Percival Frederickstein Von Musel Klossowski De Rolo III has always had three loves: stories, invention, and shiny things.
Growing up, there was a particular story he was most fond of, about a boy who built himself a pair of wings and flew away from prison, only to go too far to the sun and have Palor melt his wings until he fell and drowned. The story fascinated him as a child, in particular the dream of an invention so wonderful that it would grant one freedom, but he always thought the boy stupid for flying straight towards the sun. What a waste of a brilliant mind, he thought, sure that he would never make a mistake that stupid.
A few years later, his dreams of inventions took a darker turn, to murdering machines designed to keep him alive, to bring pain to those who wronged him. The only stories he told himself were the painful nightmares of his past and the only thing shinier than jewels and gold was vengeance. And much like his new toys, the companions he kept were tools to an end, he told himself, to stay alive and grow stronger until he could get the revenge that was rightfully his.
He was wrong, as it turns out. Stories, the best stories at least, are never about what we think they will be. And as the days passed him by, as the darkness grew closer, he discovered something shiny hidden under the ashes of his past life: a chance at a new start, born from his darkest moment and fed by a faith he didn’t believe himself worthy of. So when the darkness of his own demons sang its siren song and threatened to drag him into hell, he decided he wouldn’t be like that boy, wouldn’t let himself be just another waste of talent and intelligence while chasing an unreachable promise. He would sooner cut his own wings than be that stupid.
Oh, but he was stupid. Foolish enough to believe that Orthax’s promises held any power comparable to the sun’s.
Three days after returning to Emon, while Scanlan crafted an epic story about their adventure (Percy would never admit how giddy he was, at the idea of being the hero of a new legend), he got down to crafting his own inventions: a new gun, built exactly the same but with the purpose of protecting the new family he’s found; a gauntlet, charged with thunder and magic, and the piece of himself he lost in order to save his own soul; and a stack of trick arrows, for the one person who loves shiny new things even more than he does. Because they all helped him get through this horror tale, but he knows in the sore depths of his scarred chest, whose faith he owes the most to.
It’s a bright and warm day outside when he finally emerges from his workshop, and the pleasant weather is only one of the many things he’s learned to appreciate more after their latest adventure. He walks across the fresh green grass of the keep’s gardens and finds Vex’ahlia resting under a tree’s shadow, her bear’s head resting lazily on her lap, her face painted with the patterns of the leaves shadows, her eyes closed in a peaceful expression more open and vulnerable than he’s ever seen since they met. He hesitated before intruding on that pleasant moment, stopping just a few feet away from where the tree's shadow starts.
“What is it, darling?” She doesn’t even open her eyes.
Percy represses a laugh. Of course, she heard him coming. “Oh, nothing important. I just have something for you.”
That gets Vex’ahlia to open her eyes. She stands up, without waking Trinket, and crosses the distance between them with an inquiring look and a playful smile. “For me?” She sing-songs, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, they require a very specific skill set,” he says smugly, pulling out the carefully wrapped package he has been hiding behind his back.
Vex’ahlia accepts it and immediately opens it up, taking a look at the assortment of arrows presented to her. Only now that she’s holding it like that, does it occur to Percy that it looks almost like a very deadly bouquet.
“Explosive, grappling, and freezing,” he points at each group, mainly to break the silence she’s letting stretch. He holds his breath in anticipation, hoping for her reaction. But when she looks up, there’s nothing that could’ve prepared him for the expression in her eyes.
“Percival! These are wonderful! Are they- I mean… why?”
The way she smiles, open and wide, with the sunlight hitting her tan skin and a delight so bright like he just gifted her a crown of jewels rather than a bunch of deadly sticks makes his heart stutter for a second. Thank goodness for his clever brain.
“You did lose an awful lot of expensive trick arrows on the way to Whitestone, it seemed like the least I could do.”
What he should say, what he means, is that her face is the one he saw when hope entered his heart and her voice guided him out of the shadows where he would’ve surely drowned in hatred and sorrow, but he can’t. Mainly, because the reason behind his own action has only become crystal clear right now, at this very moment.
Vex’s eyes turn softer as if she understood exactly what he didn’t say out loud. When she moves forward, Percival can’t help but flinch before he feels the press of her lips against his cheek.
“Thank you, darling. It’s lovely.”
The point where her mouth touched him burns as if a spark of black powder had landed on it, but he’s well trained enough in the art of hiding his thoughts to conceal it behind a shrug.
“Glad you like it. When you use them, let me know how they work. If there’s anything I could adapt to make them fly better or if you get any ideas on how to improve the design.”
“Will do,” Vex winks at him and walks back to her spot under the tree.
Percy makes his way back to the keep in a daze, barely registering his own steps until he’s back in the safety of his workshop, where he gets a chance to hide his face under his hands and groan with frustration.
An indignant sort of anger blooms inside his chest, furious to realize that for the first time in his life he gets it… he understands what it’s like to want something impossibly bright and warm and entirely out of his reach, and why a bright mind might put all of its creativity and invention at the service of an impossible goal, to fly a little higher, a little closer to the sun, even knowing that the only possible outcome for his unworthy want is to crash and burn terribly. Percival Frederickstein Von Musel Klossowski De Rolo III loves four things: stories, invention, shiny things… and an archer.