her did not deserve such a fate.

“I apologize for insulting you and your tribe,” he began slowly. “I will admit my remark was
a step too slanderous. But this doesn’t change the fact your current living conditions are in
dire need of change.”

She huffed, folding her arms as she turned her head away. “The circumstances of this
wayfarer is not as pitiful as it looks.”

“I beg to differ,” he retorted.

“Then what? As far as the eye can see, none, save for you are ever able to see me directly,”
she shook her head. “Save for children and animals, the rest would fail to perceive my
existence.”

“At first light, I insist you are to follow me into the capital,” he decided. “I’m taking you in
and have you stay in a proper room until you see fit to leave.”

She gaped at him, opened her mouth in protest but only to huff again.

At this Tybalt sighed, aware of how he must’ve looked at this point. His avoidance in
speaking of his past led to this souring conversation certainly was not what he intended on
this very night. All he expected was a moment of reprieve from his meeting with that foppish
blonde and all else related to the assembly’s politics. Not insult her countrymen’s dignity in a
moment of careless outburst.

“I do not doubt your strength and ability to survive any wilderness, Polaris,” he added. “For
you to be standing here before me is enough to proof. Do not mistake me for belittling you. It
is only right that a woman of your intellect deserves a proper shelter and within reach of
proper commodities.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “I’m afraid the matter is not so simple, Tybalt. Not for what
comes with this endowment of mine. That and…” the warrior lowered her gaze, her lips
quivered to speak the following words. “I worry what may follow.”

“Then make me understand it,” he insisted. “What is it that make you deny the barest of
comforts?”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut; her lips firmly pressed together in indignation as silence
answered in her place. The rain continued to beat down against the stones just as the winds
began to billow. Like a stubborn child unable to be wilfully honest, she did not dare look at
his direction. Having known many stubborn women in his life, he often let them do as they
please. But in the passing years since, a question haunted him to this very day. What ends did
such passiveness lead these women into?

Had I fought harder to convince Juliet to live, then maybe. Just maybe she might have been-

He took a careful step forward, watched her figure refusing to look at him.
 “I will not judge you for whatever your reasons are. I only want to help you.” His own words
took him by surprise. Three years ago, he could care less for a beggar and only used them in
exchange for a coin of information. That self-same awareness had him toiling in anger and
vengeance onto a man he had failed to kill. And yet, here he was, extending a hand to a
stranger he had barely met; his self-awareness came in full circle to see how far he had
changed.

“In all sincerity, I want to grant you my aid,” he said again, now more resolute in his own
words. “Even more so now, after hearing your woes you dare not speak of.”

More silence followed; her expression grew more pensive as the wind began to whistle
through the ruinous pillars. Realising his persistence might not be worth the endeavour, he
was about to turn his heel-

“I ask for one request,” she finally said.

He curtly nodded in return.

“I’ve come to suspect that my existence upon this land may bring trouble among your
countrymen,” she said. “I know my words will sound strange, but I feel that you must never
see me in my quarters, nor let others enter either.”

He was never one to intrude a woman’s private quarters in the first place, but her words made
him suspicious. “Why? Did you not say that others cannot see you directly?”

“This is… different,” she said, her hand clasped her shoulder warily. “I do not know of the
consequences it may bring.”

Her vague words left him more enticed to ask, but it was clear her trepidation meant
something grave. For after all, the land in which she described make the markings of
unfamiliar fairytales that any known poet would want to write about.

“Very well,” he conceded. “That can be arranged.”

Chapter End Notes

This was a hard comeback if I'm being honest. Who knew getting sucked into an mmo
would steal all that creativity out of me? There had been an equivalent of 10+ drafts of
this chapter, all of which were rough and difficult when the concept and writer the
concept changes with each overview.
I wanted to add more to the chapter, wanted to explore more, wanted to flesh out their
relationship more from this point onwards. But each draft I wrote before this felt more
contrived and forced in many angles. I wanted to experiment on writing the romantic
tension of silence between dialogues. I don't know if I've conveyed this properly or I
made that silence feel more awkward rather than heightened emotional tension... if that
makes sense.
I won't lie, this is the one story I feel that I cannot let go of even though I barely updated
this. There's an ending I want to reach, as the concept of it is clear in my end. The only
obstacle there was to it is my own inability to feel through which of my ideas work best
within the confines of the story's flow.
Anyway, that's enough babbling from me. Have a good rest of your day/night o/
End Notes

One last note, feel free to share your thoughts and criticisms. This story may be coming from
a very special place for me, but as someone who wants to get better at writing, I'd like to hear
as much of your thoughts as possible. :)

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