Chapter Text
All stories have different versions just as how the truth has its different sides.
Some stories thrive through time, while others fade into nothing; forgotten and unsung.
Such as this story I’m about to tell you.
A story which is about survival, despair and love...especially love.
Although I would want to begin this tale with a “once upon a time” I simply could not do that.
Because for a certain demon, who had lived for a millenia, and a pianist trapped in a desolate world, their story began with a melody.
A haunting melody wafted in the middle of the coldest winter night; the melancholy in it so profoundly conveyed that it caught even a demon’s attention. Although, this demon would very much prefer to call himself the collector rather than the demon. (Because how generic. How unrefined. How boring!)
It was during the night marking his thousandth year in this world, which was one heck of a boring life if you ask him, when the collector finally found the final piece to grant him his perfection. A treasure in the guise of the echoes of a sublime, beguiling sound of the piano. It seemed to call for him, and the collector who was aimlessly wandering the starless sky, found himself enticed like a moth to the flame.
So there he was, perched atop one of the thick branches of an old willow tree, facing the glass panelled door of a marbled balcony. His black membranous wings tucked inconspicuously behind him.
The collector then trailed his dark onyx eyes beyond those doors, looking inside a bedroom that was illuminated with a single candlestick and the faint light of the moon. At the center of it was the grand piano where he spotted a lone, hunched figure of a man; his hair, which was painted in crimson so dark it looked like the color of blood, flowing just inches past his broad shoulders.
Abandoning himself to the night, the pianist continued to play with such a captivating grace, with the moon and the stars (and now a smiling demon) as his intrigued spectators.
Pale, almost ghastly, alabaster skin covered his sinewy forearms, his long neck and flawless face (which was veiled by the shadows. Too bad for our demon) as all else was covered in a dark silken cloth that seemed to be his nightwear.
But his hands... his hands.
With a sharp intake of breath, the collector stared at it. His own gloved hands clenching on the branch beneath him. Gleaming dark eyes traced at the outlines of those long and deft fingers--tinged red due to the cold--moving like it had a mind of its own, gliding along the keys, filling the room with melodies of fog and stardust flashing in the night sky. Such earnest elegance, powerful and delicate at the same time.
Oh.
He licked his lips, grinning with delight and flashing sharp canines.
For a thousand years. After such painstakingly long and boorish years. He finally found it.
His perfection.
Soundlessly leaping off the branch and descending on the balcony, the winged man had a feral smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Then he transformed.
With his wings gone, so was his true form.
The black hair faded into a lighter color, settling to beautiful blond locks with delicate curls which he had taken from the young prince of a foreign kingdom 300 years ago. His eyes, which were originally black, were now light blue (the same pair of eyes of the Northern warrior who became the first King of the Hunters), and his dark skin turned fair, ivory smooth, that was better suited for angels than demons like him. (It was all thanks to the cunning native maid who became the Western Continent's Empress overnight 500 years ago)
Melting into the shadows, the collector stalked into the room of his next (and final) collection.
Tang!
The melody halted to a flat shrieking noise as the man stiffened on his seat. The flame in the candlelight dwindled down to a meager flicker as something in the air shifted.
Then suddenly, he wasn’t alone in his bedroom anymore.
Three bottles of expensive liquor weren’t enough to dull his senses which was sharpened by years of experience as a military commander when he felt the atmosphere thicken with deadly tension. Instinctively, he looked toward the door to his balcony, the source of the ominous aura, only regretting it right away when his eyes met glowing cerulean blue.
He froze.
How--
In front of him was an imposingly tall figure of a man, seemingly as tall as him, leaning on the door frame and observing the man with an intense gaze that almost looked terrifying were it not for the mischievous glint in those eyes (so blue, so deep blue and unnervingly blue)
An assassin?
The red-headed man, despite the shivers running down his spine as the full weight of that gaze lingered on him, only glared at the intruder. He couldn’t make out the person’s appearance except for those eyes as everything else was concealed underneath the shadows.
“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed, standing from his seat.
As the man stealthily called for faint rose-gold bolts in his fingertips (ready to fry the intruder into dust if he made the slightest mistake) he heard a scoffing noise, followed by a chuckle, before a deep, sensual voice thick with predatory fascination permeated his senses.
“How odd. Really odd.”
The human clenched his hands.
No. It can’t be an assassin. Their daggers came first before their words, much less a sound.
Then perhaps, it was a mage? At least a highest-grade mage since he was able to conceal his presence like this. But there were no mages in this world. So, was he a mystical being? He exuded an aura almost as strong and as distinct as Dragon’s fear.
Despite all of these thoughts, the human knew one thing; this bastard was dangerous.
He took a careful step back, and the shadowed figure took the liberty and idly strolled around the room; running a gloved finger on the rows of books stowed in the shelves. His even and casual footsteps devoured the silence between them until he stopped right beside the grand piano.
Then the world turned out of focus when those gloved fingers began tracing the cold, lacquered surface of the piano, the owner stepping out of the shadows and into the ray of silver moonlight that befell at the center of the room.
“For a human who looks so weak, so breakable, like a porcelain doll, you are rather...crude.” The voice (now with a face) drawled with an impish smile, his clear blue eyes perusing the keys of the piano.
On the other hand, the owner of that piano stared at his unwanted guest. A fair-skinned man, donned in a black suit, stood in front of him. Short curly blond hair framed an aristocratic countenance that was accentuated by the silvery glow of the moonlight. It was a face that reminded him of the sculptures favored by his stepmother. And just like those intricate masterpieces made out of marble, this stranger looked impossibly real without a semblance of a flaw in him. A daydream sculpted by the moon itself.
He was in a word; Otherworldly.
Just who the fuck?
The pianist cursed under his breath, glaring at the latter beneath furrowed brows. Now that he remembered, this handsome motherfucker called him a porcelain doll .
“For a bastard who waltzes into another person’s bedroom, uninvited, and in the middle of the night, you look rather shameless.” The cold animosity was biting in his voice. “How long had you been standing there like a voyeuristic pervert watching me whilst lurking behind in the shadows?”
Cool blue eyes met heated russet brown once again.
“Hmm, for a while, I guess?” The intruder looked everything but guilty. Then he smiled a disgustingly bright smile, gesturing with his gloved hands. “The song you played was just so bone-chillingly haunting that I could not resist but to follow the source of such a dark serenade. Such was a song that was begging to be heard, desperately seeking an audience. Then I found you here, and what can I say? I like what I see.”
Under ordinary circumstances, this royally annoyed red-headed pianist would have already called forth the biggest lightning bolt to blast the bastard into oblivion. However, there was something unordinary in this situation. He had felt it the second he sensed the intruder--on the sudden change of the atmosphere as though the shadows tensed and the silence had a sound of its own. He couldn’t afford to be reckless, especially in his condition.
Despite his growing discomfort, the human didn't break eye contact. Releasing the Fire of Destruction, he crossed his arms, and spoke in a low, threatening voice.
“I’ll ask again. Who are you? No. Rather--” He stepped closer towards the guy, both of them now within the mercy of the silver moonlight.
“What are you?”
“What are you?”
The words echoed between human and demon.
The collector’s smile faltered for a split second before it melted into an amused smile.
For the third time that night, the demon was caught off guard.
The first time was when he discovered the treasure beyond the glass panes of this room; the second time was the cold yet pleasantly surprising voice of this human as he hurled curses at him; and third...by the human himself.
Now that he could see the pianist clearer, away from the murkiness of the shadows, he beheld the peculiar human in quiet interest. The hair that he thought was the pungent color of blood, now reminded him of the vermillion sunsets. Long, silken locks of red gracefully curtained his pale face; fringes delicately touching the lashes around a pair of reddish eyes that arrogantly stared down at him. Yet, despite the hostility hardening the features of that face, the collector couldn’t help but appreciate the sight in front of him.
He’s beautiful.
It was the first time he didn’t covet a face for himself, but rather, he was simply enamored by it. He could stay there, idling his time away while staring at this red-haired man who seemed like he wanted to do nothing else but to punch the smirk off the collector’s face.
“Well? Are you going to answer me, or do I have to force the answer out of you?” the human threatened, his tone laced with the promise of violence.
With a chuckle, the collector bowed (a little exaggeratingly) as if to humor him, exuding a majestic air and charisma that would put all the royal nobles around the world to shame.
“My name is Alberu Crossman,” he began with his hand on his chest.
“And I have been searching for a thousand of years looking for the perfect pair of hands. That is until I found you.“
“So, my dear pianist, please allow me to take your hands.”
Cale Henituse blinked, flabbergasted.
Does this bastard have the same name as the Crown Prince and his sworn brother?
What the hell is this?
Ever since he was trapped in this world, Cale hadn’t found any correlation with the original world of the Birth of a Hero. Aside from the existence of the same Forest of Darkness and the same fantasy setting, there were zero similarities between the two worlds. And when he tried investigating, asking people about their knowledge of the gods, or about their knowledge of the distinguished noble houses of the Roan Kingdom, Cale would always be robbed off of his speech. He couldn’t even write his Henituse surname down on paper. The sealed god got him good this time, leaving Cale without leeway to know the identity of this dimension, and without a way to know how to escape. But that was before. Nothing reminded him of his world, not until now.
Maybe it was because he had stopped using his Record Ability purposefully trying to avoid memories of his past life, or perhaps he had been bothered by the disarming presence of this intruder, but now that he realized it, the latter did have a similarity with the Alberu from his world. The blond hair and blue eyes. The familiar almost identical handsome face.
But this wasn’t Alberu Crossman from his world. They were similar but not the same.
And most importantly.
What kind of fucked up, (proposal-sounding) bullshit is that?
He had searched for how many ( what) years searching for what now?
Cale Henituse didn’t know what the hell the bastard was saying. He immediately lamented the failed opportunity to electrocute this freaking lunatic. Well, it wasn’t too late. He could do it now. Or he could shout for Gebb (his butler) and then--
“Ah, by the way, I’m a demon.”
Or not.
“Huh?”
The stranger--Alberu--shrugged his shoulders.
“Humans probably already know about us. Although, I’d rather not associate myself with other vicious members of the Demon realm. I prefer to be called the Collector for I collect and devour human body parts to make them my own.”
“...”
When Cale didn’t respond with his face caught between a wince and a grimace, Alberu supplied, “But of course, I still have my principles and I value dignity as I am the descendant of the royal Crossman lineage of the demonic race. I have the power to grant your wish. So, if you give me your hands, I will give you whatever it is that you desire.”
Cale, for ten solid seconds, could only gape at the latter, genuine incredulity replacing the indifference in his features. He tried to make sense of whatever the hell was happening to him right now, but for the life of him, couldn’t find the logic in this situation.
This trespasser. This Alberu Crossman (not his sworn brother)...was a demon?
Like those demons from the demonic race ruling the demonic realm which supposedly existed in a different world than this? Horns, wings and the proverbial definition of everything that the humans feared? Those demons?
It was as absurd as meeting the God of Death face to face.
Hah. And here I thought hard liquors can no longer affect me. Maybe, at some point, I fell asleep and now I’m having the most random and absurd dream ever since I came to this damned world.
Yes, that’s the only explanation Cale could come up with because for all the things he thought the being in front of him was, Cale had least expected the fair blond man to be the personification of evil himself.
The bastard must be joking.
“I kid you not, my dear young master,” the demon quipped as he noticed the look on the latter’s face, hiding his wide smile behind his hand.
The way the human struggled to maintain it’s cool as his eyes flitted from shock to confusion to disbelief then back to confusion again in a split second was almost comical that Alberu had to fight back a chuckle. Then, as though to further antagonize the human, Alberu flashed a playful grin.
“This demon was just so fascinated by your captivating performance that I could not help but covet your hands for my own.”
At that, Cale seemed to lose control over the rein to his emotions and his mouth fell. The human looked revolted as he took a step back, turning away from the lunatic, and dragging a hand on his face.
Yes, yes. Definitely a weird dream.
If someone told Cale Henituse that after the end of bloody continental war with the White Star, he would be having a chance encounter with a demon (who looked like the Crown Prince of the Roan Kingdom) and engage in a casual conversation with him while they enjoy an expensive wine inside his bedroom, the former commander would have laughed his ass off. Probably call that someone an idiot and laugh some more because that was just some straight up nonsense.
Although, he couldn’t say the same thing now.
“So to reiterate, you are a demon, who steals--”
“Collects.”
Cale rolled his eyes. “--who collects human body parts for yourself, and in return, you grant whatever desire the owners of those body parts have as a form of compensation?”
“Reward.” Alberu corrected again with a jut of his chin. “I give them rewards in return.”
“Yes. Of course. Rewards .” Cale echoed, scoffing mentally while Alberu nodded and taking a sip from his wine glass. A wine glass that Cale owned, filled with wine that Cale also very much owned.
Yes. Things apparently turned out that way.
Somehow, along the way, Cale gave up trying to make sense out of everything or to throw the demon out of his room. Somehow both of them ended up sitting across each other, a small table between them, the bottle of wine now in Alberu’s hand as he filled Cale’s wine glass. Heck, the two even seemed like long time friends sharing drinks with each other.
Fucking hell, he couldn’t even laugh right now, could he?
If this is a dream, at least I’ll allow myself to enjoy my wine.
Cale took the glass and drank from it.
“And now, you’re here, in my room, very much interested in taking my... hands ?” His brows furrowed at his own words. “Like my actual, literal hands?”
“Hmm-mmm.” Alberu nodded again, his blue eyes fixated on Cale's fingers that held on the neck on the wine glass, not in a way a hunter gazed at its prey but in a fashion like how nobles stare at jewelries on display. Alberu stared at Cale’s hands as though they were jewels he wanted to wear for himself.
At the sight of the demon’s leaden gaze, Cale suppressed the shiver that ran down his spine. A small part of him wondering where and who was the previous owner of those eyes.
“I reckon you won’t butcher my arms off or cut my wrists just so you can acquire my hands, will you?” he asked.
“Pfft. Certainly not. I will not hurt you. I’m no barbarian.”
Well, for a demon (literally the textbook definition of brutality and violence) to vehemently deny such a notion, the barbarians around the world ought to feel offended.
But Cale merely nodded. “So how are you going to take it? What’s the process?”
Arching an eyebrow, Alberu shifted his gaze from those fingers to the face of the red-headed man in front of him. No sign of any emotion there, only bland, business-like curiosity, as though he was simply talking to a merchant in the market, and not to a demon who covet his body parts.
What a weird human.
“If you sign a contract with me, I’ll grant your desire immediately. And, when you die, I’ll be claiming your body--or your hands specifically--and will make it mine.”
“Hmm.” Cale hummed nonchalantly. Was that why the demon wore gloves? Judging from his appearance, the only flaw left on the demon Alberu was his hands. At least that was how it seemed to Cale. Did that mean everything about him, all the different pieces of him now, were originally owned by different human beings who had their wish granted?
And this...was this some sort of facade to hide his true form?
At least on that aspect, this demon and his sworn brother--who used a glamour magic to hide his dark elf affinity--were the same.
“Hmmm.” Cale continued humming as Alberu silently waited for his response until finally,
“Alright.”
Alberu stiffened at that. Tilting his head, the demon cast a surprised yet dubious look toward the latter. “Really? You’re agreeing already? I mean, no more further questions? Clarifications?”
“No.” Cale deadpanned.
Alberu eyed him suspiciously. Really, did he understand everything? I specifically used the word ‘devour’ to at least scare him a little but why does it seem like he doesn't care about his body at all? This human...why--
“I don't really care, to be honest.” Cale added, taking another sip of wine, his words sounding as bittersweet as the liquor. “I’m not particularly fond of my hands. You can have it.”
“Ah.” Suddenly, Alberu understood. He must have something he strongly desired that he willingly agreed to sign a contract with a demon.
Well, not my problem.
“Then, what do you wish for?” Alberu asked.
The demon found himself genuinely curious. To this apathetic human being, who lived in a castle-like mansion, surrounded by servants, gold and luxury, what could he possibly long for? What kind of passionate desire could light up those hollow eyes?
“Perhaps, do you wish for power? Glory or strength? I could prolong your life, heal whatever illness you may have. Or--”
“No. I don't want any of that.” Cale refused flatly.
Alberu frowned. “Then what are you going to wish for?”
Cale was silent for a moment, thinking as he tapped his index finger on the chair’s armrest.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then silence.
The human shifted his eyes to stare at the demon--eyes that were like hard, clear-cut gems of molten garnets, pinning Alberu to his seat. Then they twinkled with cunning mischief. And for the first time, Alberu saw a smile languidly curling the human’s well-shaped lips as he spoke in a low drawl.
“I wonder if there’s a limit to this reward of yours.”
Alberu subconsciously gulped.
For a moment, the red-headed human looked more like a demon than the demon himself.
“What if I wish for the world to disappear?”
“What if I want everything blown up to dust?”
“Or what if I wish to beat all the gods into pulp? To smack them on their backs a thousand times over, and fuck them up?”
“Hmm. What if I want to kill a god?“
Alberu Crossman, who had lived one thousand years, felt like he had to re-evaluate his immortal life, for the demon actually found himself terrified of the casual musings of a certain red haired human as he stared blankly, whispering cursed words into the void.
It was as if the human’s fragile appearance, and the sad, haunting melody he had played earlier while looking so achingly vulnerable beneath the faint moonlight were nothing but an illusion. Alberu felt severely scammed by the dichotomy in the character of the owner of that perfect pair of hands.
“You can’t be serious, right?”
Alberu leaned back on the cushions of his seat. He suddenly felt dizzy. If the gods were listening now (damn it if they were) they better hide far away from this vicious bastard.
“Of course I am.”
The man rubbed his chin so casually like cursing the gods and wishing for the end of the world was always in his daily to-do list.
“You said you’ll grant my wish, right? Whatever I desire, you will give it to me, right ?”
The fuck did Alberu bring himself into?
The collector nervously chuckled. “When I said I can give you anything, I have to admit that I didn't expect you’d have such... disastrous desires. ”
To destroy the world and fuck up the gods in exchange of a pair of long, delicate fingers? Alberu would dissipate into dust and be gone forever even before he could spend a second to admire his completed body. This might just be the most unfair bargain in the entire universe and this human is a scamming piece of shit. Have I underestimated the propensity of humankind to bring utter chaos in this world?
“How about thinking more about it?” Alberu offered with a faux benign smile. “You don’t have to tell me your wish now. Perhaps, after a day or two? Let’s try thinking of other less chaotic things.”
Maybe if the human was sober, or maybe if he was less murderous as he was tonight, then his desires wouldn’t be as astronomically harmful both to Alberu and the gods.
Fortunately for him though, the human seemed to agree.
A shrug. “Well, whatever.”
When the human nonchalantly shrugged, Alberu all but cried in relief as he shot to his feet. “Good. Fantastic. Then, I’ll be on my way now.” He huffed, bolting out of that damned room but halted midstep when he realized something.
“Ah! I forgot to ask your name.”
Alberu glanced back at the human who only snorted at him. A few beats of silence passed and then,
“Cale.” he finally answered.
“Just Cale?”
Wasn’t he a noble? How come he didn’t have a household name?
“Yes. Just Cale,” the man replied, lips curling in a joyless cousin of a smile. It seemed there were a myriad of truths behind them, truths that were better left unsaid. That was why despite Alberu’s intrigue, he didn’t pry further.
The demon nodded. “Then, goodnight, Cale.”
And just as he entered, Alberu soundlessly left the room with a smirk gracing his features.
The pianist had a name now.
And the collector had a new pair of hands.