October, Year 483
Forest of Lacau
State of Nicia
North

All men are born equal.

That was the first sentence, the very beginning of the Book of Identity. Philip had based his entire life on those five words. They had kept him alive when he had lost all hope on being wanted by anyone.

They were the words he lived by.

All men are born equal. In a similar fashion they die equally, having nothing but their works and names to differentiate their buried skeletons and similarly deep and soiled graves.

When his father plotted to have him killed Philip still remembered that verse.

Equal. . .equal.

When he had almost starved to death, living on the streets of Auro as a beggar, he still remembered. When a random passerby shot him a look of disgust; when other nobles saw him as inferior because he had been adopted into a declining household; each time he felt like ending his suffering forever. . . He remembered.

Because he had always felt that if he worked hard enough he could get to the top and leave his muddy beginnings behind. Philip had never bothered about the way people saw him, he had only worked.

Long hours, longs days; little pay and zero accomplishments. That was how his life worked and he was content with that. For a while just using his hands to support himself was more than enough.

Then his grandfather—the man who practically gave him life—died a miserable death, a pitiful end. . . to be backstabbed by the very people he had tried to guide and protect, his foolish equals.

That was when Philip realized that equality was a lie, an illusion meant to silence protests and appease the masses of the working and middle class citizens. Men always searched for something to lord over one another. The poor were beneath and the rich were above. The successful were craved and the failures were discarded and erased from memory.

It was life.

It was a sham that the weak found strength in.

He was weak and equality was a ruse to keep him moving forward.

No looking back, I've gone too far for that. . . Philip stared at Issac the same way an enemy spy stared at their torturer the moment they were about to die—with eyes brimming with murderous acceptance.

All will to fight lost, a desperate hope for death, a new outlook on the phenomenon called life. Philip and a despairing traitor had all that in common but the messenger had no intention of letting out his feelings.

He and Issac were not equal. It was a fact he had to ignore till he could deal with it without feeling like his limbs were being hacked away by a blunt saw.

To be honest, he would prefer torture to this—whatever it was—the stinging pain in his chest and behind his eyes, scratching at his ribs and skull.

The thought thrashed at walls that held back memories he had hoped to forget, and Philip felt sick all over again as he grasped at his shirt, where his heart was supposed to be.

As a child he had wondered if he had one, that beating organ that many associated with emotion—with love. And right now, he couldn't help but fall into the old habit.

He wondered if the red that poured out his wrists was the same as what was in other humans, if it was truly blood, if he was really alive.

Back then, Philip couldn't understand how a person who had managed to make everyone who was supposed to love him despise him, could be considered human. He couldn't understand his reason for existing.

To start it off, his father hated him. Sometimes he wondered whether it was because he wasn't his son. Maybe they weren't actually related by blood. But they were.

His father had him tested the moment he turned one and every year after that, as though their blood relation to him would change over time.

Philip was a disgrace to his father and all he ever saw on the older man's face was barely concealed disgust.

Despite that, he loved his father. . . and all his older brothers, though they hurt him for fun and beat him when they were bored.

He always figured that he was lucky to have people who would tolerate him despite the fact that he wasn't human. . . He didn't know about the word 'equality' back then.

He just knew that his family was important, they didn't deserve to be hurt, they didn't deserve suffering, that was all for him, that was his part in life—his cross to bear.

And family was special.

His mother hated that about him, that he was so weak, but she was there for him—at least, when he was allowed to see her.

He understood love from her. She was the only one that made him feel warm on the inside—wanted—but she was sick almost all the time and it was his fault. . . In the end, everything was still his fault.

So one day he had gotten up on a bridge. He had wanted to see if someone without a heart could die. Because truly, the world would be a better place without him.

That was where he met Issac.

The boy had just arrived, yet the first thing he had to do—the first thing he did—was save him. Philip had felt awful and more useless than ever but Issac just kept laughing. He introduced himself—soaked to the bone with his teeth chattering.

How Philip had hated that name, a variation of his brother's—Isaac, the main antagonist in his childhood nightmares.

Yet, despite what he had initially thought, Issac still became his first friend—the first person to love him other than his mother—and for a while Philip thought he could be redeemed. But then. . .

I sent them to their deaths.

Those were the memories he could not forget. They were the cross he had to bear. The few moments he didn't feel hollow were when he relieved the deaths of his and Issac's mother.

Philip let his hand fall from his heart and fixed his eyes on the man that sat across from him. But I loved him too.

Issac leaned against the tree in front of him, silent with his ankles crossed and his gaze concentrated on his Sol rifle. Carefully, he took apart the gun and inspected each piece before reassembling the weapon again.

After watching Issac repeat the process a dozen times Philip turned away and frowned, his gaze levelled on his own gun.

It didn't need to be clean it, like almost every other appliance on earth. But needing something to do, he grabbed the weapon and checked how much ammo he had left.

Enough to last one more week, if I'm lucky. Sol weaponry ran on sunlight and there was little to none present. It frustrated him but messengers were only allowed a significant amount of backup ammunition.

Iza should be fine. A captain should have much more resources than a messenger did, even his gun was grades better. Philip wondered why he was ever troubled about his friend's safety in the first place.

No. We are no longer friends. He hastily corrected himself and lowered the gun.

Issac was probably only with him to pass the time, not that Philip could blame him for wishing he was somewhere else. Personally, he felt the same way.

I'm pretty much useless. Boring too. He thought with a hopeless smile while picking at the grass. He twirled the green blades around his thumb and watched as the seemingly lush plants vanished to dust.

It was because of the fog. The thick mist was like poison sometimes.

And cold. It had frozen the inside of the grass and yet it still looked so green, so alive.

"Such a deceitful thing," he whispered and blew the icy dust off his hand.

Philip wondered if everything in this forest was frozen. Silo, the city next to Lacau, was different. There were no beasts. No impossible-to-predict fog.

Code, he looked up into the thick mist settling above his head, there had been no moon.

Silo had been dark, without a hint of light. Moonlight did nothing to abate the fog that engulfed it, and as a result. It became freezing miles of nothing; an empty wasteland with the ghosts of a once flourishing city floating about. No ounce life. No problems.

"What makes Lacau so special?" Philip sighed and played with the beam of moonlight that sat above his arm. He passed it along his fingers and tried to remember happiness. The happiness he could regain if he managed to complete his mission.

Elton Yong. The name had been seared into his mind. He'd be damned if he managed to forget the person that would give him everything he ever wanted. I will find you.

"He told me you were dead."

Caught up in his thoughts Philip almost didn't hear Issac's words, but he did. He abandoned the moonbeam and raised his gaze to the captain's, not quite sure of what he had heard.

"What?"

Isaac let out a breath through his mask and stabbed the barrel of his rifle into the forest floor. Philip was tempted to remind him that that particular brand wasn't a musket and that the barrel could get clogged, but he bit his tongue and waited.

"You asked why I never called, texted. . . or sent mail," the captain forced the words out slowly and kept his eyes levelled on the floor. "Your father. . . he told me you had died."

Philip blinked at the man then lowered his head again. His fingers dug into the cool soil beneath his palms and uprooted more grass, tearing up their roots and turning leaves into frozen ash. It was the only way for him to keep his face blank, by channeling his emotion elsewhere.

"You left because you thought I was dead?" Philip tried to believe that, even as little grains of cool sand snuck beneath his fingernails through his glove. Don't lie. Just. . . stop.

"No," Issac shook his head gently, and Philip could see his grip on his gun tighten, "I didn't believe him at first. But then days turned into months and you never got back from that fight. . . I couldn't put off my father's request to return any longer but I never intended to leave East. It was such a beautiful place."

"I didn't come back?" Philip resisted the urge to raise his voice. "The moment you were told of my return you started leaving, I saw you."

"That isn't true. I was never informed of anything. If I knew you were back, I wouldn't have left."

Philip said nothing, his head remained bowed. The grasses now covered with a fresh coating of white crystals, he toyed with the section of plants by his palm. He didn't know what to think. . . or say.

Silence.

"My father forced me away. He literarily dragged me out of that blasted palace." Issac let emotion seep into his voice and suddenly the pretence of professionalism was gone. "Believe me, I looked for you. I never attended your funeral. . . and when I got word that you were already on a mission in North it was already too late."

"I took that mission to find you," Philip narrowed his eyes at Issac. "It was another of my father's tricks to get rid of me but I went willingly, all to know the reason why you couldn't just turn around and say goodbye. I almost died."

"I thought you died!"

"You didn't care," the eighteen year old hissed, "don't lie."

"Phil," Issac got up and Philip watched he captain's gun fall on it's side. The man came to kneel in front of him and grabbed him gently by the shoulders.

"You are very stupid," he said.

"I could say the same about you," Philip snapped before he could stop himself.

"And you haven't changed at all," now Issac sounded relieved. "You're still a masochistic bastard."

"What?" Philip's mouth fell open when Issac suddenly pulled him into a hug.

He tried to pull away. "What are you doing?"

"I left East two days before your birthday." the captain said and tightened his hold on Philip. "When exactly did you arrive?"

"A week," the answer escaped as a mere whisper, "a week before then."

"Your father told me you had died a month before." Issac told him. "I never wanted to leave, especially not before your birthday. But my father was furious. He actually put me under house arrest because I resisted so much."

"Issac. . ."

"No. Don't talk, just listen." He squeezed Philip as though he was pouring all his sadness into him. "I never really thought you were gone but my father didn't care. He was too busy hating the east, the rebels and himself to notice what I was going through. Corey was there for me, and just like I am now, he was North's rising star, except by my age he was already a General.

"He taught me everything I know about war, because my father never wanted me in the military. If he had his way I would be pushing paper in an office right now." Issac's grip on Philip slacked and he let out a sigh. "Don't. . . Don't try to be me, Phil."

"I—"

"No," the captain cut Philip's reply short. "You made me who I am today. I killed them all, all the rebels involved in the skirmish against your squadron. Before I even got a rank, I slaughtered them all."

"I joined the military to avenge you and Corey helped me. Imagine what I felt when he told me that you had left for North the very day I had left East, and that you actually died here. I was devastated." Issac said softly then pulled away from Philip completely.

"Iza, I'm sorry." Tears pricked at Philip's eyes. He tried to stop them from spilling but the effort was futile.

"It wasn't your fault. Nothing was," Issac shifted to sit next to the messenger. "You were my only friend so I guess it was my fault for being an antisocial brat."

Philip didn't need to try hard to laugh, but at that moment he also began to cry. "Are you sure you don't hate me?"

"Not as much as you hate me, I'm sure."

"I— I don't hate you."

"Good," Issac tugged his fingers through his hair and let out an awkward sounding cough. "Don't get emotional on me, Phil. I can't handle that. Really."

"You really haven't changed." Philip put his hand to his face in a hasty attempt to wipe away his tears before Issac could see them. "I'm really stupid, aren't I?"

Issac frowned.

"I've seen you cry far too many times," he brushed his sleeve against Philip's face. "You might be a crybaby but you aren't stupid. Unless I say you are, that is," he added.

"And you still blush all the time like a blasted fool." Philip laughed, and Issac turned away at his words. The tips of his ears had turned red.

"I never blamed you for my mother's death," he said quietly while digging his fingers into the soil, "never."

"I never blamed you for anything either," Philip admitted and stared down at his own empty hands. "I don't know what to do now. My whole life till now was all about finding you."

"Really?" Issac asked, a small curve to his lips as he spoke. "Mine had been about forgetting that you existed. It's kind of surreal now, meeting you here when the world is ending."

"We'll make it," Philip said softly and let his gaze fall on Issac. He wondered if he knew that Auro had fallen.

"We'll make it." he repeated when the silence continued to drag on painfully.

"We'll make it together." Issac finally looked up at him and nodded.

"Together," Philip's grin was so large that it was visible through his mask. "That sounds nice."

"Philip?" Issac called and broke away from the other man's gaze.

"What?"

"Do you still hate horses?"

Immediately, Philip thought of Theodore and guilt instantly rose up within him. The stallion was still roaming around somewhere, lost maybe and hungry for apples.

"No, no," he spluttered. "I don't hate them, I— I just can't manage to ride them."

"Sure," Issac laughed.

They both knew it was a lie, but they were too caught up in their relief to care. They indulged too much in themselves to notice that they were being watched and that their lives were now in danger.

He doesn't hate me, that was all they cared about. That was all that mattered in that moment. It was all that should have.

†

Philip- meaning: lover of horses

I didn't know that before I wrote this chapter, tsk, or when I gave Philip his name. How ironic.

Anyway, this was going to be an action-packed chapter, but instead I'll make it a gift to PluckThatPeach.

I'm going to be off Wattpad for a while so I hoped you enjoyed this chapter. P.s I will come back.

Remember to vote and comment. . . Have a splendid day.