"Non c'è niente di più triste di un mostro che cerca sempre uno specchio nuovo."
——•✧✦ Disgust V✧✦•——
As soon as the door closed behind him, Ultimo stepped away from the book.
He slowly moved toward the large mirror near the bed and stopped in front of his reflection.
"Alex," he said softly.
"I'm here," the head replied—this time, on its own.
"It's time."
Ultimo lowered his chin.
He slipped his fingers beneath the base of his neck, at the exact point where the skin seemed barely fused, like an invisible zipper.
He gave a slight twist.
The head came off.
No pain.
No blood.
Just a wet sound, like something too alive to be dead.
Ultimo held the head carefully and set it on the table near the pitcher.
Alex opened his eyes immediately.
"That view was getting boring."
Ultimo sat across from him.
"We don't have much time."
Alex looked at him seriously, eyebrows slightly raised.
"Speak."
The body stared at him.
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning.
Heading to Darveth.
Alone.
I want to meet Rahlen face to face.
But I can't do it as the Emperor."
Alex tilted his head slightly.
"And so?"
"You'll stay here.
In another body."
The head stayed silent for a few seconds.
"Make it sound like it was your idea."
"It is."
"Really?"
"You'll have the palace.
The court. The hearings.
Someone has to believe I'm still here, hesitating."
"And you?"
"I'll take the crown with me. If I need to... I can generate another head.
A different one."
Alex looked up.
"Another me?"
"No."
Silence.
Then Alex simply said:
"Fine. But don't expect me to stay quiet."
Ultimo turned to him.
"I'm not asking you to.
I know you well enough to know you won't."
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
It was late.
Actually, it was beyond late.
And this time, it was perfect.
The night felt tired, as if it too had had a long day.
Ultimo sat in the center of his room, bare-chested, his head resting at the nape.
His fingers were sewing.
Patient.
Precise.
Needle and thread moved from skin to flesh, from flesh to thread, with soft, wet ticks.
He worked by candlelight, watching himself in the mirror.
The silence was broken only by the sound of rain tapping gently on the windows.
A slow drum.
Hypnotic.
Lightning flickered across the mirror like grimaces from bored gods.
Alex opened one eye.
"Does it always take you this long to put me back on?
After all these times...
Do you still need light? Or a mirror?
I feel like a high court gown."
Ultimo didn't answer immediately.
He passed the needle one last time, tied the thread off, then slowly rose to his feet.
His body creaked.
"I do my best," he said at last, in a calm voice.
"After all, it's what still makes me... somewhat human."
Then he walked to the window.
He opened it.
The wind rushed in like an uninvited guest, carrying the scent of rain, damp smoke, and wet rust.
He dressed, pulling on a tunic and a leather-hooded cloak.
Ultimo dropped his shoulders.
"Beautiful... the rain," he murmured.
Alex sighed softly.
"Ah... yes..."
*"You know," he said, "I hate all of them. In the rain.
They cover up, huddle, run.
As if water could make them vanish.
But me... the rain makes me feel alive."**
He tied the crown to his belt with a cord, beneath his coat.
"Why?"
"Because no one tries to be special in the rain.
They just think about surviving.
And there, between everyone else's indifference and escape...
I remain.
As if, by watching it, feeling it, or even just trying to understand it..."**
"Almost like a king of a drenched world."
Alex smiled.
"King of what's left behind, when everyone else runs.
Even though, technically, I'm an Emperor.
Well... more half than whole right now."
A distant, long, dull thunder rumbled across the sky.
Ultimo turned.
"Then... let's go."
Alex widened his eyes, surprised.
"Really? Just like that?
No heroic speech, no 'Are you ready?'
You're going soft."
Ultimo stepped onto the window ledge.
It was high.
"Well, after all, I'm the one who acts without thinking, right?"
The head sighed.
"There won't be time for speeches.
Once I'm alone, you know..."
And he jumped.
Ultimo screamed—more out of habit than fear—while the head bounced slightly on his neck, the stitches still fresh.
Below, the rain opened like a stage curtain.
They fell—two, three floors—then.
TUNK.
They landed hard on the sloped roof of a lower tower—a secondary library, with slippery, aging tiles, moss in the gutters, and a cracked skylight like the tired eye of a giant.
Ultimo rolled once, then lay still.
Alex was laughing.
"I'd do that ten more times.
Except for the part where I folded like a wet origami."
Ultimo groaned as he sat up, rain trailing down his back like gentle fingers.
From the roof, much of the inner courtyard was visible, as well as the lit rooms of the palace.
In one, on a side balcony—close enough to see—there was a girl.
Young, alert-eyed, her blond hair in a practical knot.
She wore a simple dress but moved slowly.
Alex grew serious.
Eyes narrowed.
Focused.
"Interesting…"
"A servant?"
"Look how she holds the candle.
She's not shielding it from the rain.
She's offering it.
As if she wants to be seen."**
Ultimo raised an eyebrow.
"You don't think…"
"Shh. Watch."
A boy approached from the end of the corridor, carrying a glass lantern.
He was soaked, yet carried himself with the posture of someone noble—though trembling like a leaf.
Maybe twenty years old, but his eyes spoke of forty.
She didn't step back.
He moved closer.
Then knelt.
Just like that.
In the rain.
Head bowed.
His voice didn't reach them, but Alex imagined it with surgical precision.
"There it is.
The drama.
The brother of the man who got her pregnant.
And now he's swearing eternal love, despite everything.
What a beautiful tragedy."
The girl shook her head.
Stepped back, looking into the endless dark.
Then turned toward the boy kneeling.
Her lips moved, releasing moisture drawn from the rain.
A reply.
Silent—but final.
He stood.
Took her hands.
Then kissed her.
A long kiss.
Desperate.
But it was rejected—pushed away, the light falling from both their hands.
Draping them in darkness.
Ultimo clapped slowly.
The head chuckled.
"What a show.
See? Rain doesn't wash things away...
It reveals them."
Ultimo shrugged, laughing.
"Didn't expect a private opera tonight...
If we didn't have to go dig up our father, I might've stayed here…"
For a moment, serious.
"Does it comfort you?"
Alex turned back toward the rain.
"No.
But it's better than nothing.
And at least...
in the rain, no one can see…"
Silence.
They rose slowly, looking eastward.
And that's when it happened.
A sound—thin, almost human—scratched the air.
First, the swish of fabric, rough and trembling, like wet cloth sliding across damp stone.
A collar? A trailing hem?
It dragged along the balustrade.
Then a sharp snap—something lost its grip.
A shoe hitting a wall? An elbow? A knee?
The wind paused, as if listening.
The rain slowed—it didn't stop, but hovered between two breaths.
The body slipped down.
One, two seconds—or five.
The air carried no scream.
Nothing.
As if the voice had caught in the throat—or been swallowed by the rain.
Then came the branches—wet, brittle, heavy with water.
Crackles. Then crack. Then a rushing hiss like a breath.
Something—a branch, a hand—ripped away a handful of leaves.
A wet, broken, very soft sound.
Then the main impact.
Heavy.
Flesh on earth.
A flat, deep sound, like a bag falling from a rooftop—but with something inside breaking and spreading.
Then—nothing.
Only the sound of the rain resuming.
As if the world had held its breath just for that scene.
And neither of them, within their single entity, moved or turned.
No one spoke a word.
And what had once been part human, now lay below—a carcass, broken, and still.
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
A soaked shadow. Yet the two figures on the rooftops were invisible in the rain.
They moved toward the east wing, where a small staircase of a garish temple led downward—ever downward—toward the imperial tombs.
The rain kept falling, persistent.
The palace around them slept.
Or at least pretended to.
The east wing was silent.
Silent in the way religious temples are silent.
Full of whispered sounds, long breaths, and droplets falling from ceilings too old to remember their origin.
Ultimo walked slowly, hood lowered, every drop of rain trailing from his hair like a ticking metronome.
Alex, firmly stitched, wore tired eyes.
"Starting to stink down here," he murmured.
"Must be the sanctity. Or the dead."
"Both," Ultimo replied, lifting his cloak just enough to avoid dragging it through the dust.
Before them, leaving wet footprints on dry stone, stretched a long corridor carved into damp rock, where twelve monks sat.
Barefoot, shoes placed beside them, hands joined in prayer, eyes closed before a wall etched with crooked symbols and nervous lines—as if someone had tried to depict chaos too precisely.
They didn't look up immediately.
Then, one of them did, but only as the footsteps approached.
His eyes widened like a child recognizing a fairy tale.
"It's him…" he whispered.
Slowly, the twelve rose.
Then immediately knelt again, heads bowed, without ostentation.
Silent steps echoed as more monks emerged from alcoves.
Ten. Then twenty.
All kneeling.
A murmuring ripple began among them—soft, but constant.
"The Lord protects us..."
"...it's him, truly him…"
Alex raised an eyebrow, whispering through gritted teeth:
"Okay, I'll admit it:
Being bowed to is better than being ordered around."
Ultimo didn't respond.
After all, only one of them could speak when around the untrusted.
But he crossed the stone sanctuary with a steady gait, the sound of his soles on stagnant water muffled only by the collective breath of reverent devotion.
At the end of the corridor, he reached a small staircase in black marble, carved with archaic phrases.
At the base of the stairs, two guards in ceremonial armor.
Behind them, a heavy stone arch: The Crypts of the Dying Sun.
The guards recognized him instantly.
Their eyes widened.
"Your Majesty?"
"What—?"
One of them stepped forward, hand brushing the hilt of his weapon.
"Forgive the question, but... are you alone?
You're soaked... Have you been injured?
Did something happen?"
Neither Ultimo nor Alex answered immediately.
Tension built.
The second guard whispered something into the first's ear.
Then raised his voice:
"The castle's been attacked, hasn't it?
We felt the wind shift, and the tower crow stopped singing..."
"We are ready, Majesty.
Just say who we must kill."
Ultimo raised a hand—calm.
"You're imperial guards, not prophets."
Silence.
"I've only come to see my father."
"Majesty…"
"You ask too many questions."
He took a step forward, but Alex spoke instead.
"Nothing happened.
Move."
The guards looked at each other.
Then stepped aside—in perfect synchronicity.
Ultimo descended.
˜"°•. ♪ .•°"˜
The air was still, but full.
As if it were breathing something that shouldn't be awakened.
The corridor of the imperial crypts was wide and lined with alcoves.
Each held a different sarcophagus: marble, wrought iron, black stone, imperial glass...
Every tomb bore a name, a date, a seal.
But cobwebs were everywhere.
Blind insects scurried through cracks.
The constant dripping of water echoed like an impatient clock.
The smell was a mix of mold, dry blood, and resignation.
"What cheerful company..." Alex muttered.
Ultimo stopped before a simpler tomb than the rest.
White marble, worn edges, clean lettering.
"Jarel III, Father of Balance, Shield of Blood, the Third Sun."
"So modest," Alex laughed.
"They always get the best titles after they're dead."
Ultimo remained silent.
He knelt.
The silence was thick, like a layer of sand on the tongue.
Then he spoke.
"You were different. But above all, kind.
You weren't made for the crown.
But at least... you loved us."
A pause.
"And I, instead..."
Alex whispered:
"...wear it like a velvet noose."
Ultimo touched the tomb's stone.
"It separated us in life.
It rejected us... for weakness."
He stood.
"And now... we live like this.
One body, two faces.
A throne and a window."
He leaned down, searching for the opening seam.
Fingers tracing the edge.
But it didn't move.
Alex grew more alert.
"There's a lock."
He pressed, then pulled.
Nothing.
Started scratching and kicking.
"Locked. Of course."
Alex clicked his tongue.
"Naturally, we need a key."
Ultimo stared at the tomb.
"I need your body, Father.
And I can't wait for the kingdom to destroy itself just to ask you nicely."
Silence.
Alex sighed.
With a nearby stone, they began striking it—trying to break the lock.