Date: 12 years before the beginning of My Empire

Canon: Canon

Notes: This story was written by Pearlescentmoon12335, not myself, so go give them some love! This is the background story of Lord Sylver of Arcefracti as a child, as well as their advisor, Declan Tyndall. 

Enjoy!

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My knuckles were bruised worse than anything I'd seen in a long time. My lip was busted, a sharp purple bruise dancing with a cut on my face. All over my body, painful cuts and bruises bloomed. I think he broke my nose too, as blood, thick, sticky, and hot, poured from my face.

I found myself in a dark corner of the orphanage. The windows were boarded up, casting the room into a strange, greenish light. Chairs and tables were pushed against the wall, spider webs dancing between them like a million tiny ribbons. The walls, yellowed with age like everything in this godforsaken place, were decorated in graffiti. Initials in hearts, tags, "hell is empty and the devils are here", along with my personal favorite.

It was a large painting of a young person with wings. I'm not sure it could be counted as graffiti, to be honest- nobody would put this much time into graffiti. The wings were colossal and golden, individual feathers painted in shades of ochre, bronze, and even silver. The person knelt down, head bowed as if in prayer, hands clasped together to strengthen that impression. Light brown strands of hair fell down, flying as if caught in the wind, glittering in the nonexistent light that shone.

But it wasn't the size of the wings or the beautiful hair that caught my attention. It was the halo, shattered and crushed, laying in broken pieces like shards of a long gone hope on her head. It was the black tips of her fingers and feathers, like ink had just spilled onto them. It was the darkness seeping into her. It was beautiful.

Beside the art, a quote I've never seen nor heard anywhere else was painted; "Devils are only angels who thought too much."

I don't know what it meant, but it was nice. Poetic. Like something you'd hear in those nursery rhymes that are always darker than they say. Like that one about the burning man, killed by their best friend; they'd disguised it as some story about the comfort of fire, but I saw past it. I always did. It worried people.

The cupboards were bare, as always. Some scraps of paper and useless graphite. But, deep in the bottom, was some scraps of fabric and a needle, glittering in the green glow of the room. I scooped them up, cringing as the needle stabbed into the raw flesh that webbed between my knuckles, but I didn't make a sound. If I did, a matron would come running, and she wouldn't be pleased.

You weren't meant to get into fights here.

I tried to stop my hands from shaking as I pulled a strand out of the fabric, threading the needle with it and wrapping the remains of the discolored fabric that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be black, grey, or blue around my hand, trying to gulp down the chokes of pain that threatened to escape my mouth as fabric met raw, exposed, pink flesh.

Evidently, the attempts weren't successful. No sooner had I stitched the first bit of fabric together after wrapping it a million times around my knuckles, than Declan Tyndall, my best friend, the one I would go as far as calling my brother burst into the room.

His fluffy brown hair was cut short, like it was newly chopped. The ends were messy and choppy, tiny hairs decorating his shoulders. Its soft brown eyes were bloodshot, like he had just been crying. It tugged at my heartstrings, seeing my best friend, the person who had become my older brother in this hellish place, so broken and vulnerable was physically painful.

His eyes met mine, tears forming in the bottom and glazing his eyes. They free fell down his cheeks as he looked me up and down. I still held the needle in my hand, a shining sword, symbol of my victory, but also of my pain.

"You're injured."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A statement said with a broken voice and saddened eyes.

From my position on the ground, crouched down and almost sat in the cupboard beside the indecisive fabric, Declan was almost glowing. The painting, positioned deliberately behind him, gave him the wings of the corrupted angel, but the wings seemed natural on him.

"So?" I hummed. It was only now I realized how croaky my voice was. Quiet, weak, so unlike me. I hated it. I hated it so much. I wanted to rip my vocal cords out and throw them against a wall and curse them for how uncharacteristically weak and small they made me sound.

Declan silently moved forwards, sitting down, and crossing his legs over each other. He brought the bag by his side around front, opening the pouch and revealing fresh white bandages, wipes, and concealer, along with gloves and other small articles of clothing. He took my hand in his own, dabbing at the raw flesh, exposed by my recklessness and that kid's bony face.

Everyone was bony here. Lord Kain didn't ever provide the orphanages with enough money. He saw us as weaklings who were stains on his reputation. Sure, he provided us with free housing, but he also made us work on the fields for free, gave us the worst part of the crop at harvest, and punished us if we dared to speak out and ask for more food and more comfort.

The pain from the knuckles was blinding. I bit on the back of my hand, the metallic taste of blood exploding in my mouth. It stung, like a thousand nettles were blanketing my skin. He let it go. But the pain stayed, even as he was wrapping around the bandage. The pain was a constant companion to me, I'm surprised it took this long to become physical.

Declan's eyes met the blood stains on the hand I had bitten down on. Its shoulders sagged, sorrow weighing down on him. There was pain on my face, I could tell from the mirror of his own.

"Does it hurt?"

"I'll live"

"That's not what I asked."

He looked at me with that stare of his. He was older, a year or so bridging the gap, and to him, I was a reckless little kid; a small and childish thing that has no sense of self preservation. Worry knitted his eyebrows together, a frown creasing his eyes that looked so much older than they should.

It silently wiped away the blood, dabbing the wound and wrapping it again. "Who was it this time." He said as he slipped some thick, brown fingerless gloves onto my hands.

I stayed silent for a moment, thinking. I could tell him the truth and risk being reported to matron... but the thing is he would never report me to matron. He knew her wrath. He has the injuries that ran deeper than skin to show for it.

"Xavier. Xavier Avis." I mumbled as he wiped blood off my face, carefully dabbing around my nose. It pulled out a stick of concealer, dabbing it over the bruises on my face and exposed skin on my torso to stop it being obvious it was there.

He hummed. "You've broken your nose. We'll need to go to Matron-"

"We are not going to Matron." My voice was shaky, whether it be anger, fear, or injury, I couldn't tell.

Declan had clearly expected this, as he shushed me, shaking his head, letting the uncharacteristically short hair flop around. He cringed at it. I wonder what punishment led to his hair being cut off. Did he stand up for another kid? Did he question Lord Kain? Did he question Matron?

"We'll need to go to Matron, so come up with a clever alibi. Something believable. Like walking into a door."

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words were caught. To be fair, it is a very me thing to do. "Fine. But what about Xavier?"

"What about him?"

I sighed, shoulders sagging as I leaned against the wall of the cupboard. I felt it creak beneath my weight. The old cupboards weren't built to withstand my weight. "Won't he blab to Matron?"

Declan thought for a moment, before a sad smile lighted his face. "I'll give him a week of my rations to keep quiet."

"Declan, no."

"Doph-" He patted the short hair on my head. He was only person who I would ever let use a name like that. "-trust me. I'll be fine."

"I'm sharing mine with you."

"Kiddo..."

"Too late. I'm doing it."

Declan sighed, before holding his hand out for me to grab. I did so, holding his soft and walm palm in my rough and cold one as we walked to the Matron's office. I was holding a cloth to my nose as we knocked on the door, explaining the alibi.

It worked, surprisingly. I shared my rations with Declan and officially referred to him as my brother. Especially when it came to a few years later...

~7 years later~

"My Lord," Hayden Black, one of the few other kids who hadn't fought against my power, who hadn't fallen to my blade, spoke up. 

We sat in the meeting room, me, her, and two other kids. Her long brown hair was tied behind her in a braid, little auburn roses weaved into it by her partner. Her eyes, always so beautiful and confusing to me (one was a slightly lighter brown than the other) were looking down at a roll of pristine white paper. None of the orphans had ever seen white paper. It was always brown or ochre, never such a bright white. It made my head hurt. "You still haven't selected an advisor."

I sighed, knowing it would have eventually come to this. It was customary to pick one of the other kids who had been trained up with you, but none of them were suited for the role as well as it. None of them cared enough and had the ability to diffuse my anger when I tried to literally kill someone as well as he did.

"Declan. Declan Tyndall."

Hayden nodded, tapping her communicator and summoning him to the tower.

"The one from the orphanage?" Alexis Reaper spoke up. Their voice was cold, raspy, but in our 6 years we'd spent in each others company I knew xe really cared about people. They ran a hand through their messy black mullet, that contrasted so much with their pale skin. "The one who got into an argument with Matron about some kid getting into a fight?"

I paused, peering at them. "Elaborate."

Their eyes widened, hurrying on. "Some kid went with them to Matron's office with a broken nose. Apparently they were well beat up but it wasn't obvious. Only the broken nose was visible.

"Well, Declan didn't have his rations for a week after that, sharing the kid's rations. Matron got pissed at it, and Declan defended the kid. He was in a rough state after that."

Declan... took a beating for me and he didn't even tell me. He took my punishment. He defended me.

They say think of the devil and they may appear, but I think it's more think of the angel. For no sooner had I blinked away tears at the realization, than the older brother I hadn't seen in six years walked into the meeting room.

I stood up. Both of us looked different. My hair was longer, almost like a mullet but with a fringe that tickled my eyelashes. I'd grown more, and so had my antlers, now a regal crown on my head. My old and bedraggled clothes had been exchanged for a pair of leather trousers, black corset and a lace up golden dress, open front so I can run because I'd nearly been assassinated at least twice already, with black shoulder pads.

He was taller, more well built and strong. A green t-shirt, clean and new. Brown flannel, tied around his waist. Dark brown cargo pants, held up with a thick light brown belt. Brown and green fingerless gloves. A sword by his side. He looked so different, but so similar as well.

His eyes were still warm, comfortable and soft. His hair was longer, but still the same style and looks. He had a few new piercings, but his glasses were still the same. He was still the same. He was still my brother.

"Hey, Tin-tin." I smiled, tears in my eyes.

"Doph?" He asked, and, once I had nodded, he ran towards me, arms outstretched. He threw them around my body, holding me tightly. He smelled like musk and smoke. He smelled like home. "You crazy son of a bitch, you actually did it."

I did. I did do it. And he would be here to help me do it a million times over.