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Chapter Text

“My wish is granted… and now everything I loved is lost.”

So said the Green Prince in his lament for the metallic visage of a construct laid in front of him.  He kneeled beside it, fixating his gaze upon it. The construct bore much of his partner's likeness, though the crown on its head served as a cruel mockery of his similarly-lost title. The dead lightbulbs that were his partner’s eyes reflected the flickering gleam of the flies inhabiting the glass globes under the ceiling. 

He had fetched it out of its dedicated room, where two of it was located, wound to dance for eternity. The red-cladded warrior cut them down some time before his arrival, completely destroying one, and leaving another for him to hold. There was an objective bitterness that came with not being the one to grant your partner’s peace. However, the Prince was well aware that, given the chance, he wouldn’t even as much as arm his claws.

“It should’ve been my life… not yours.”

The Prince caressed the construct’s– no, his partner, in the exact manner with which he did ages ago. Back when he adored the form, the shade of green his partner once bore, together in their throne. When a voice well-harmonized with his still reverberated from his partner’s neck. When they two would pridefully boast the green coating of their body, a symbol every citizen in Verdania was born. 

All his partner gave now was the chill the metal absorbed, and the rigid picture-perfect construction from the Citadel. Each joint was carefully measured, so that the dance was replicated as closely as reality. Each ridges and fluffs within the previously green-coating were solidified together into one solid copper piece.

“All the plans, the failsafe… your sacrifice. Just what were we thinking when we arrived at that conclusion? What was I thinking, listening to that little assurance from you? Now, you…”

The Prince hadn’t the word to say in regards to the state of his partner. Butchering? Bastardizing? What the Citadel did was polish his partner’s body beyond what was possible for the living, not chop it up into little pieces. As such, his sorrow grew all the more bigger, as the act of essentially preserving his partner here felt like a last laugh from the Citadel. The kind that would try to convince him that he was just being ungrateful and sentimental.

A sigh slipped his mouth. He turned his gaze around the room, to his back, and saw a little bug.

Short, round, wearing a strange hat. What was that, a cymbal? The pilgrim’s gaze was full of life and or intent, unlike the haunted bugs of the Citadel. He must be sane still, one of the few whose life wasn’t eaten by the path to the Citadel, one of the fewest to stare at the Prince with great interest, and the only one to ever hear his little monologue.

“How long have you been standing there?” The Prince’s question broke the long droning ambience of the clockwork machinery operating above and below the room they were in.

The pilgrim flinched. “A- ah, greetings! My name is Sherma,” he replied. He sounded particularly young for a pilgrim who had managed to arrive at the Citadel. “My apologies. I couldn’t think of a way to approach you properly.”

Of all the information the pilgrim gave, somehow none of them was related to the original question. The Prince took another glance at the pilgrim, Sherma (not that the Prince asked for his name), from the very tip of his round head to the very bottom of his little feet. Sherma didn’t resemble a formidable fighter, nor a well-stocked pilgrim. He was, in essence, a child. A child with not even a blade to defend himself.

“Hmph. You need not approach me, little one,” the Prince replied. “Trek beside me and go wherever your destination is.”

Sherma tilted his head, his eyes were that of worry. “You look quite troubled, though, tall friend.” 

“Prince.”

“Prince. May I know what’s wrong? About the sacrifices and whatnot?”

He’d given an explanation to another passerby, the warrior, and was certainly not obligated to let another know. Not to one that cherished this glorified parasite they call the Citadel. “I hold nothing but contempt against this place,” he answered. “If that offends you, then you might have finally realized that your effort at consolidating me is vain.”

Bearing nothing but further curiosity, Sherma approached the Prince, much to the latter’s further confusion. Sherma asked again, “Surely, you have a story to tell?”

“In your book my story will be of a naive heretic,” the Prince snapped. “Of an insignificant figure bound to be defeated for the glorious envoys of the Citadel.”

“The Citadel has no records of such things,” Sherma calmly replied. “They and us pilgrims concern ourselves purely for devotion. ‘Tis the way things are.”

“Tch. You don’t know what you're worshipping, do you? And what are you–”

Sherma reached close enough beside him to peek at the remains the Prince was obstructing. He took in the general shape of what was for him a construct, similar to the ones he saw in certain areas of the Citadel. Yet, this one bore the resemblance of the green fellow, of the Prince. Except, the intricacies of the Prince’s exoskeleton that displayed various shades of green, were big pieces of metal reflecting the image surrounding it like a mirror.

Sherma switched views between the construct and the Prince. Comparing the expression the two bore, the shape of their bodies, the claws. They were quite faithful to one another, down to the ridges and spines which decorated the Prince’s claws. He expected no less than from the skilled architects the Citadel held, to be able to build a replica so similar to the inspiration. Yet, the Prince seemed to be soddened in his look.

“If I may know,” Sherma began, “what is this that we are looking over?”

The Prince sighed. He replied, patience thinning out at each word he used, “Perhaps you meant who is this, for which the answer is my partner.”

Sherma’s eyes widened as he put the information with the state of the construct together. So the Prince was mourning a…  corpse? “Partner? I… I’m sorry. What exactly happened to him?”

“The Citadel you so diligently worship did this to him,” hissed the Prince. “I do wonder how even lower bugs such as all of you were so sure on how the Citadel would treat you.”

Sherma sat beside the kneeling Prince, processing through a few questions that came to mind. “I suppose that is why you’ve come to the Citadel?” He supposed that that was the most tactful question out of the rest. “To retrieve your partner?”

The Prince furrowed. He expected dismissal quite often from pilgrims such as Sherma. Naive group of bugs who’d rather push away a slightly different view than theirs than assess them for just a few seconds. “Astute observation,” he commented back.

Sherma held his chin, pondering about something in that head of his. He hummed, before nodding to himself, and saying, “It is clear, yes, that I don’t know much about your predicament. But if you were to share your burdens with me, perhaps then we will gain a mutual understanding.”

Such an ideal and naive promise, adjacent to what the Citadel told to him and his partner. Exact to what his partner naively believed back then, and was promptly betrayed soon after. The Prince distanced himself a little, away from the pilgrim. “I do not require further assurance,” he simply stated. “The best way to help me now is for you to leave my vicinity.”

Sherma bit his lip, beneath his mask. He wouldn’t—or more aptly couldn’t—in good conscience, leave this green fellow in a state such as this. Rarely ever he encountered a bug so adamant to deny help. Not even a tiny stretch of mental console. He tried a different approach. “You look quite weary, Prince. It’s quite dangerous to wander around when you’re tired.”

“I do not wander,” the irritated Prince replied, “I know where I want to go, and I was about to go, until you appear.”

“Still,” Sherma continued, “no matter how much of a skilled warrior you are, Prince, we all need rest. You look all battered up!”

It was true. The Prince sustained a few blows from his exchanges with a dozen or so Citadel bugs on his climb up, visible by the bruise on his neck from getting clocked by a thrown bell, and a minor slash on his side from a pin. “I do not deserve one,” he said. “I have a goal to fulfill.”

Finally sensing an opening, Sherma followed through, “Nonsense! Everyone deserves some respite, even the most dutiful ones.”

“What do you know?”

Sherma tapped his chin. “Well, I know a very strong maiden. She's done so many things for us pilgrims and the kingdom! But I catch her dozing off at a bench somewhere from time to time.”

The Prince sat down on the cold metal floor, guessing that this pilgrim will not leave him any time soon, for better or for (most probably) worse. “And what do you suppose is dutiful out of this… maiden friend?”

“I am not sure about that either,” Sherma answered. “But I sense a great duty within her. A sense of responsibility that she carried in her stride, and that you carry too.”

“It hasn't been an hour since we've seen each other,” the Prince retorted. No way he was dealing with a psychic too. “If you were to make up lies, at least make it convincing.”

Sherma furrowed beneath his mask. “I’m not! This friend of mine, she’s been everywhere, you see. She cladded herself in red and is armed with a needle. Perhaps you've seen her?”

Her? The Prince’s antennas perked up. The very same bug that freed him from the cage in Sinner’s Road, and denied further help from. What sort of curse had he acquired, such that he would always encounter bugs that blatantly disregard his condition? His failure as a prince, as a partner, was to be consoled and not properly redeemed?

“Um, Prince?” Sherma assumed that he had opened a traumatic memory within the Prince that involved the maiden he knew. 

“I know her,” the Prince answered, shutting down Sherma's guesses. “But, her actions don't concern mine. I have my own resolve, and she has hers.”

Sherma thought for a moment. “But perhaps… a little more moment in the Citadel to reconsider? This holy place is open for all, not just us pilgrims!”

The Prince shot him a piercing glare. He would have rattled off a choice few words were it not for the fact that the pilgrim here wasn’t of proper age to be saying set-in-stone beliefs and that he was (or liked to consider himself to be) prudent. So he asked a simple question, “Are you serious?”

“This holiest of places provided me with everything me and my brothers and sisters need for our journey!” Sherma continued. “I… I’m sure the Citadel will do much the same for you, were you to allow yourself some respite near us.”

The Prince blinked. “As I have said before, the Citadel killed my partner. Do you not remember what I said? It is no more a holy place than that of suffering.”

Sherma stuttered. A typical response he thought of, about shooing away doubts, didn’t quite seem like the good response now that he rethought about it.

“I can only hope,” the Prince continued, “that you don’t end up like your brothers and sisters.”

“Ah–”

The Prince lifted himself up from his kneel, examining the still features of his partner. He positioned his claws below his partner’s back and knees, before bending his arms closer to himself so that he lifted him up. The joints on each of his partner’s limbs let out a dry creak, similar to what would be produced by opening an old door. The Prince stood up, his partner in tow. “I suppose if you do not want to remove yourself from here, I myself shall.”

“Prince!” Sherma called.

The Prince glanced down, catching the short pilgrim’s mask. He turned around, facing the end of the hallway that would lead to the Choral Chambers, and walked to it. “I appreciate our meeting, pilgrim, but I care not for your attempts at… consolidation.”

He left behind him a disgruntled pilgrim, finally at a loss for words. With that, the Prince powered in each of his steps a level of sureness, something to deny the needy image Sherma tried to put upon him. He managed his way from Sinner’s Road all the way up here, he could do the exact same the opposite way. One more push to the final destination he’d set up in his mind ages ago.

The Prince stood at the edge of the hallway, the border between the harsh cut-up lighting of the Cogwork Core to the warm, more full one that illuminated the Choral Chambers. The room housing what were the cruel replicas of his partner were fitted between two spacious hallways where reed-wielding guards haunted the floors. So he let himself still for a brief period at the border between the two areas, tracing in his mind a safe route back.

As much of a grief the Citadel has caused him, it wouldn’t be truthful if he were to say the area wasn’t just plain beautiful. Soft melodies played out of a piano that he couldn’t see provided him a soothing atmosphere to ponder about his plan. Of the sequence of events he planned on committing right after his escape out of this gilded building.

The undead chorists roaming the chambers still dedicated their voice around the hall, as echoes of them strewn about the place, each attempting to harmonize on the other. All trying to somewhat fit into the main piece reverberating throughout, and most definitely not into that… rhythmic sound playing behind him. Of consistent metallic clinks, growing closer and closer.

He turned around, catching Sherma hitting what looked like a metal rod and a copper batten. Two objects entirely unrelated to one another, yet the little pilgrim somehow fashioned into an albeit crude instrument. 

Out of his mouth was a… song? The Prince couldn’t make out the exact contents of if until Sherma got sufficiently close to him. “Oh my tall and green clad friend, let me reach you with my hand. Your burdens are ours too, together we are strooong!”

The Prince gave Sherma a straight and blank stare. Hissing out another retort was his guttural reaction, but he found himself stanced on his spot. With narrowed eyes, his focus completely centered on the albeit crude improvised singing.

Nevermind the insufficient rhyme at the last two verses, Sherma continued, “The path ahead lays so long, a moment of rest’s far from wrong. Good for your green and yellow shell, so that your soul rests wellll!”

The Prince glanced at the chamber before him, with the intent to evaluate the area another time with the added background noises Sherma contributed in addition to the choir. He steadied himself at the ledge, meaning to make his first move. As soon as this pilgrim finished singing he thought to himself. As soon as.

“Heavy-a doubts and faults you hold, all that’re clouding your resolve. Please come rest and calm your soooul!”

…

“Just how many of these have you rehearsed, pilgrim?” The Prince interrupted Sherma’s singing. “One of these days you should pick up on how to not be…”

Something had plugged itself into the Prince’s throat. Some kind of proverbial lump, blocking his words from slithering out, as he locked eyes with the paused pilgrim. Sherma held the instruments in the same manner as right before he paused his singing, expectant of his response. 

The Prince looked away. “Save your songs for those who could actually benefit from it.”

Sherma stepped forward. “Ah, but you are ‘those’, Prince! You've been so reluctant to receive help, when we're at this holy place of redemption and divinity, that I can’t think of things other than what might trouble such a formidable bug.”

The Prince made his way into the hallway, following the general route he mapped out. “One more time I would like to emphasize that this place holds anything but redemption.” Every single of his words reverberated throughout the acoustic room, though no living soul was alive enough to pay it a notice.

“Ah, wait!” Sherma’s feet tapped along the marble tiles of the chambers, following beside the Prince. “I, too, have doubts from time to time, Prince. But each of those times they prove, without fail, how foolish I am to have thought of that!”

The Prince raised an eye. “How do you suppose that is the doing of… them. The Citadel, I suppose.”

“W– well for one,” Sherma responded quickly, his hand reaching for something within the small pockets lining the interior of his strangely intact cloak, “At my arrival, many of my brothers and sisters were waiting for me with such horrid and terrible wounds.”

“That does not…”

“So I thought to myself, how is it that a place so fine and holy could ever allow such things to happen?”

The Prince sighed.

“But of course, soon enough, they provided me a noble road: there is a ward hidden below the Citadel, in which I may find the glorious healing implements only this place uses!”

The Prince had listed down in his head a select few vocabularies he would not be using any longer. They’d passed about halfway through the room. Granted, if the Prince were to head straight into the opening to the chamber below, they’d woken up three of those… guards by now. 

“But of course, firstly, I must journey through a treacherous path, which was filled with the death of those who… are unfaithful to the Citadel,” Sherma narrated, looking into the floor as he uttered the last few words. “And I… too, was reminded of what I may become if I were to follow through that path.”

The Prince’s antennas stood on their ends. He glanced down into the tailing pilgrim, before shaking his head quickly to slough off a daring thought about asking the pilgrim a thoughtful question. He let Sherma trail off with that long-winded story, filled with figurative descriptions he cared not to decipher.

“Alas, I received this sacred white balm!” Sherma concluded, holding aloft a metal can, “A mark of hope for my fellow pilgrims who are wounded at the end of the road.”

The Prince gave the can a brief look. A small, cylindrical can bearing the sigil of the Citadel—the same one that marked the masks of the undead chorists still occupying the area. “Then shouldn’t you be on your way to help them?” He replied.

“W– well… I was about to say that the Citadel accepts more than just pilgrims!” Sherma exclaimed. “This place has a wonderful knack of softening the hearts of many a experienced warriors.”

Dubious claim, the Prince thought, considering the common view he took in during his climb up here. He shook his head, and increased the pace of his walking, hoping to tire out the pilgrim. He wasn’t eyeing the path he took when pondering away from the story Sherma was telling, hence he found himself in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by the static corpses of what he remembered the Citadel calls the Reeds.

“So what do you say, Prince?” Sherma asked him.

The Prince flicked his head to face him. Again, he managed to ignore about three-quarters of Sherma’s ramblings, except that he needed to respond with something this time. So he replied in a sarcastic tone, “I say, why don’t you just try doing that convincing to these Reeds around the room? They are more keen on your beliefs than I am.”

In a way the Prince would consider a miracle, the answer stumped Sherma. The little pilgrim looked down into the floor, thinking, giving the Prince a silent air for him to reassess where he was going. Indeed, he meandered way past his approximate route. In fact, the entrance to the Cogwork Core was still closer to them than the opening to the downstairs chambers he was originally aiming for.

The Prince sighed. He stretched out his limbs, particularly his arms, as they’d been clutching his partner the entire way. Were it not for the plot happening behind the background, the one whose clear picture he’d yet to understand, and he supposed the uncanny corpses of the Reeds spread throughout, these chambers would be such a pleasant area for him to linger a bit longer with his partner.

Speaking of Reeds… He looked down beside him and– where was Sherma? His eyes darted around the area, and caught a glimpse of the little bug… standing in front of a Reed. The Prince’s mouth gaped open. “Sherma!” A yell escaped his throat.

“Ah… don’t worry!” Sherma yelled back. “I am trying to converse with this fellow, as you said!”

It was merely an ironic jab, not an actual suggestion. A part of the Prince kept his feet still on his current spot. He saw pilgrims meeting their demises in a similar manner during his brief journey. Amount of souls that the ridges of his claws couldn’t count. And another part of him had him speed-walking toward Sherma, holding his partner tighter than before in case… or rather when the unpleasant happens. 

Sherma batted not an eye to the approaching Prince. It was either that the Prince’s steps were very light or that the pilgrim was engrossed in his little prayer. He was staring right into the Reed's covered face, muttering something at a barely audible volume. And as much as the Prince treasured the idea of not burdening himself with the safety of another bug, much less a pilgrim, something in him drove away any potential hesitation in his limbs to approach Sherma.

The Reed snapped alive, just as the Prince arrived behind Sherma. Its arm, wielding an eponymous reed, flicked upward. Sherma flinched, and fell on his back, trying to crawl away as he eyed the reed. “Ah– uh–”

As his claws were occupied, the Prince’s first reflex was to kick Sherma beside and then dodge away. He was sure there was another more graceful way to approach this, but alas. The reed, as in the weapon, slammed down into the floor, echoing throughout the chamber a shiver-inducing creak. The Prince caught the floor firmly with his feet, the claws drawing a long scratch on the tiled floor of the hallway. Sherma… landed on his side, some tiles away from him.

The sound of cracking echoed behind the Prince’s back. Another Reed reanimated not far from where the Prince landed, taking a stance to blast out a flurry of silk. Meanwhile, the one they’d awoken snapped its head to face him, before crawling on all fours to his direction. 

The Prince dashed away from the spot, gracefully landing on another part of the chamber as the two Reeds unleashed their respective attacks. Some distance away from him, Sherma straightened his arms so as to lift himself up from the floor. His whimpers signalled the Prince of his position, that being behind the Reeds, either of which prepared another attack.

With two foes closing in on him, and his only weapons unavailable, the Prince buried in his mind the urge to test his claws in an exchange. He weaved past the swipes and stabs coming from the Reeds, practically gliding on the floor until he landed beside Sherma without as much as a stumble. He tipped his body down, exposing his back, particularly the coating, to the pilgrim. “Climb on.”

Sherma rubbed his cloak into his face, the brown cloth soaked up his tears. “I’m sorry, Prince. I… I–”

“Save the apologies.”

Sherma jumped on the Prince’s back, his tiny hands exerting nothing more than a mild tug into the Prince’s green coat, the latter feeling the large volume of tears slowly but surely soaking his fur. The two Reeds skittered to their position, prompting the Prince to make a great dash, back to the entrance they came from.

The door to the Cogwork core was fortunately small enough for the Reeds to quickly lose interest in them. The Prince’s chest puffed down as he let out a long breath. Traces of his past prime were thankfully present in his muscle memory, though his endurance definitely was dulled by his stay in the cell. He kneeled on the floor, taking long, regularly-spaced breaths. 

Amidst his panting he picked up Sherma’s voice, or rather, his sobbing. Sherma had buried his face deep into the Prince’s fur. At each time he took a breath, he let out an ugly snort and flinched. Perhaps the Prince could’ve thought of a better way to get them out of the situation than… whatever that was. But as it stood, Sherma was a pilgrim, and he shouldn’t care for them.

“Are you hurt?” The Prince asked. It was more of a natural follow-up than anything, he assured himself.

Sherma sniffed and sniffed. He took a deep breath, but the cries managed to still sneak into his speech. “N… no. I’m… I’m fine. I’m… ss… sorry.”

“Then you may climb down now.”

“Y… yeah I… will. I…” 

The Prince glanced at his back. The little pilgrim had lifted his face up from his fur, though the tears still welled in his eyes, cascading down his cheeks like little waterfalls. Semblances of words spat out of his mouth following his sniff. Sherma rubbed his mask with his hand, transferring the tears into his arms.

The Prince exchanged a one-sided gaze with his partner. He’d hoped something could chime out of his Partner's now copper-casted mouth, even if it were just a general suggestion. Something to deal with this little bug crying on his back.

So he froze on the floor, awaiting further response. The Cogwork Core still breathed long after its creators had passed. The clicks and groans of the grand design, ticking away in the background. Mixed within them were Sherma’s cries, though gradually, the interval between his sniffs grew farther and farther.

“I’m sorry, Prince,” Sherma finally constructed a sentence. “They… I usually pass by them just fine. But I guess I… I carried a sin I am not aware of.”

The Prince raised an eye, though, he decided not to press further. He turned his eyes to look into the distance, down the long corridor they were in. He proverbially scratched his chin, quite unsure whether he should repeat his request. “Well… you know they’ve passed. Why did you decide to do that?” 

Sherma had his head low. “I… I thought if I get to save a bug, you're going to be more willing to join me.”

The Prince’s antennas twitched. “I… see. But–”

Sherma sniffed.

But they're dead to begin with, the Prince thought to himself. “Then, do you want to stay there, then?”

Sherma shook his head. “I… I'm fine. I’ll get down.”

“What was your original destination?” Another inquiry escaped the Prince’s mouth, to his own disdain.

Sherma rubbed his cloak across his face. “There is a settlement. Just straight from here…”

Past the Cogwork Dancers’ room to the direction Sherma was referring to was yet another similar hallway where expired Reeds were scattered throughout. In other words, he had to quite literally go through the same place they just fled from. “Fine. I’ll carry you there.”

“What?” What? Both of them had the same idea. Sherma tilted his head. “You would…?”

The Prince bit the inside of his mouth. “I’m above releasing a child into danger, I suppose.”

“No, don’t worry. I’m perfectly–”

The Prince stood up, bowing frontward slightly so as to not have Sherma plant into the floor. “Let’s not waste more time, then,” he said, while keeping a monotonous expression, assuring himself that he was still doing this purely out of common courtesy. He trekked forward in accord to the approximate direction, carrying with him his partner on his claws and a short pilgrim on his back.

Chapter Text

With Sherma clinging on his back and the cold, dead machine in his grasp, the Prince encountered no trouble in simply walking around the Reeds at the other hallway he had to trek through. The little hitchhiker had decided to save the good majority of his opinions to himself along the journey, lest they trigger another pursuit. The Prince glanced into his partner’s face. Soon, he thought, to mourn his deceased partner. After he ridded himself off of the pilgrim.

The regal lighting of the Choral Chambers’ chandeliers ended at the other end of the hallway. A more whole, white light basked the exterior. A straight clear view of the sky was rare enough in Pharloom, let alone within the highly intricate coverings of the Citadel. The light was more direct than the flies’ glow in the Chambers, forcing the Prince’s eyes to temporarily narrow themselves as they adjusted into the new lighting.

The cold tiles made way for the rough rocky pavements that lined the foundation of the area. As the light steered away from his eyes, the Prince opened them wide, taking in the surroundings he stumbled upon. They stood atop a platform that allowed for a clear view around the entire what looked to be some sort of settlement. A typically sterile sacred place of Citadel rarely bore with it a few pockets of liveliness such as this, where signs of sentiency persisted.

“Welcome to the Songclave, Prince,” Sherma said. His tone seemed to be devoid of his previously overwhelming cries, though not as bright as when they first met each other in the Cogwork Core. “Here lies a shrine, where my brothers and sisters have fashioned a safe haven.”

Songclave was merely an overhang out of the many scattered throughout the Citadel’s sporadic architecture. At the center of it was a large, ornate building, decorated with golden vine patterns and similar signatures of the Citadel. The Prince assumed that was the shrine Sherma spoke of, around which were clusters of tents staked into its gilded walls, where pilgrims lay resting, socializing.

One of the Prince’s antennas twitched. “Safe? I see neither guards nor barricades to ward off the Haunted bugs of the Citadel.”

“Some took up arms with the pins the Red Maiden fetched for us,” Sherma explained. “Though I believe we are safe. We’re pilgrims! We’ve proven ourselves on the road to reach this place. ‘Tis our reward.”

The Prince could only let out a sigh as he hopped into a platform below, and then into the main floor of the Songclave. Carpets and cushions he’d seen strewn about the many rooms in the Choral Chambers littered the Songclave, perhaps scavenged by the settlers here. A long, improvised rack stood near him, holding lines of golden pins and white chorist shawls. As naive as the pilgrims were, he would be lying if he were to say that this wasn’t at least a livable settlement.

As he walked into the center building his mind wandered. Just how long has that Red Maiden—though he called her a warrior—been in Pharloom? She slipped into Sinner’s Road, freed him from his cage, left, apparently meandered around the Citadel, freed his partner’s soul, and… aided a settlement? And he still assumed that was among other things. What could be her main motivation to execute all this?

Perhaps she, too, was the one who caused the creation of this Songclave. That would be a sensible enough reason to why the only gossip he could catch from the passing pilgrims was about this mythical ‘Red Sister’. That was, of course, other than them talking about the potential reasons as to why a strange-looking warrior-bug was carrying a pilgrim on his back and a construct from the Citadel on his claws.

The Prince shook his head. He was much above paying mind to them. His main concern now was–

“Um, Prince?”

…the aforementioned pilgrim on his back. Sherma glanced around the area like a child lost in a foreign place. “You can put me down, now.”

Putting him down meant the Prince had to crouch down so the floor wasn’t a full story fall for Sherma. His little feet clung onto the ridges on the Prince’s exoskeleton, before hopping down onto the floor in a more gracious manner than when he was escaping a Reed. He tapped on the Prince’s back, causing him to turn to face him. “You may want to lay your partner somewhere first. I want to show you around this sanctuary!”

The Prince narrowed his eyes. “I would rather not.”

Sherma tilted his head. “But you’ve been holding that for a while, Prince.”

With the both of them proceeding reluctantly, Sherma led the Prince around Songclave, specifically to one of the tents that decorated the side of the shrine. Along the way Sherma pointed for the Prince each pilgrim either resting or simply existing at the area, saying their names aloud. They in turn greeted Sherma with a wave and a not-at-all subtle look to the Prince.

Whatever information Sherma rambled about passed in-between the Prince’s antennas. He couldn’t even care to remember anything from his old kingdom, much less a lot more bugs whom he knew nothing about. He heard the introductions in pieces. Someone named Harlot, a merchant named Jubilana, someone whose name started with an R. 

Sherma halted the information flow as they stepped under a tent. Beneath was a plump-looking pilgrim, breathing heavily on a pile of cushioning. “Wh… who’s there?” He asked with a pained breath.

“It’s me, Sherma!” Sherma replied. “I am here to treat your wounds.”

The pilgrim pulled himself up from his rest, catching a glimpse of them. “Oh… yer’ safe… blessings be with ye… and the other bug…”

Sherma ran up to him. “Ah… don’t get up yet, sir! You’re still hurt.”

The Prince stood quite awkwardly beside one of the stakes that held up the tent, staring at the interaction happening before him. Sherma climbed atop the cushionings, whose height was barely the Prince’s. He reached for the big pilgrim’s chest, lifting up the swaths of bandages wrapping a wound. It was a diagonal slash on a good part of the pilgrim’s body. If the Prince had to guess, it probably was the aftermath of a graze with one of those golden pins the higher-ranking Citadel bugs armed themselves with.

“Hm… seems like the bleeding has stopped,” remarked Sherma. “But it would close up much faster once I applied some balm into it!”

The pilgrim replied, “Child… you concern me too much.”

Sherma patted away some seeping transparent blood off of the chest, before gingerly rubbing on the same balm he showed the Prince before, straight out of the can. “Oh, nonsense. Everyone in this place deserves health and repose. Such is the way of the Citadel.”

The pilgrim chuckled. “And who is the new face over there?”

“Oh. right! That’s Fair Prince,” Sherma pointed. “Fair Prince, this is Strong Pilgrim, Sir Billow!”

Fair… Prince? “Greetings,” the Prince said.

“A prince…? Ye really have a knack for befriending interestin’ figures, child.”

Sherma chuckled. He slipped the can back into his cloak after he deemed the application to be sufficient. “Perhaps!”

“‘Befriending’ is a strong word,” the Prince replied.

“A cranky one, too,” Billow remarked.

“Ah, he just needs more time,” Sherma answered. “We accept everyone regardless of who they are, right? He’ll see that!”

“I’m right here,” the Prince said, unamused.

“Well, ye seem to be one of those strong types, hm?” Billow told the Prince. “There’s another warrior restin’ here, a bit like you. Maybe ye can have an equal conversation with ‘em.”

Sherma lit up. “Oh, right! Come, Prince. I’ll show you to him right away!”

He hastily climbed down the cushionings, tripping on his ankles as he missed the last step. Sherma tumbled some involuntary steps forward, before the Prince stood his foot on the way so that Sherma planted his face on the Prince’s ankle instead of the floor. One marginally better than the other. 

“Careful, child!” The Pilgrim yelled.

“It’s fine, it’s fine! I’m okay.” Sherma rubbed the part of his forehead that hit it, smiling to himself. “Sorry, Prince.”

The Prince raised an eye. “Right.”

“No time to waste!” Sherma exclaimed. “Follow me, Prince!”

He headed for the opposite side of the entrance, leading the Prince further from the packed grounds of Songclave near the shrine. One question came to his mind. Who was that? By the way Sherma introduced Billow to him, he didn’t seem to be of any meaningful connection to Sherma, that was, not by blood or acquaintance.

The Prince was much like that last pilgrim. He didn’t even know Sherma existed before they interacted. So if that was the case, why did he put it in his best interest to have them all personally associated with him? What was the ulterior motive this little pilgrim had? The Prince shook his head at the conclusion of his thoughts.

“Oi! You there! Don’t you think I didn’t see you!” An old, raspy voice billowed to their direction, giving Sherma a flinch and raising the Prince’s antennas.

A bug, no more than double the height of Sherma, stepped to the front of them. He had a particularly oval head and wore delicate white uniforms while holding a staff with a bell at the end. He reminded the Prince of a similar foe, the Envoys, though this seemed sane and right-minded in comparison.

The bug tapped his foot. “We got barely ‘nough supplies as is n’you decided to bring ‘nother bug here? Asked him to carry you around, no less!”

Sherma ran in front of the Prince. “D–don’t worry, mister Caretaker! He’s not staying for long here.”

Caretaker… perhaps of the shrine. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the Prince from top to bottom, particularly on his partner. Probably because it was the strangest thing the Prince had. “You don’t seem to be of them pilgrim types.”

“You are correct,” the Prince replied. “And I assume you are the caretaker of this place?”

“Hmph. ‘Caretaker’ is’n outdated term for me,” the Caretaker replied. “Nowadays I just watch over this blasted shrine n’its recent uninvited newcomers. Where’re you from?”

“I am… or rather was a prince from a now lost kingdom.”

The Caretaker raised an eye. “Didn’t know the Citadel can attract folks like you.”

The Prince furrowed. “I am here merely to retrieve my partner, whom the Citadel murdered, simply put.”

The Caretaker nodded. “Place really left behind only death in its history, eh? Maybe you should tell your stories to your friend and his other friends here. Oughta knock some sense or two into ‘em!”

Sherma shrunk his head into his cloak.

The Prince glanced around the area. In addition to the murmurs of prayers and rumors throughout Songclave, clicks of beads occasionally sounded. Of the bands of rosaries the pilgrims tightly held in their hands as they recited psalms, or when they were trading some kind of supplies with one another. He’d rather not.

“Anyways,” the Caretaker continued, “enjoy the place, while it lasts.”

“Aye, I think I will be leaving now,” the Prince responded. “I’ve no intention of lingering in the Citadel.”

“Wise choice,” the Caretaker replied. “You’re saner than the majority of them hopeless sods.”

“Wait!” Sherma chimed in. “You deserve some respite, Prince. You’ve done so much for the Songclave, and have carried your partner all the way here!”

The Caretaker groaned. “Oh, cease it with your annoyin’ pleads. We’ve got barely anythin’ to eat out here!”

“But mister Caretaker,” Sherma responded, “he climbed all the way up here and helped me bring to us some white balm for the wounded. I am sure he would appreciate a moment’s rest.”

“Oh he’ll be just fine,” the Caretaker argued back. “You know that troublemakin’ Bellringer, right?”

“The Red Maiden?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well she needn’t as much as a second on a bench! This bigger bug won’t even need one, then!”

“But...”

…

Finding himself in yet another listening end of an exchange, the Prince simply tuned out the arguing between the two bugs. The Caretaker had a hand on his hip, while Sherma was clasping his hands in a hopeful manner. The Prince brought his claws closer to his chest, feeling the cold steel of his partner’s remains.

Should I? He whispered to his partner. 

His elbows had sent to his head some waves of cramping. From the time he walked into the chamber, getting chased, and going into the Songclave, it was at least half an hour. His knees throbbed under some dull pain as they were a little shocked from the sudden exertion after such a long time spent sitting. However, if they were an actual bother to him, the Prince would’ve ceased to walk long before he reached the Songclave. 

Would you allow it?

The Prince looked back into the bickering duo. One thing he was definitely surprised about was the length at which Sherma can go debating against someone. The little pilgrim might not realize it, but he had a knack of just… talking back. Talking in general, really. He thought someone as crass as the Caretaker would shut Sherma off in minutes. Apparently not.

Although the Prince recognized the need to halt the debate. He took a deep breath, and said, “I’ll rest for a little.”

The two paused. It was not only because of his answer, but also because he gave it while the Caretaker was in the middle of bringing up another one of his points. Their faces swapped in accord with their general feeling to his answer.

“Oh, that is good!”

“Unbelievable!” The Caretaker exclaimed. He turned his gaze towards Sherma. “Pilgrim, you better take care of this prince of yours, ‘fore he falls victim to your faith!”

The Caretaker stormed off into the inside of the shrine. His little grumblings were about various things but prayers, unlike the pilgrims around him. The Prince gestured his head to point into the other, to which Sherma shrugged. It wasn’t quite to lessen his strain that the Prince decided on a rest. He just felt a little glad now that the Caretaker left the scene.

Sherma tapped on one of the Prince’s legs. “Come, come! I still have to show you to the warrior! I’m sure you two will share an unbreakable bond!”

The Prince tailed the giddy pilgrim’s back as they walked farther into the edge of the Songclave, where little to no pilgrims reside. Tall, slender iron fences bordered the area, preventing intruders from the exterior of the Citadel from entering, and the pilgrims inside from falling. Being far enough from the bustling settlement allowed the Prince to realize how… dead the rest of the Citadel was. The predictable chorus playing on repeat around the halls could not replace the business of a small albeit makeshift town.

Sherma periodically checked behind him to make sure the Prince was still following him. Not like there were any other places to go anyways. They made their way past the shrine, closing in on the towering fences that bordered the edge of Songclave. Not much can be made past the structure of the Citadel. Just a vague shape of some sort of mountains or an additional structure of the Citadel. The Prince made out a figure. Two figures, actually, leaning against one of the metal bars that made up the fence.

They were stout, much like Sherma, though one bore a particularly robust mustache, and the other rested on all four of its legs. Sherma pointed at them. “That is Garmond, a renowned knight from a distant land, and his companion, Zaza!”

“Garmond and Zaza…?”

“Yes,” Sherma replied. 

For being renowned they certainly did not ring any bells. Still, perhaps he could at last be of equal grounds in a conversation. Just a quick exchange, maybe a common topic of interest, and the Prince would be on his way out of the Citadel. Making the same promise to himself about five times should be enough to finally realize it.

Sherma stopped some distance away from Garmond and Zaza. “Oh, Green Warrior, I brought us a new fellow!”

Garmond—the mustache-bearing bug—tilted his head upward as the Prince approached them. He wore a funny-looking green helmet whose shape reminded the Prince of a bug’s abdomen, a matching green attire covered by an armor of a fading yellow color. He was leaning against what the Prince assumed would be Zaza, some sort of pillbug or beetle, with a pair of large beady eyes. 

Garmond flicked his eyes open, and stood up, raising a long… stick? Spear? “Gurrooo! A fellow warrior, cladded in green! Welcome to Songclave.”

“Oh, you can tell he's a warrior?” Sherma asked.

“Of course, pilgrim,” Garmond pointed. “Observe the posture with which he stands. The wear on his shell. The honed edges of his claws. You see this nowhere else than on a seasoned warrior.”

The Prince raised an eye. He would never expect to receive a form of validation in Songclave, out of all places. “Nice to meet you.”

“And how may I call you, warrior?”

“You may just call me a… prince.”

“A prince, eh?” Garmond scanned the Prince from top to bottom, nodding to himself. “I sense a pure, yet agonized heart. A rest is most definitely in order.”

The Prince furrowed. What was it with the apparent soul-reading from every bug he met? “I… suppose.”

“Please, take a seat beside,” Garmond said as he gestured to the empty spot near where he rested. “We’ve a mighty conversation ahead of us.”

‘Mighty’ was most definitely not the adjective the Prince looked forward to hearing. Every social interaction he experienced so far he would describe with the word ‘forced’ or ‘incidental’. In any case, he appreciated a bit of hospitality. Standing idle listening to the previous argument was much more draining than climbing up the Citadel. 

Not managing to release a thanks out of his hesitant throat, the Prince strutted beside Garmond, and sat down. The Prince laid his partner to his right. Some minor thumps spread from his joints up to his head, of his limbs thanking him for the break from exertion. He held onto his partner’s cold claw, by reflex more than anything.

With both warriors at least mildly interested with each other, Sherma smiled beneath his mask. “You two get to know each other. I shall tend to our wounded brothers and sisters.”

“Right away, then, little pilgrim!” Garmond raised his weapon. “Leave behind not one soul!”

“Thank you, Green Warrior! And please, don't leave until I come back, Prince! I have much to tell you!” Sherma bidded as he ran back to the busy part of Songclave, the tin of white balm in hand.

And with that the Prince received another instruction he planned to ignore. Though for now he’d rather attend to the relatively interesting bug (or bugs, counting Zaza) beside him. He wasn’t quite sure what to start, as he himself wasn’t too eager to share any part of his story. He let his mind wander again, staring into the dark, yet illuminant skies around them.

Garmond gave his mustache a pat down, tidying up the loose strands twirling and poking out. He sat back down in front of Zaza, leaning against it. “You don’t seem like you fit quite right, here… Prince?” He began. “I suspect, just like I, you come from a place foreign from Pharloom.”

The Prince gave Garmond a glance. He shifted himself closer to his partner to release the tension off of his chest from hearing that comment. He supposed where he was from could be considered foreign with respect to the rest of Pharloom.

“A prince…,” Garmond thought aloud, stroking his mustache. “I suppose you're not here without a grand reason, then?”

“I am here to retrieve my partner,” the Prince replied flatly. “What was left of him, at least.”

Garmond’s antennas perked up. No wonder the construct the Prince was holding resembled him so closely. “Partner? Ah, I am truly sorry for knowing that.”

“Aye, I’ve heard that numerous times,” the Prince replied. “Spare me the condolences.”

Garmond raised an eye, but he understood. He scanned the Prince further, who was currently staring into what Garmond would assume was the aforementioned partner. Its visage… its shape. They closely matched the Prince’s. The Prince himself was exactly what Garmond described to Sherma at a first glance: he was of a fine warrior, down to the surface of the shell.

Ah, it would be rude to stare. Garmond hummed to himself. He picked up his wooden spear which bore on its sides some regularly-spaced hole and on its other end a horn. Indeed, his spear doubled as his instrument, though due to his need to blow into it, he couldn't sharpen the narrow end. Really, it was more a club than a spear.

He gave Zaza a gentle pat on its head. “The Citadel,” he began, “left quite the destructive trail in its wake, eh?”

One of the Prince’s antennas twitched. “I thought you worship it?”

“Heavens, no,” Garmond replied, scratching the neck-part of Zaza, if it had a neck in the first place. “I am no less than on the same side as yours.”

There were sides here? The Prince patted away a dust clump that nestled itself in-between his partner's faux-coating with his vacant hand. “So you are against the Citadel.”

“Indeed, we are!” Huffed Garmond. “I… great knight Garmond, and my trusty companion Zaza, are here on a noble quest: to slay the heart of Pharloom’s Haunting!”

The Prince’s smirk faded away as quickly as it appeared. “Hmph. Hopeful.”

Garmond nodded solemnly as he fixed his hat, which had sunk a bit too deep into his head. He glimpsed the Prince, before focusing on the inquisitive Zaza instead. “Say, as it seems that we share a common enemy, perhaps we could share an alliance?”

The Prince gazed into the distance, his eyes followed the barely-visible Sherma running errands around the Songclave. He gripped his partner's arm tighter and squinted his eyes. The attire the pilgrims wore reminded him of the shambling remains he encountered throughout the Citadel. Those whose sense of self is now reduced to the same small set of words they repeated incessantly. 

So only one question appeared in his mind. “Why?” 

“Hm? Why?”

“You, Sherma, and… the Red Maiden he talked about,” the Prince answered. “I don’t see the point in doing all of this. Helping those who are too far gone, refusing this kingdom to finally collapse under its own weight.”

“That is quite the way to view things, Prince,” Garmond replied. He peeked into the Prince’s partner, which laid without motion. “But I suppose I understand why.”

“You do not,” the Prince retorted. “Nevertheless, you are caring for those who remember you naught but through half-truths. I think you ought to know that.”

“I reckon you have more experience with that,” said Garmond as he petted his loyal companion. Zaza chirped under his affection. It throttled from his back to his lap, nestling itself under what tiny space was available there. Garmond was already quite stout, so him sitting put him at the exact height as Zaza. In a brief realization of what just said, he added, “In commanding and serving subjects, I mean.”

The Prince almost decided that his time to rest was enough. He raised one of his knees, and leaned his head on it. “Hmph, you’ve no clue.”

“To answer your question, though,” Garmond continued, “well, do you, especially as a prince, not feel a sense of duty to do so? To protect the weak, save who can be saved.”

“A prince serves his subjects,” the Prince answered. “These pilgrims aren’t.”

“Seems that what you need out of anything else… is a good ol’ bug to listen to you.” Garmond laid his arm on Zaza’s back to support his head as he looked at the Prince. “A noble bug such as you couldn’t have turned this cold in a pinch. It seems that you have a burden to share. A weight to spread out.”

‘Cold’ was definitely a way to put it. The Prince’s antennas twitched, tightened his grip on his partner’s arm. “I do not. I’ve defended myself enough against the little pilgrim. I beg you that you do not demand I do the same now.”

“But what is there to defend, Prince?” Garmond asked as he gently ran his hand above Zaza. “I know this place has claimed many lives in its record for its cruel and unusual operations. But I promise, you are safe here.”

The Prince huffed. The soft winds circulating around the structure slipped between the tall iron fences, and gently swayed his fur. If there was anything he could take from his encounter with Sherma, was to refrain from reasoning against these types. Through that, the only way he could win was to outtalk them, which he wasn’t particularly keen on doing.

Garmond scratched a part of his head beneath his hat. It wasn’t surprising for him to encounter such a shut-in. Those were the most common archetype among warriors such as him. Those who kept their internal battles… well, internal. For various motives and or principles. Most were led to tragic ends, the tale passed on only by fading chronicles or worse, word-of-mouth.

He mustn't let that happen. Not toward those who he viewed still have a far lifespan ahead of them. “I can share my part of the story if it makes you slightly more comfortable.”

“I do not owe you mine if you were to do that, but suit yourself.”

Garmond took a deep breath. “Truth is, I… understand how you may feel right now.”

The Prince’s head practically snapped to glare at him. 

“I, too, lost everything I knew,” Garmond continued. “I know what you thought upon hearing my title. ‘A renowned knight? Really? But I’ve never seen this fellow before.’”

“Continue.”

“Truth is, I came from an otherwise prosperous village,” Garmond gazed into the sky as he narrated. “We, not just Zaza and I, but the subjects I serve, lived under the reign of a ruler. A bug, somewhat adjacent to you. I was only half of my current age when I was knighted by him, and so I served for the majority of my life.”

A ruler… “I suppose that village is far gone, then?”

Garmond took a deep breath. “It has been quite some time since the construction of the Citadel when it happened. Fleets and fleets of those devilish servants… Envoys, Reeds, whatever they call them, left the Citadel. They say they searched for some kind of heir… or offspring.”

The Prince tilted his head. “I have heard of similar motives before.”

“I do not fully understand,” Garmond confirmed. “That time… the Citadel wanted to hoard everything. Every village, every land. Their reach extends far and wide. Relentless. Merciless.”

“Tell me about it.”

Garmond  snickered. “Right! You're capable of quite the humor, Prince. Nevertheless… we see how that worked out for them. It wasn't all surprising really. Even back then I sensed that something was off with the troops they sent.”

“The Haunting,” the Prince added.

“You felt it too, yeah? How oddly devoted they are to this place,” Garmond thought aloud. He lifted his weapon off his shoulder, taking note of the scratches and dents that it sustained. “But in the end… I wasn't strong enough to save them. My village. My associates.”

“I see.”

“You see, they weren't particularly skilled with what they did, the fleets,” Garmond continued, chuckling. “I mean, just look at how proficient a Reed is in combat. Such brutish techniques and hedonistic waste of silk! They were cut down easily by our own army. But…”

Garmond bit his lip. He leaned his weapon back on his shoulder, letting out a sigh. “But there were many. The Citadel had bugs triple the population of my village at its disposal. I think you too, know as much. Alas, bravely as we fought, we couldn't stop them all. One knight fell, then another, and another.”

The Prince furrowed. 

“Until there was Zaza, I, and the Monarch. He whispered to me, as I was on my stead, ‘Flee, while you still can. For without you, no more would be alive to tell the existence of this village and the tyranny of the Citadel.’ How foolish, I thought. If there was any bug up to that task, it would be him!”

The Prince wrapped his other arm around his Partner. Not a single word regarding him or his kingdom was uttered in the story, yet a chill crept up from the tips of his claws to his chest. A chill that his coating couldn't block, and the non-existent warmth from his partner couldn't shield.

Garmond coughed, before resuming, “I remember quite vividly, the cry that echoed in the air as he charged into the fleet in front of us. It was… cheerful. Triumphant. A last hurrah, one can say, as he slashed through the overwhelming troops to buy some time.”

The Prince swallowed a spit. “He was strong.”

Garmond smiled. “More than that. He was kind, understanding. He inspired many things in us knights. To this day, I still use the same battle cry in the same way he did, right Zaza?”

Zaza chirped, nuzzling its head to Garmond’s mustache. 

“But that is why I am here, now,” Garmond concluded. “It is less about saving Pharloom, more about the pilgrims here you and I see. They may be ill-guided on their morals, but the least we can do is to prevent their demise.”

Weak-minded bugs wouldn't be able to survive under any supporting conditions, not even if a particularly capable bug were to come into the scene and help them. Such were the Prince’s thoughts, yet a regular retort couldn't escape the Prince’s throat. He was processing the story Garmond so generously told, and so far along on his evaluation, he wasn't in the sensible place to give reason.

Garmond laughed. “Oh that went quite a bit bleak, eh? My apologies, I don't mean to request pity. I just hope you would feel more comfortable to share more things about you.”

The Prince let go of what was practically a hug to his partner’s arm. He took a glimpse of Garmond, who was in turn expectantly staring into him. “I…,” the Prince began, “May I just ask you a question instead?”

“Why, of course!”

“Do you have time to grieve? After everything.”

“Ah,” Garmond said. He combed through his mustache with his fingers, as if trying to dislodge something out of it. Perhaps an answer. “I suppose I’ve been doing it since. Taking on this grand hunt, looking out for the pilgrims along the way; it’s my outlet.”

“Aye, you see,” the Prince added, “I feel as if I just don’t have the time. The moment I found my partner, to ambling here, to… many things before, generally.”

Garmond’s comparatively small antennas perked up at the same time as the realization in his head. He restrained himself to not let out a nod, but everything in regards to this little interaction simply clicked in his head. “Oh, my apologies. It didn’t occur to me how difficult everything must’ve been for you. Perhaps the sacrifices you must make, especially as a Prince–”

“I am a coward, Garmond,” the Prince spat. He couldn’t keep an eye contact with Garmond so he opted to keep one with his partner. “I left behind everything, when I signed my partner’s life away just for the small ounce of assurance that our home would be safe. I locked myself away. I…”

Zaza jumped off of Garmond’s lap, and nudged on the Prince’s legs, letting out a low-frequency hum. Garmond had a grimace plastered on his face, patiently waiting for the Prince to mutter up the next sentence slurring in his mouth.

“I asked, no, told you and the little pilgrim to call me a prince simply because I… don’t remember my name.”

“Hm?”

“Just know that I do not deserve the title, in any sense of it, ” the Prince said, before releasing a particularly sharp exhale. “That is all I wanted to say. You are correct. I just need time to grieve.”

Garmond was quite tempted to try and reach for the Prince’s arm, but he was technically of a lower status than the Prince, and it was quite inappropriate in his mind. “I am sure you’ve given it your all,” so he instead said. “I may not understand your situation in its entirety, but I believe that your partner is proud that you are at least still alive and sound in mind.”

“What is it that motivates you and the little pilgrim to console me?” The Prince asked as he narrowed his eyes. “You do not know anything about me. I could be a murderer. A tyrant. And all you lot do is to tell me that everything is alright and in order.”

Garmond’s previously unshakable eye contact broke away. A few reasons came to mind for Garmond, in relation to his perceived duty and the nature of those he protected. However, that was a good question. The Prince was a perfectly capable bug on his own, so really, strictly following his logic, he hadn't the obligation of tending to the Prince, as it was with whom Sherma called the ‘Red Maiden’. 

The reason which drove him to inquire this much about him perhaps lay somewhere else.  A still intrinsic part in him that he wasn't all too familiar with. Still, he’d been stroking his bushy beard for quite some time, and he needed a proper answer.

“I suppose… it just felt like the right thing to do,” Garmond responded. A subpar reason he wasn't proud of coming up after such a long-winded thinking.

“You sound exactly like the–” The Prince halted himself mid-sentence, before continuing, “I see.”

Garmond scratched his head. “I couldn’t find the correct words to describe it.”

“Then try.”

Garmond scrunched his face, reaching deep into his mind for something to put words into his concept. “It doesn’t sit quite right with me, that you are saddling all that weight on your own.”

“And why?”

“Aye, since the goodness of my heart isn’t sufficient reason for you, then I am unsure,” Garmond replied. “But please, permit me to carry just a bit of your burden, so that I may… I suppose care for you.”

The sentence flowed out as fast as the streams at the High Halls. The Prince’s fur and antennas stood on their ends. He placed an arm on his partner’s neck, and pulled him closer to him, into his coating. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that in a courtesy sense, of course!” Garmond cleared. “As warriors, we must find respite in one another–”

“Green Warrior! Fair Prince!” Sherma's call shook the air. The little pilgrim was bolting on his two little feet, creating soft tappings across the Songclave’s floor. He smeared his cloak over his face, wiping away a few droplets of tears.

The place the two sat was far from the entrance, so commotions happening there wouldn't reach as far as to the borders of Songclave. Garmond stood up. He wasn't much taller than Sherma. “What is amiss, pilgrim?”

Sherma stopped in front of them, and in-between his panicked breaths, he slipped words. “The pilgrims… they are under attack! I don’t… I don’t understand–”

Garmond raised his weapon, which signalled the nearby Zaza to come pick him up off the floor. “Aye, worry not! We shall rend this sanctuary off of these unliving foes. Rest here, pilgrim.” 

“I have to be there for them,” Sherma continued. “For the wounded.”

“Why, then leap on Zaza with me!” Garmond told. “My companion here may look small, but he is more formidable than you may think.”

“A– alright!” Sherma quickly climbed behind Garmond, his small build barely fitted on the equally small stead. He held onto Garmond by his hip, as if holding onto a rigid pillar.

Garmond turned towards the Prince, who was sitting at the same position without as much as a disturbance on his face, holding his partner. “Would you come along… Fair Prince?” Asked him, the slightest smirk bloomed beneath his facial hair. 

The Prince glanced at his partner and sighed. “Allow me to stay.”

“Ah… very well, then.” It would be nice to see the Prince display his techniques, Garmond thought. Of course, for curiosity more than anything. But he expected as much from the grieving Prince. He supposed courtesy should take precedence here, lest he prompted the Prince to leave the Songclave, which could spell more trouble.

So Zaza winded up its tiny legs, its vision steadfast on the main shrine at the heart of Songclave, where pins were clashing and various yells resounded.

“Warrior– er, Garmond,” the Prince called.

Garmond peeked behind. “What is it?”

“You still owe me an explanation,” the Prince continued.

Garmond chortled. “And I thought you don’t like prodding on other bugs’ businesses.”

The Prince squinted his eyes. “This is less about that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I… I don’t mean to interrupt,” interrupted Sherma, “but it would be best if you two were to save your camaraderie until we have all this sorted out.”

“Of course, young pilgrim!” Garmond replied. “Let us make haste.”

The knight departed with his stead and the same pilgrim that hitched a ride on the Prince’s back. As the battle scene grew closer to him, Garmond wondered only about the possible response to answer the question.