Salvation of the Scum Fifth Prince

Soren closed his eyes to the mirage in front of him. The two separate images, both belonging to him. These two people were ones that directly affected his life, and watching from this third perspective did nothing.

How long was he going to avoid it?

The undeniable emotions that were laid before him — how long could he pretend they didn’t exist? In fact, there was a larger issue, one Raphael, at least, had been quite aware of.

How long was Soren going to deny himself?

There was nobody coming to save him. Even if Raphael arrived, what could that man do? If Soren chose to not listen, how could Raphael’s words help him at all? He couldn’t rely on the salvation of others and hope to be dragged along while sinking in his own despair.

Because the one thing that prevented him from leaving this space was himself, and the one thing that could save him was also himself.

And, as he stretched his hand out to the first mirage, he quietly watched the mist creep up his arms in a tangling vine of water, swallowing Soren entirely.

The room he opened his eyes in was cold and unfeeling, chilling to the bone and devoid of any comfort. It was where he lived for many years — the original’s, and now his — but it was not his home.

He glanced down at his hands, now pale and rounded, with short fingers and a nightgown that carelessly draped over his small body.

The furniture around him was tall as it was plain, and Soren understood. He was back in the childhood body of the original. He had a feeling that the events leading up in this illusion, and… one more illusion of his own past, would determine whether he could escape this forest or not.

There was a faint light coming from the door, reflected underneath. He opened it.

The smell of blood immediately invaded his nose and he scrunched it, large eyes darting around. His feet were bare, so he carefully avoided the odd splotches along the way. A faint inkling of a memory trickled into his mind.

There was a particular event that left a deep impression on the original.

It had been when the boy was only six years old, and Vincent had been sixteen. The sixteen-year-old crown prince had almost completely stripped himself of any emotion, no conflict or doubt in his eyes.

The night wasn’t gloomy, but in fact, the moon hung out brightly, delicately lighting up the rooms in its dim glow while the stars sparkled against clear darkness. Soren had been awoken by a sound, the clatter of metal outside his room.

In the original memory, the blood had startled him, directly causing the young boy’s face to drain, trembling. Yet as the sound continued in the distance, the only sound in the empty air, he’d approached it.

The stains of blood grew more clear, and the stench grew remarkably strong. Soren’s room had originally been placed far away from the others, though none of them had rooms near each other to begin with.

Eventually, the child walked all the way to an office, placed at the end of the long hallway where his room was.

The door was slightly ajar, and warm light spilled from the crack. Yet the scene within the doors was anything but warm.

This event could be called the one that properly drove these two brothers apart.

Vincent coldly stood tall above several bodies, the gleaming metal of his sword directly pierced in a man’s stomach. The person before him was still alive, though his withering groans and curses spoke of the little time he had left.

Blood dripped down the crown prince’s arm, but his eyes were indifferent, as if the sight in front of him was insignificant. Casually, the boy who was only sixteen wiped a smudge of blood off his cheek.

It was done naturally, as if he’d done it a million times before.

Soren swallowed in his wide-eyed shock, accidentally pushing the door open with his hand before the person before him snapped their head over, eyes dark and unforgiving. There was a glimmer of surprise before the eyes grew chilling.

“What are you doing here?”

Soren had nervously said, “I… I saw the… the light. Light on.”

Vincent’s lips drew a thin line. “Go back to your room.”

“No! Are you hurt, big brother? There’s so much bloo— “

“Soren.” interrupted Vincent in a tone that was far too heartless to belong to a teenager. “Leave.”

Surprisingly, the little boy who could hardly stand after witnessing such a bloody sight had a firm determination, refusing to move. “I won’t!”

“Leave.”

“No!”

Vincent’s footsteps suddenly moved over in a slow drag before he slammed the sword above Soren’s head. If one looked carefully, the teenager’s hand trembled as blood continued to pool down his arms. But for Soren, who could only shrink back in fear, that small action went unnoticed.

“Behave properly. This isn’t a matter related to you, nor will it be in the future. Stop causing trouble, Soren.”

The position where Vincent stood blocked the bloody view behind from the small child in front of him, and the sword that had been driven through the door provided a distraction.

Soren’s voice quivered, but Vincent’s expression revealed no sympathy. “I… just want to help you, brother.”

“I do not need your help, so stop your futile actions.”

The child gulped and tentatively stretched out a hand. “Do… you hate me, big brother?”

The crown prince seemed to pause, his jaw tight and fist clenched. “You have no significance to me, and if you interrupt my tasks, then I will tell you. All you have to do is live quietly and out of my sight, understood? Things like this are not ones you need to see.”

“Big…big brother.” choked the boy as his hands clumsily grasped onto a corner of the bloodied fabric.

Vincent’s eyes immediately changed, and he yanked the cloth out roughly, frowning deeply. Some of the blood now coated those tender, pale fingers. “Get out. Now. Are you a prince, or are you a beggar? It is time you learn your place, Soren. I… have no interest in playing family with you.”

The cold pair of eyes was the last thing the little boy had seen before the door slammed in front of him.

He had stood there blankly staring at the closed doors before a tremble crept up his arms, and finally his entire body continued to shake violently. Tears streamed down his face as he knocked on the door again. And again. And again.

Vincent had never been kind nor caring to the boy, but so long as the child didn’t hear such a blunt rejection, he could pretend that there was hope.

And now, at the age of six, he was forced to accept the fact that his family would not love him.

Although it didn’t stop him from trying in the future, the innocent and willful part of him died, replaced by a careful and weary hopefulness that was devoid of the original vigour it once had.

Soren followed the blood trail silently, different from how it had been in the past. He was no longer a young child who could only chase after fleeting butterflies desperately.

When he reached those tall oaken doors, he paused. Just like in his memories, the door was slightly ajar and a warm light escaped the crack. A singular figure stood in the middle of the room surrounded by a bloody mess, but their eyes no longer revealed indifference.

Staring right at Soren who peeked through the crack, those fierce amber eyes revealed surprise, then relief, then collapse. A mixture of emotions that Soren had never seen before, so vivid in that swirling colour.

Vincent lowered his eyes, staring at the blood and breathed deeply. He too remembered this night, when the expression on his youngest brother’s face had been too vivid to forget.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “...Soren?”

Soren suddenly thought back to the mirage, and the helpless apologies that had spilled out like a waterfall. He didn’t understand Vincent, but he also never tried.

The little boy stepped inside.

There were questions people always forgot to consider when caught up in their own emotions. Specific questions for specific scenarios.

Why was Vincent here, in the hallway closest to Soren’s room, covered in blood?

What was the real reason he pulled away when Soren had grabbed him?

If Vincent truly never cared, why did he urgently press Soren to return to his room instead of leaving him there on his own?

A tender voice spoke. “Are you injured?”

“No.” replied Vincent automatically, before correcting himself. “With the exception of a few injuries, I am fine.”

He recalled the words Raphael had told him one of the nights they’d gone drinking together. Though a large part included Raphael insulting and scolding him, while Vincent could only listen.

‘You can’t just expect others to understand you, Vincent. Life isn’t nice like that. If you want to be heard, if you want to be understood, you have to say it. How should they know if you don’t let them?’

This had been Raphael’s response after that mysterious man dragged all the secrets out of Vincent.

“Soren.” These two people who were terrible at expressing emotion, couldn’t reach a conclusion unless one of them acted. Vincent had no right to expect it from the other. “You’re the real… the real Soren…?”

Since their souls had already begun to merge, Soren couldn’t deny that, and nodded shallowly.

Vincent looked as if he’d collapse on the spot, his shoulders visibly relaxing upon seeing the nod. He swallowed and slowly said, “Don’t move.”

“...?”

Last time, he’d never given a proper reason. “There is blood.”

“And?”

A furrow of the brows and a tight frown. Hesitation and struggle. “It’s unnecessary for you to dirty your hands.”

For a long time, he’d only wanted all his siblings to see the light. Away from the disgusting scenes of politics, the struggles of the crown. Yet in his silence, he’d been seen as the cold-hearted person who cared only for the throne.

Vincent thought it was fine to be thought of in such a manner. But in disregarding himself, he had hurt many others.

“Things like this are not ones you need to see.” He’d said those words last time too, but a different meaning would be expressed. “You need only live as you wish, however you wish. I only… wanted you to stay away from these repulsive things.”

Large, snowy-blue eyes peered up at him unblinkingly. Observing every move.

“I never, not once, wanted you to die, Soren.”

Desperation. It was a sight Soren never thought he’d see on such an indifferent man. He watched as Vincent stepped forward, closer until there was only a short distance between the two. Soren’s eyes flickered to the bloodied fists that were raised hesitantly.

Slowly, he said, “I’m not scared of blood.”

“What?” Vincent looked taken aback before abruptly glancing down, and then back up. He swallowed, and took another step forward, kneeling down to one knee in front of Soren.

One child and one teenager stood before each other.

Vincent only wanted to protect everyone. Soren only wanted to be loved. In their conflicting yet similar wishes, they had been driven apart. It was a misunderstanding carved by their own hand.

Soren said nothing as Vincent lowered his eyes steadily, as if thinking.

“I was wrong.” admitted Vincent suddenly, regret tinging his voice as he recalled the sight of the cold corpse he had seen earlier. If such an ending awaited… he didn’t want to imagine it. “I was wrong. I am sorry, little brother.”

A hand shakily raised to brush against Soren’s cheek with clumsy gentleness. It was stiff, and somewhat awkward, but Soren didn’t move away.

“I am really sorry for all I have done. For ignoring you, for pushing you away, for speaking so coldly to you, for— “

“Stop.” Soren paused, pursing his lips. “Don’t continue.”

“...I’m sorry for bringing back those memories.”

“No, but it’d take too long for you to apologize for everything. It’s annoying.”

“.....” Vincent paused at the lazy look of not wanting to stand for too long across the child’s delicate features and chuckled lightly. His eyes fluttered closed as he pressed his forehead against the tender hand before him.

The room was quiet, and nobody else existed. Only the corpses behind, and the fragile misunderstandings.

“I deeply apologize, little brother.”

Soren lowered his eyes quietly. The tall, domineering figure in his memories now knelt before him like a broken man who’d only just learned of emotion.

In a soft voice, he said, “I don’t forgive you.”

Vincent exhaled, and it was only after several minutes that he replied.

“I understand.”

 

— — — xxx— — —

 

Raphael had been waiting a long time.

When Soren walked into the library, littered in dust yet carrying nostalgia among the creaking wooden shelves, the protagonist looked up from where he sat and offered a careless grin.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Soren nodded and quietly answered, “I’ve arrived.”

This abandoned library was a place of many meetings during the painful days of the apocalypse. Soren’s gaze trailed along the shelves, flickering from each groove and crack. In his memories, even if Raphael hadn’t been there, he indeed found this library when walking around.

It had been a quiet solace for him to hide away from all other thoughts. However, seeing Raphael comfortably leaning against the wall with a book in his hand — it wasn’t unpleasant, not in the slightest.

“Do you think you can finally leave?” asked Raphael curiously.

Soren walked over and stopped a few steps away. “Yeah.”

There was a refreshing feeling in Soren’s heart, like burdens long lifted. As if the dragging chains that pulled him back into that spiralling darkness had been shattered, and his wings that had been ruthlessly ripped off now sewn back on.

“Then, am I the last burden you need to overcome?”

“Yeah.”

There were two things that prevented him from leaving.

The desperate lingering feelings from the original’s memories, hopelessly clinging onto the idea of family until it destroyed him to the point he stopped wanting love,

And the memories of his past, and of Raphael that he’d been unknowingly running away from in his subconscious. Because the idea of Raphael caring for him was not one that he could trust in.

He couldn’t trust that anybody wouldn’t leave him, simply because he didn’t believe that he was a person deserving of company.

“Well.” Raphael chuckled, leaning his head back as his gaze stared at the ceiling. “What should I do, hm? To make you trust me.”

Raphael had already figured out the reasons behind Soren’s inability to leave, and while waiting in this old library filled with memory, he had thought of countless ways to fix the problem. But life wasn’t perfect, and even if Raphael thought of a million plans, none of them could work.

Just as he tried to save this fool last time, only to watch him disappear in his arms.

But maybe now Soren would allow himself to listen. To listen and to believe in the words that Raphael spoke.

Then, Raphael’s lips curved and he beckoned Soren to come closer. The other skeptically stared but obeyed, crouching down in front of Raphael. The protagonist had decided on a specific method.

He’d show Soren the absolute truth of everything he felt.

It all happened in an instant, far too long, yet far too short. Soren blinked with wide eyes, his confused expression a stark contrast to his typical aloofness, as rough hands held his face tightly.

He was absolutely bewildered — Raphael was kissing him.

Tongue brushing against his own in overlapping heats, leaving him choked, and breathless, and, well… weak. In his entire life, he’d faced many challenges and overcame them.

This… this wasn’t one of them.

His pale fingers curled against Raphael’s broad chest, eyes narrowing as the kiss pressed on relentlessly, as if searching for emotions that Soren could not give. However, Soren never denied his emotions, as slight as they were.

It was warm, tantalizing, and it stirred something in him that even if he could not understand, he enjoyed.

Clumsy was Soren’s response, clearly inexperienced and messy but Raphael felt a smile spread across his own lips as his hands brushed the back of the snow-white locks.

The catastrophe that was coming didn’t matter, the problems and worries were all washed away in their single world of two. It was crazy, really. How this made their minds spin, floating in the clouds when it should’ve been anywhere but there.

They irritated each other, bickered, argued, and fought. Yet their presence in each other's lives had grown and grown, to the point it was permanent, engraved into their every day. It wasn’t a sweet and tender romance, nor a fiery passion between enemies.

All it was, was a simple coexistence.

At last, Raphael pulled back, breathing roughly as he stared at the messy, tousled snowy strands that had been ruined by his very own hands. Soren stared back, staring at this protagonist whose waves of raging emotions always seemed to swallow him in those abyssal eyes of his.

Raphael grinned even as he breathed roughly, a wide smile full of joy in his expression. “Well.” said the protagonist with finality. “At this point, I really should put it in words, or you won’t understand, will you, little prince?”

Soren slowly blinked, frowning in confusion, remembering the feeling of his lips on the other.

It was true, he didn’t understand in the slightest.

Raphael chucked again knowingly, squatting to the floor and running his hands through his hair with a disbelieving sigh. “God, you’re dense.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Well then, little prince, predict this.” Raphael lifted his eyes warmly, smiling up at Soren.

“I’m in love with you, fool.”

Soren stared at him blankly, then blinked.

Then he blinked again.

Raphael, this protagonist. This hero of this tragic tale, the one who was so insufferably irritating yet undeniably admirable. In love. With him. With Soren Rosenbaum, no, Ren Suzuki. With both of them.

As these words hung gently in the sweet, soothing wind, the seed that had been planted so long ago finally bloomed into a flower.

And it dyed this colourless world in a vivid colour of flourishing emotions.