Dear Jhlor

~°°~

Jhlor woke at the first ring of their alarm. Their hand made a grab for the gloves and their nightcap as they stood. Five minutes later, the kettle bustled in joy as the aroma of coffee filled the air. Their favorite cup clinked as it met the rush of water.

Jhlor washed, wiped and poured bitter, black coffee. Up to the rim. Eyes flicked to the coffee jar. They should get Polar Fruits for refill tomorrow.

Jhlor took a sip. Dawn was the morn's first love still in the night's embrace. An utterly relaxing time. Gloved fingers flitted against pages of today's lesson, a candle light casting yellowed hues over their head.

Fifteen minutes in, and the cup and kettle were washed, wiped and put back. Today's lesson ended in page 389, shut closed with a pen stuck in as a bookmark. Steam ran along in the bathroom, gloves and a towel hanging in the rack. Most of their conditioners were missing.

Jhlor gritted their as they combed and tied up their hair. White buttoned up shirt ironed, bearing no crease. The blazer and trousers in similar fashion, hanging in their closet. Fasbur was twisting their string ribbon tie when the Principal's voice blared from the tower.

The bell screamed for breakfast. Jhlor ate.

The lessons came like a blur. There's barely anything that had broke this monotonous schedule of theirs until somewhere in the afternoon, when some of the Juniors had a little scuffle. Fasbur came in between the vicious fight, parting the two kids away from each other, all bruised knuckles the both of them. One had a smashed nose and his small, pudgy face has a small gash in the side. The other one had a bruised eye, with a gash too near the cheek.

Jhlor hated the feel of blood and the feel of skin. It reminded them too much of bloody nails as they scraped struggling flesh. Fasbur pressed the wound softly with a cloth, ordering the onlooking students to call out a nurse.

By the end of the day, the two kids could be seen playing, matching scars. Kids.

The day of Liberty is close, the Principal said, all glazed in the eyes and lost in a dream. Make sure you're ready to do what you're supposed to do. Her black eyes pinned Fasbur's meaningfully.

Jhlor is ready. They followed orders, especially orders meant for the good. They have been following orders since they're ten and five.

Fasbur woke before the ring of his clock, far far before the Principal's daily announcements. They split open a Polar Fruit, made their coffee brown with two sugar cubes in. They picked the lesson book, flitting it open as their eyes gazed and stayed forevermore at page 389.

Halfway through their cup, they finally sighed and stood.

It's methodical, the way their boots shifted, their knees moving more and more sure at each step. Jhlor thought of using the mirror; easier, efficient, less time consuming but opted for the stairs, thinking, thinking and thinking, upwards to the spirally staircase.

They knocked once, then turned the handle when no response was ventured. Impatient, almost, a rattle box stuck in a bottle.

The first thing they noticed was the absence of a bustling kettle and the smoke wafting in the air. It was more dimmer than usual, eerie, Fasbur would even say. It was at this point did he just realize that maybe, maybe the damn woman was still fast asleep, dreaming about tea or something.

A crash rattled the silence, somewhere to the east where the mirror rested. Copper hair tumbled out, dainty hands rubbing dust out of her skirt. She halted at the sight of Professor Jhlor.

"I seem to have so many visitors in such an early time," snipped a voice.

Jhlor's head snapped at the direction of the voice. The Principal was huddled in a corner, lit by the shadows, hands hugging her knees and sulking for some reason.

Green eyes under rimmed glasses flickered uncertainly towards Jhlor. Nevertheless, Rycella surged forward with practiced ease and Jhlor had a feeling that this was a routine they had barged on.

Blood shot eyes under a cracking owl mask glinted, full of narrowed edge. "No, Rycella," she said tiredly, interrupting the opened mouth. "I need his bones. I will not give it back to you. Leave."

Rycella did the sourest of scowls. "It isn't yours to use!"

"I didn't waste the entirety of my goddamn life just for you to take it away," the Principal replied through gritted teeth, eyes flashing under the holes of the mask. "I did this for you, I don't—"

Fasbur shifted on their feet, thrumming neatly manicured nails on ironed trousers.

"And I never asked you to do that," Rycella cried out, raising her hands. "You dare blame me for your actions?"

The Principal sucked a breath harshly, the sink of her shoulders, sullen. "Will you please just leave?"

Rycella practically spat, "I wonder if you had ever cared something about me that isn't about my brother's skeleton. I wonder if you had ever cared about anything." The redhead glared even more so. "You can grieve but I can't." She stomped her way through the mirror, grabbing the frame to go. She swerved her head to the Principal one last time. "I'll be so happy when you're dead." Then, she was off.

The Principal grabbed and hurled a tea cup resting on the table near her. It shattered at the edge of the mirror's frame, crumbled pieces rolling down the floor. Fasbur flinched.

The Principal's ire turned to them. "What?" she snapped.

Nothing, Jhlor thought of saying. Fasbur sighed. "What's wrong?"

She briefly turned to them before sinking her head back to the burrow of her hands. "King is dead." She unfurled her knees, revealing a small, unmoving furry thing. "Cats don't live long apparently. Madame Silvia should've told," she murmured like a child, sniffing.

Jhlor blinked. The cat.

"Yes, the cat."

A silence transpired. Fasbur shifted foot to foot once again, hooded eyes glancing at the smashed tea cup. "You're too harsh to her."

The Principal groaned, hands going under the mask. "She goes and tries to find Version 190, then gets pissed that she can't, then it adds up to the bones of his and everything and.." She sighed, screwing her obsidian eyes shut as she squeezed her temple. "I need to be alone. Can you—Will you just spit out what you wanted to spit out so I can be alone?"

Jhlor straightened immediately. Fasbur's mouth stuttered to open, unsure of what to say. And as usual, she knew before him. Mind readers.

The Principal exhaled a breath, annoyed. "Why are you doubting now? Now that it's a mere week away?"

"I..." Fasbur floundered, gloved hands fidgeting with their watch locket. "I can't do it. I can't do it at all."

Another silence filtered the air. Beady eyes full of knowing pinned hooded brown eyes. "I asked you," the Principal said slowly, icy. "To fight gods with me. You said yes. Tell me, did you lie?"

Time was young then. Or maybe, it was just them. At that time, they had no graying hair; all young, bright chestnut brown with three resupply while the Principal had one. Ascendant. Now, the blood resupply had been at eight—their last—graying and dulled. The Principal, at her last, yet only at two. Young but rotting. I guess that's bound to happen when someone keeps calling you the Liberator. Managing to actually get out didn't help either, she laughed. Bound to be rooted out fast.

"I would have gone against a hundred gods," Fasbur said slowly in a whisper. "Because I believe that you are right and that we are worthy of it." They shook their head, tied hair following the movement, as gloved hands began to shake. "But I can't do this to.. to children," they spat out, afraid and disgusted. "I promised, ever since I've been ten and five that I would never do such things to innocents. That I would teach the best that I could. I would be the normal Professor, the one that won't hate them, hurt them, or love them too much."

"You bind yourself." She stood, wobbling, cradling the small corpse with care. "You follow orders of people, of everything, of your binary mindset that you fail to see the larger scale of things."

Fasbur bit their lip.

"What does a fish who's lived its entire life in a bowl know about the ocean?" the Principal asked as she laid King's unmoving body in a box. Tomorrow, she'd cremate it underground. "What is freedom, Fasbur? Especially in a world like ours? How can you know if you've never felt it? If you do it, will it be worth it? I understand why you doubt."

You'll like it, my love. You'll like it soon enough. Just lay down. They followed the order. Fasbur Jhlor, aged fifteen, did not like it at all. But, maybe they deserved it.

"I won't ask you to do anything that you believe you shouldn't do. Just don't go against me," she pleaded, somehow looking more demented than a graying man. A series of coughs took over, harsher and harsher than the last. The Principal hunched over the table, hand in mouth. Fasbur looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. "I order you to do nothing at the day. Leave."

Jhlor followed. Always did. They turned, making their way to the mirror.

"And Fasbur?"

They looked back to the cracked but unbent form.

"You never deserved it, I assure you. You're a good man," she said sincerely. "You tried."

Fasbur made the stiffest, smallest nod. Then, they were gone.

~°°~

Jhlor woke at the first ring of their alarm. Their hand made a grab for the gloves and their nightcap as they stood. Five minutes later, the kettle bustled in joy as the aroma of coffee filled the air. Their favorite cup clinked as it met the rush of water.

Jhlor washed, wiped and poured bitter, black coffee. Up to the rim. They drank. Gloved fingers flitted against pages of today's lesson, a candle light casting yellowed hues over their head.

Fifteen minutes in, and the cup and kettle were washed, wiped and put back. Today's lesson ended in page 417. Steam ran along in the bathroom, gloves and a towel hanging in the rack. Most of their conditioner remained missing.

They buttoned up smooth, pristine white shirt, tying their tie into a neat ribbon. Graying hair bound into a pony tail. Gloved fingers smoothed dark blazer.

They don't know yet but this would be the last time this schedule would be repeated.

At a tower, in a similar fashion the night came, a dark shadow approached in a form of steeled obsidian eyes stalking its target. A hand raised to strike, turning into a blade as it hits home.

~°°~