The Bell Tolls (AYTO AU)

[igiko]

"I'm not going," says Mithra.

"Won't you at least give it a try?" asks Rutile, imploring. "It's been so long since you met other people besides myself and Mitile. I think you might enjoy it."

It's been a week since Rutile came to him, bearing news about an invitation to a reality television show where singles in their advanced years meet with the prospect of romance between them. Supposedly, there are plenty of games, talks, and intercourse to go around. Rutile has shown him a few clips in the hopes of piquing his interest, only for every instance of explosive emotion or raunchy nudity to kill his halfway tolerant mood even more. It all looks and sounds like something Tiletta might have enjoyed, which alone is reason enough for Mithra to decline, no matter how many times Rutile harasses him about going.

How did the producers come by his information, anyway? He hasn't mingled with society more than has been strictly necessary for years now. Not that it matters—he's determined to ignore their awful siren song.

"That's because I have to look after you two," says Mithra. "What's there to enjoy about staying for two months with a bunch of strangers?"

"Mitile and I were strangers to you before, too," replies Rutile.

"No, you weren't. Tiletta gave birth to both of you." Died for one of them, even. Mithra ignores the odd sting that lances through his chest at the thought in favor of holding Rutile's gaze in an impromptu staring contest. "I've known you from the start."

Rutile blinks. The winner of this round, Mithra curls his lips into a satisfied smirk.

He's learned, however, that for every win there are two more losses when it comes to the Flores brothers. It's been twenty years. By now, Mithra should have realized that Rutile will far outstrip his own stubbornness when it comes to something on which he's already set. In other words, Rutile's soft smile eventually becomes a terrifying glower that threatens everything Mithra holds dear, before that gentle face bursts with joy when he finally accedes to going on the show.

There's no doubt about it. As he packs a suitcase's worth of his things under Rutile's pushy instruction, Mithra hears Tiletta's laughter, wild with schadenfreude, burning in his ears.

💘
All of the participants are herded into a game on the first day. Before Mithra knows it, he's stuck between a red-eyed man and a man with violet hair on a loveseat that can barely hold them with the sheer amount of plush pillows lining the cushions. The two men—wizards unsurprisingly from the west, he soon learns with no small amount of irritation—propose that they each take turns introducing themselves and naming the participants whose face pleases them the most for the sake of getting to know one another better.

Without a doubt, this would have been the perfect show for Tiletta.

The token human on the show goes first. The lack of magical power outs them, and Mithra stares as they trip over their words, gaze darting from one face to the next the while. The human, Akira, pauses mid word when they set their sights on him.

"Is something the matter?" asks Shylock in a pleasant lilt.

Akira starts with a small jolt. Sheepishly, they reply, "No, not really . . . but I can't possibly choose who's the most attractive participant here." Their eyes wander back to Mithra, who arches an eyebrow. "You're all so beautiful . . . "

Any thought Mithra has about the human is summarily thrown out the window when Murr calls on the next person in their circle. Mithra goes rigid at the sight of blue hair, and the red eyes curtained by those bangs narrow in suspicion when they finally fall on him.

"All right, so here we have," begins Murr, to which Mithra finishes with disdain, "Oz."

"Oh, you two know each other?"

"Yes," says Mithra, exchanging glares with the wizard in question, "unfortunately."

Mithra moves to leave—or he would have, if not for the western wizards sandwiching him with their shoulders crowded against his, preventing him from standing without shimmying like an idiot. In the end, he jostles for a bit before settling down with a quiet huff. At least he can rest easy with the knowledge that Oz knows he meant to leave, if that unwavering gaze is anything by which to go; however, just in case Oz has missed the memo, Mithra pins him with a pinched scowl for the rest of the game.

💘
There's a dragon amongst them.

That explains why he's been on edge all day. Oz has always been a simmering annoyance in the back of his mind, but nothing so grand that Mithra's nerves should be as fired up as they have been. The occasional twitch of his hand escalates into a series of full-blown tremors, sloshing the tea against the rim of the cup in his grasp, when the dragon wearing the skin of a humanoid sidles up to his side at the counter.

"Hwylryn," says the dragon in lieu of a greeting.

"Can I help you," replies Mithra as he clenches his fingers tightly around the teacup.

Every fiber of his being blazes, crying out for blood to be spilled between them, while Rutile's admonishing voice echoes in his mind. If he starts a fight here and wrecks the estate in the process, he'll never hear the end of it back home.

"Peace, Mithra," says Hwylryn, smiling. He leans against the counter and angles his head toward Mithra, silver tresses spilling down his front and back. "I was just wondering if you wanted to join me."

"Where?" asks Mithra, eyeing Hwylryn with suspicion over his shoulder.

"Out by the shore. I've been meaning to visit the sea, and I've heard that you're fast."

The estate in which they've holed up for the duration of the show is located on an island. It sits close to the edge, providing a sprawling view of the mountainous landscape on one side and of the ebbing and flowing tides on the other. Given the unrestrained nature of the show's participants, they've been granted full access to the island as a whole and the body of water around it, so long as they don't leave the scene entirely.

"What does speed have to do with it? If it's the shore you're looking for, it's right outside," says Mithra, tilting his head in the direction of the large glass doors that lead to the porch.

"I've been there already. The shore I want to see is on the opposite end of the island," says Hwylryn.

Mithra pauses to consider the distance and the time it would take to cross such a wide expanse of land before nodding. "I see. Then you must've heard about my door," he says, setting the teacup down and leaning back to fold his arms. "However, Oz can also do the same. Is there a reason you decided to approach me instead of him? Or has that man already rejected you?"

It would be typical of Oz, if that were the case. Beloved by the spirits as he is, Oz never accepts anyone. It's a wonder why he's even here on this show where he'd have to choose and be chosen in turn when neither he nor Mithra could stand so much as to look at one another back in the days of their acquaintanceship. Oz is simply a spiteful man full of scorn—someone who wouldn't think twice about rejecting even a creature as magnificent as a dragon.

In that case, Mithra wouldn't mind being seen leaving the estate beside Hwylryn with Oz's watchful gaze on their backs. His fanciful thoughts, however, are cut short when Hwylryn leans in with a honeyed smile.

"That's not it. I'm from the north, and so are you. I can feel it on you," he says.

"If you can feel that, surely you can sense it on Oz as well," says Mithra.

"I can. Like you, he's a powerful wizard from the north." Hwylryn's eyes search Mithra's—for what, the latter hasn't the faintest idea. "But he's not you."

A strange sensation passes through Mithra's chest. He gets up, and the two leave the estate. They make a race out of reaching the shore first, and Mithra simply laughs when he opens a door in space, only to be shut back out by Hwylryn's weight on the frame. Once he makes it past the threshold on the second try, Hwylryn unveils his true form in all its shimmering blue-white glory. A grin splits Mithra's face as he jumps onto his broom, and together they soar over the sea in a never-ending contest of who can fly higher, swoop lower, and plunge deeper into the water until the sun disappears beyond the horizon.

That night, Mithra sleeps soundly to the distant sound of waves.

💘
"Mithra," says Hwylryn, ushering the human forth with the graceful sweep of an arm, "this is Akira."

"Yes, I know," replies Mithra.

"We're going swimming. Do you want to join us?"

"I'm good at swimming, but what about them?" asks Mithra, fixing his gaze on Akira. "Surely they can't hold their breath that long. For that matter, can humans withstand the pressure?"

"Um," starts Akira, whose shoulders have hiked up to their ears, "how deep are we going . . . ? If it's manageable, I can always come back up to catch a breath."

Not in the least inspired by the answer, Mithra meets Hwylryn's gleaming eyes. It's one thing for a dragon and a wizard to take a deep plunge into the sea, but humans are fragile. Between the cold, the dark, and the depth, there's no way Akira would be able to survive for longer than a minute. They'll die; Hwylryn must know this.

Mithra sighs. "Very well."

"Huh?" intones Akira.

"Thank you, Mithra," says Hwylryn. Smiling widely, he turns to Akira. "He'll cast a spell to ensure your safety."

"Arthim." A ruddy light washes over Akira, bathing them in Mithra's magic. Like this, they should be able to roam the deep sea with little to no trouble, provided that they know how to swim. Mithra turns to Hwylryn. "There. Will that suffice?"

Naturally, it does. Mithra isn't a powerful wizard for nothing. He's always been independent and strong; though he isn't as itinerant as he once used to be, in recent years he's rampaged here and there whenever another entity threatened the safety of the Flores brothers, impressing on those who know them that Rutile and Mitile are strictly off limits. The spirits are an ever servile presence, and they do as he bids when the three of them—Mithra on his broom and Akira, Hwylryn's back—shoot past the water's surface and into the dark abyss of the sea surrounding the island.

The orbs Mithra conjures for visibility reflect off the silver scales of Hwylryn's belly, scattering their light into beams that illuminate the deep sea in a gentle glow. They highlight the wide grin set in Hwylryn's jaw and the look of awe on Akira's slack face while Mithra explores the ocean depth with languid strokes, taking stock of the marine life just beyond the edges of luminosity.

There was a time when he'd tried to take Rutile and Mitile underwater in lieu of a trip to an aquarium. According to Mitile, Figaro had advised them against it, citing the dangers lurking within the ocean, and Mithra never ended up hearing about how the field trip to the aquarium had gone. He'd thought it absurd at the time: After all, what could be more dangerous than Mithra of the North?

When they surface in an hour or so, a thrilling chill runs down Mithra's spine at the large shadow that looms over him and Akira as Hwylryn emerges after them. Even the Leviathan can't hope to beat a real dragon in size. At the call of his name, Mithra turns around to find Hwylryn bowing his head and opening his massive jaw to reveal a school of fish in the veritable pond caught in his maw.

"They're for you," says Hwylryn. The leathery skin around his eyes crinkles as Akira swims up to touch a fang. Following suit, Mithra uses Hwylryn's fangs as leverage to climb inside.

With his back leaned against Hwylryn's giant fang, Mithra takes a voracious bite out of the first fish he manages to snatch up from the water while Hwylryn and Akira chat. Hwylryn's voice reverberates all around them, and Mithra's heart pounds for each syllable that passes through him. One bite—a single bite at the right angle would be enough to turn him to stone in the blink of an eye. The thought distracts him enough that he only begins to register the prickling in his throat once he turns toward the sea mid cough.

"Mithra, you're bleeding!" he exclaims.

"Am I?" asks Mithra, blinking. Something jabs his throat from inside and he coughs again, this time into his hand. When he pulls away, his palm, damp from seawater, is also mottled red.

"Was it the fish that you ate?" asks Akira, pressing up against Hwylryn's tooth in order to lean in close.

"Ah," says Mithra, "maybe. There were bones."

"You ate it raw," says Hwylryn. "Was it good?"

"It would've been nice if it was boneless, but yes," answers Mithra, to which Hwylryn's whole being rumbles with gentle laughter.

"That's a relief."

"Will you be all right, Mithra?" asks Akira.

"Of course. I'm Mithra of the North, you see."

"That, he is," says Hwylryn, mirthfully, and Mithra smiles in spite of the thorny annoyance lodged in his throat.

💘
As he grows older, sleep eludes him more. In the last ten or so years, it's gotten to the point where he can only sleep a handful of days out of the week, and he can hardly call it restful. A permanent bag sits below each eye now, faint but persistent. There are ways to improve the quality of fitful sleep, though. Rutile's mask comes in handy on the worst nights when his mind is willing yet his body isn't; here, it helps to block out the view of the show's other participants while they slumber on around him, too.

There are nights, however, when the mere knowledge of their presence sours his mood, no matter how much he breathes in the fragrance of the herbs stuffed between the mask's layers. On one such night, he gets up after tossing and turning for half an hour and makes his way to the couch in the great room, where he lays himself down with an airy groan and an arm slung across his face.

"Mithra?" Mithra lowers his arm just enough to glimpse Akira's face. They lean over him with a pinch in their brow, not unlike the time he'd coughed up blood after choking on fish bones. Their voice is quiet and gentle like Rutile's as they ask, "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep," answers Mithra.

"Is there something on your mind? Like, for instance . . . the matchup ceremony?"

The matchup ceremony had taken place earlier in the evening, not long before the communal bedtime. As far as Mithra is concerned, there isn't much to say about it. It hadn't been his turn to choose, so he'd hardly paid the proceedings any attention. Akira and Hwylryn had sat together, looking every part the happy couple. Oz hadn't given any of them even a first glance after having his name called. In the encroaching darkness, a few stars out of several had lit up for their seemingly heartfelt efforts.

"No," he says. "Why would I be thinking about that?"

"Well . . . " Akira worries their lower lip. "That's fine, then. Is there anything I can do to help? What do you usually do when you have trouble falling asleep?"

"Whatever comes to mind. I'll take a walk, read a book, work out . . . It depends on where I am."

Akira sits back on their haunches, looking lost in thought. "It's late now, so I wonder if we'll be able to go on a stroll," they say as they glance at the glass doors separating the estate from the porch. "If you brought a book with you, I could read it out loud for you."

"Do you think I can't read?"

"Ah, no . . . It's just . . . "

"Just what?" asks Mithra.

"I thought it would be a little lonely if you had to do those things by yourself when there are so many of us here," says Akira, bowing their head.

Mithra blinks. Humans are weak, prideless creatures. They often do things that are unnecessary, wiling away their precious few scores on superfluous traditions and sentiments. For all that, it's the first time he's found a person, human or wizard or otherwise magical, to be strange.

"What makes you believe I'm lonely?" he asks, watching as Akira tenses, then scratches their face.

"It's not that I believe you are," says Akira after another moment of thought. They're as slow as Oz when it comes to cobbling together a response. Curiously, unlike Oz, their eyes tend to linger on Mithra's face whenever they look at him. "But I can't help thinking that, if it were me, I would want somebody to keep me company when everyone else is together somewhere else."

"I see," says Mithra.

"Y-you do?"

"I thought it was strange that you, a human, were on this show with a cast of magically inclined people . . . but I understand why you are now." Mithra considers his next course of action before exhaling a short sigh. "I suppose it can't be helped."

Before Akira can meander with more winding thoughts, Mithra seizes their wrist. He pulls them up and over the edge of the couch, yanking them into the vacancy he's just created. Their face presses into the junction between his neck and shoulder, and he grips the back of their head before they can pull back, holding them in place, while Akira splutters his name.

"If it's too lonely to be out here on your own, you can sleep here," says Mithra, hushing Akira's attempts at speaking henceforth. "Please quiet down and rest."

As the clock on the wall ticks down the passing seconds, Akira relaxes more and more until their breathing evens out near his chest. Once he's certain that they've fallen asleep, Mithra chances a glance at their face. With their eyes closed and lips parted, they look awfully peaceful and delicate in his arms. The seconds stretch into minutes as his gaze lingers on their relaxed features . . . when his eyes, too, slide shut and the hours pass them by in a matter of what feels like mere moments.

💘
"Oz."

" . . . Mithra."

"Is there a reason you've been watching me all day?" asks Mithra.

"I have not," answers Oz.

"You have," says Mithra.

"No."

"Yes. You most certainly have."

If he were the gambling type, he would bet his own mana stone that Oz has been staring at him like a vulture ever since a section of the estate's residents was shipped off on those so-called dates. Wherever they've gone, supposedly a private, luxurious experience awaits them while those left behind in the estate must choose which of the pairs to send into the alleged truth booth. In fact, it was during one such boring discussion that Mithra, lolling his head from one shoulder to the other, noticed Oz's skin-crawling gaze on him from across the room—and that unpleasant sensation hasn't stopped since.

"If you have a problem, you should simply come out and say it," says Mithra, throwing in a dismissive wave for good measure. "Or is it a fight that you want?"

"Do not be ridiculous. You cannot defeat me," says Oz, to which Mithra grits his teeth.

"Then what is it?" he snaps.

Oz closes his eyes, takes in a torturously long breath, and says, "Hwylryn and Akira have gone on a date."

"Yes, I know. What of it?"

"Will you be voting for them?" asks Oz.

Mithra frowns. He hasn't thought that far yet.

Strategically, it would make sense to send the two of them into the booth. From what he's managed to gather, Hwylryn and Akira are the popular choice for several reasons. There are enough differences between them to create something called chemistry; more importantly—and shockingly—their hearts have been noted to harmonize uncommonly well for a dragon and a human. In other words, it would be foolish to send another pair in when Hwylryn and Akira clearly bring out the brightest smiles in each other.

Despite this, Mithra folds his arms in front of his chest and answers, "Why? If it's because you want me to, I won't."

"That is not what I mean," says Oz, narrowing his eyes.

"Then you should say what you mean and be done with it. You've always been this way, you know. You say one thing and expect it to be done that way, only to turn away before it could even be finished to your dissatisfactory specifications." Fueled by spite, Mithra curls his lips into a sneer. "It's no wonder you're not out on a date yourself."

"And why is it that you are not on one yourself?"

Mithra's smile drops into a glower.

"You seem to be under the impression that I'm here for the same reason as everyone else, Oz. Then allow me to inform you that it couldn't be further from the truth," he says, slowly with no small amount of warning. "I dislike noise, you see. Whatever that private experience is supposed to be, it's surely louder than this. I would much rather have the booth's bell toll than deal with another unnecessary discussion on which two people are meant to be, as if fate itself has decided on these matches for us. The sooner this show is over, the quieter and happier I'll be. Does that answer your question?"

As expected, Oz fails to answer. Perhaps it's the northern blood in him that stops him from responding to the command laced in the question, or perhaps it's something else—something that's been intrinsic to Oz since time immemorial, haunting Mithra from the day they met. Either way, Oz finally tears his piercing gaze away without another word, and something in Mithra crumples as he scoffs.

"I thought so," he says, shouldering his way past. "Please don't look at me again, or I'll kill you when you do."

💘
The bell tolls.

The beautiful ringing as the clapper strikes the sound bow again and again takes him back to fonder days. Tiletta's joy when reciting wedding vows, and the lakeside villagers' eyes on him whenever he answered their summons . . . With each chime of the bell, he remembers the noises that once pervaded his life when a cacophonous eruption of cheers jolts him back to the room in the island estate.

That's right. The bell tolls in the presence of a perfect match.

The mood is decidedly jovial upon Hwylryn and Akira's triumphant return. Save for a few, the rest of the participants swarm them with congratulatory gifts and messages, all of which Hwylryn receives graciously while Akira shrinks under their burdensome weight. Oz is nowhere to be seen, and Mithra hangs back on the same armchair he's been in since the match started their journey to the booth.

Murr uses the momentous occasion as an excuse to set off fireworks by the shore. Everyone files out of the estate to partake in more Western festivities as they arise, taking the noise with them.

Left with the quiet, Mithra takes a moment to breathe, only to find his chest laden under an invisible weight. He crosses a leg over his knee, leans back, and closes his eyes with the intention of stealing a nap while he can. Someone must walk past at some point, but he doesn't care enough to look (and neither does the passerby, to stay).

Eventually, he stirs to the sound of the door as it opens and then shuts. An absence of footfalls precedes the voice of Hwylryn when it tickles his ear, "Are you awake, Mithra?"

Mithra's eyes flutter open. As always, Hwylryn's smile is soft, even if he smells like smoke and explosives from spending all this time at the heart of the party.

"Where's Akira? I thought they were with you," says Mithra.

"Akira is with the others. I didn't see you there," replies Hwylryn.

"I like the quiet."

Hwylryn runs his hands down the round of Mithra's shoulders to his forearms. In spite of how tender the touch is, Mithra's blood pumps furiously against the deceptively gentle grasp that masks untold power.

"Let's go for a flight," says Hwylryn, beckoning Mithra with a tug on his arm. "Just the two of us."

Hwylryn sheds his humanoid form for the final flight beneath the moonlight. It's late, but they dance around and with each other, weaving through the air as one without a care for anybody or anything else. The wind roars past Mithra's ears, rendering words useless. Hwylryn overtakes him with an impressive leap; Mithra answers by gliding over his back, then swinging upside down on his broom to look Hwylryn in the eye and exchange grins. Dawn has begun to break by the time they land where the waves crest over their ankles, at which point Hwylryn wraps his arms around Mithra's shoulders.

"I love you, Mithra. Goodbye."

💘
Oz looks at him the very next day. The island thunders and shakes from the force of their gruesome battle, forcing the participants to take shelter in the estate while the two of them wreak havoc.

By evening, Mithra winds up in the water, breathless with his vision dark around the edges, before an arm loops around his waist and fishes him out. He's left on his lonesome at a solitary spot on the shore, where he lies in his gore, drenched from head to toe in seawater. His chest burns, and he counts the brightest stars that have begun to dot the night sky until the spirits respond to his hoarse spell and patch up his broken flesh.

💘
"Whom should we send to the truth booth next?" asks Shylock.

"How about Oz and Mithra? They complement each other!" answers Murr as he cartwheels in the air.

"No," says Oz.

"Absolutely not," adds Mithra.

"Oh? Maybe they're not as complementary as I thought," says Murr.

"Of course not. If that's what it takes, then there's no reason as to why we should enter the booth together. In fact, no matter the reason, I refuse," says Mithra.

"As do I," adds Oz.

Shylock, who knows better than to contest the combined might of two Northern wizards, nods. Wisely, no one else chooses to say anything more to what follows: "We're in agreement, then. Oz and Mithra will under no circumstances be voted into the truth booth on any week."

💘
The weeks drag by. No more bells toll in the day, but the evening ushers in more stars. Mithra continues to count, promptly losing track whenever Oz enters his periphery. The island suffers the addition of several more fissures in the earth that weren't there before. Through it all, Hwylryn and Akira, who've been spirited away to their honeymoon, remain absent.

When their eyes meet again, Mithra challenges Oz to a seed-spitting contest and wins. Blood rushes to his face, and he laughs from the chest. Amid the self-satisfied crowing of his hard-earned victory, he misses the ruminative look Oz gives him and goes to bed with a smile.

More games come and go, all planted before them by the likes of Murr and Shylock. Ridiculous though all of them are, Mithra wins some and loses others. In one particular instance of victory after a troubling round of some memory game that took all of his mental power to overcome, he lifts his chin and says, "It's about effort."

"No," replies Oz with that mild frown of his, "it is tranquility."

"Effort."

"Composure."

The next time they sling their spells at one another, Mithra does so with a fierce grin. The spirits, frenzied, collide in a glorious explosion of magic that shakes the ocean floor and the island above it. Once the pillars of water between them clear, Oz looks back with a curve in his lips.

💘
On the final week, Mithra chooses Oz, simply because Oz will not stop bothering him after all the warnings he's issued. "And please stop looking at me like that," he adds once they stand shoulder to shoulder before the podium. "It's disturbing."

" . . . Like what?" asks Oz, to which Mithra sighs.

They lock in after that. The intricacies of this show, which undoubtedly originates from the west, still escape Mithra, who drops down in his seat with a flourish that's soon ruined by Oz's body pressed against his in the chair that's not quite large enough to accommodate both of their bigger frames. Peeved by this development, Mithra folds his arms, elbowing Oz in the side in the process. Almost imperceptibly, Oz pushes back, and every fiber of Mithra's being throws its weight against him in petty vengeance.

One star glows alight.

Then two.

Then three.

Then four . . . five, six . . . before, at last, seven and eight light up one after another.

The bell tolls, signaling the twinkling of every star on the ground in accompaniment to those overlooking them from the darkened sky. Images flash through Mithra's mind—of the lakeside villagers' furtive glances, of Tiletta's joyous smile, of Hwylryn and Akira—while his chest reverberates with each chime. It's a sound so beautiful that he nearly forgets himself when something blue sways in the corner of his eyes.

Mithra cranes his neck in a quick, sinuous motion. There, watching him with red eyes that gleam in the light of the fireworks being set off in rapid succession all around them by the western wizards, is Oz.