The same old routine started after the exams. The Headmaster telling us the location and people, and Clive humming in a calm tone as we headed out and rode our horses.

It was such a soft humming that it made me do a double take.

"Clive? Are you humming?" I asked although I knew.

"Yes, why?" He sounded just as happy, making me frown.

"We're going to kill two rebels again, this time in a barn. It's no laughing—no, humming matter," I said.

Clive rode in front of me so I couldn't see his expression.

"I'm not kind like you, Nathan. I really don't give a damn who they are and how we kill them."

The vibe returned. Clive isn't always a beautiful boy in flowers. Killing is second nature to him. His hands are stained with blood, and while I grimaced, he smiled.

"Do you never regret this?" I whispered.

"I've done worse. Regretting every unreasonable action in my life would take all of my lifetime," Clive answered.

At this time after the ball I began reading a silly book about philosophy—about feelings, death, and love. I despised that I had to find a meaning in our love as the ancient culture's philosophy said.

Or else it would never last...

No, Clive and I had meaning together—we were the best killers.

Lies.

I still couldn't kill without that guilt, but I lived my life in Graycotts normally, passing exams, smiling at friends, playing chess, riding my horse in the snow.

I gently stroked the mane of my horse, leather gloves on. We have began to wear gloves and learned to hold our swords or daggers with gloves on. It wasn't ideal but I didn't want my fingers to freeze.

My horse's name was Midnight—a dumb name for obviously a black horse. Clive's horse was a black one too, but he always got things, a better horse, and a better name. Her name was Tarot.

As Midnight followed Tarot I felt sad at the revelation maybe I'd been following and loving someone who wasn't really what they seemed to be.

If I ripped Clive's mask off, would he still look the same?

***

That night we successfully killed rebels and then went to bed after a quick rinse from the basin. Clive spoke on always on horseback again, like he did all year. How many missions had we even been on?

It all seemed so routine now, getting called out of class early or getting a notice for Friday being off so we could leave school premises. It must've been twenty or so, but we killed at least double that number so—forty? No way, maybe I miscalculated.

The faces were merged and I only remember certain nights, when we killed women or child rebels. It hurt me worse when they can't fight back, when they hide behind their husband or father. They seemed so innocent then, and it wasn't their fault their husband or father chose the wrong path.

That same night he had plopped onto my bed and relished my warm blanket in only his nightwear. I turned over to peer over my shoulder and saw him pick up the book I was reading—something about the human psyche and exercise for say, claiming yourself down when you had anxiety, or being happy when you feel sad.

"Are you reading these funny books?" Clive picked up the copy of the book near my nightstand. I opened my mouth to argue but he flipped through it. "Hmm, you bookmarked the session called Love. Interesting."

"Just give it back!" I hissed, reached for the book, but he jumped up on my bed. I stood up too and growled as he read it, eyes scanning quickly.

"...a common myth about love is you must love all of your lover, stemming from appearance to personality. Adler argues in 'Treasury of the Truth of Love' that lovers must have healthy debates about aspects they dislike about one another—as well as why they stay with them despite these shortcomings," he read. Clive's eye lit up in a way I knew was not good and groaned.

"Let's do that!" Clive insisted, jumping up from my bed only to pull me down with him. I clicked my tongue but when he faced me my frown disappeared.

"Fine. Don't ever bring this up again—the silly book and all this love bull," I made him promise. He nodded.

"You go first, Nathan. What do you not like about me?"

The memory of him humming and saying how many cruel things he did flickered past my mind.

"Ah, you definitely thought of one! Say it," Clive said quickly, making me bite my lips.

"I don't like how you don't care about killing," I whispered.

I had expected him to quip back or say something but the light in his eyes were gone. He had a smile glued to his face but he didn't speak.

"I'm joking, it's the only thing I could think of, I'm sorry," I said quickly.

"...agree." Clive nodded like he was broken in some way. "I agree."

I knew that if his voice cracked something bad was happening. I didn't want this. I didn't want this—

"No, it's fine! It's fine for a knight," I said quickly. "My father always tells me to be stoic. Knights must be able to get through the day even if their friends die."

"Stop it," Clive said.

"Don't agree with me! Fight back! Say something you hate about me!" I was frantic as I begged.

"Nathan, I have to tell you something."

No. I didn't want to hear about it. No. Please don't say whatever it is.

"You don't have to say anything! Don't remember the slums again," I begged.

"You'll never be able to love me then, you'll never know the truth," Clive cried out.

"Fine. Tell me." I inhaled deeply and carved myself.

"I killed my own brother." Clive looked into my eyes and the rare Clive emerged.

Melancholic face, no smile, eyes on mine.

Wordlessly met his green eyes, watching him as he spoke.

"They only choose one boy from the slums," Clive whispered.

I imagined it.

Two golden boys laughing together and Clive's face as he was splattered in blood. Was he crying? Was he smiling? Was he able to comprehend the loss of his brother by his own hands?

"He was older by three years," Clive whispered. "I thought they might choose him, he was stronger and killed people for water...for me. I hid behind him all the time. Then they chose boys by putting five against each other, and he was picked, and he won. He was red with blood from the head down as he walked over to me, relieved and yet sobbing. He killed his own friend."

Clive broke down as he continued.

"To me, that was cowardly. That was a pack of morals. Killing a friend," he cried, like he was pleading with me. "But I was just finding a reason to hate him—I had to! So with the thought that my brother could kill me just as easily I ran forward and stabbed his stomach. It wasn't fatal, but he stood there."

"He stood there, even though you were going to kill him?"

Clive nodded.

"'Stab me here,' he even said, pointing to his heart. I stabbed him, wanting him to die before he suffered, but he kept standing...and then he pointed at his neck. He said I was weak, and I should've slashed him. He pointed out the veins on his neck, his arm, and wrists, telling me to kill him."

I watched Clive's mouth as he spoke, each word sounding like they were underwater.

"You do know, some people become knights and they can bring their younger siblings with them." I said softly.

Will, a refuge, got into the Crawford family along with his two younger siblings, a girl and a boy. It was the only thing Will talked about happily, how he loved the Crawfords for giving him and his siblings such a good life. In fact, he didn't go by a refuge surname because he was officially adopted and they saw them as their own children. It made sense, as Will was ten when adopted and his younger siblings were only toddlers then.

Didn't Clive's brother kill his best friend, too, only to bring Clive along with him? He had chosen Clive over morals and feelings.

"I didn't know," Clive lied to himself. "I don't know."

"Why?"

"My patron is cold-blooded. He is not the kind ones who adopted William or like other patrons. He only wanted one. I know it."

"So that's why you kill," I whispered.

"Yes, I grew accustomed to killing, and my patron used me for that. He wasn't happy I betrayed my brother and I don't care much for knighthood. I liked killing, it's the only time I can think to myself, you're meant for this. It was in your blood, you're really only good for murdering..."

I reached out to comb his unruly hair. It was soft like the summer grass and mane of Midnight and his face was tragically beautiful.

Clive snuggled against my shoulder, and I felt a tear on my neck, and soon my clothes. But I held him, this murderer who killed just to kill.

"You really are unbelievable," I whispered, holding him tight. "If you had something bothering you for years, you should've just cried it out, like now. You should've told someone, punch a tree or something instead of smiling all the time. Pretending to be happy when you probably never were..."

I thought back to the stupid things I read: love won't last unless there's meaning.

What was meaning anyways? Our lives weren't like that, we didn't makes choices and decisions off meaning. Sir, coffee or tea? Hmm, let me thing about which has a meaning. No.

Clive and I just were.

We laughed, we loved, we fought, and we cried. That was our love, this intangible, bothersome, love unlike fairy tales.

Most of the time it was killing and bad feelings brewing and he overlapped with the worst years of my life—although he was the best years of my life.

We were meant for each other.