A slender, alabaster hand grazed the runic carvings of the obsidian counter, and softly, under the black silk veil, thin lips spoke the Tongue of the Dead.

Rusted over with a refulgent, copper hue, the horizon in the smooth, crystalline orb sunk into blackness, as deep and bottomless as the pit of the wheat-like plains, swelled with corpses.

With its tremendous size, the pit of corpses existed as an abyss that marred the face of the earth. Countless bodies slumped over one another in that abyss, limp and indistinguishable from the next. Dirty-brown remnants, chipped steel spears, and pierced iron garments layered the dump.

It was the aftermath, the unforgiving consequences of a vicious, hungry conflict called 'war', that left death and ruin in its wake, all to be forgotten in the passing of but a few generations.

At the moment, the veiled figure before the crystal orb, which held the bloody battlefields in its glassy, sheer core, was the one of the many witnesses of war's tragedy, but the sole one to remain to bear its weight.

The burning candles of the cubed room flickered gently to an even rhythm; the black silk swayed. A hum escaped the pair of thin lips and penetrated the orb. Swathing the small room, the sound then wholly pervaded the war-torn lands, soft and slow, like feathers serenely encasing the aggrieved souls of the dead. That ghastly-pale hand stroked the crystal orb in the center of the obsidian platform, and a small smile revealed itself in the fiery light, bathed in the same care and affection as the God of Benevolence to his followers.

The sound was tender and light, yet solemn, deep with emotion and understanding.

"Please, brave men, do not worry—for your family, your wives, your children, your fellow countrymen and comrades, your neighbors and elders—they will all be okay. The citizens of your kingdom will be safe, and it will have been in thanks to your efforts. Your deaths are not in vain.

"You may not be able to see it, hear it, taste it, or smell it, but you can feel it. Your kingdom has won, and your country is safe.

"Now, please be at ease, knowing everything is okay—they are safe, and waiting for your due return."

Dust had long settled on the vast plains. The rich and golden hue of the land was now no longer, damp with the blood of its people. Seven years, thousands of lives, and millions of livelihoods were squandered in the fight. No matter how vigorously the blood was scrubbed, how numerously the men of god that traveled, or how piously they prayed, it amounted to nothing in the face of the unfathomable misfortune that was war.

Beyond the grief and suffering of those remaining within the high walls, the brave men who fought for their country would forever burn in unrest, under the torment of their agitateds minds and their utter powerlessness. After their fall, they would be unable to influence or be influenced by the physical world, and for as long as this continued, their souls would remain awake, their humanity gnawed away by cruel uncertainty.

No doubt, this would have been the reality for the thousands of soldiers in the pit if not for the unforeseen light that had arrived in their moment of despair—the voice of god, with a merciful message of hope.

Those kind and gentle words, bathed in a halo of good light, dissolved every relentless worry and fear of the soldiers.

All the souls, drowned in the abyss of blood and sweat and tears, were able to finally close their heavy, tired eyes—

—all but _one_.

"How sweet your words are, Marionette's Hands, but how unfortunate is it that none are worth even a pinch of copper?"

A man's voice drifted from the crystal orb, and all of the sudden, hazy-white eyes narrowed menacingly.

Despite being millions of paces apart, the cutthroat silence in candlelit room and the pit of corpses intertwined.

"Ah, forgive me, I misspoke—the correct address should be Marionette's _Hand_ now. I apologize."

The last two words were relayed by a voice succinct and crisp in manner, remarkably sarcastic and feigning remorse undisguised.

Nonetheless, that curt and insolent apology was met with none other than a staple greeting.

"Prince, how have you been?"

...or rather, a staple greeting for any other recipient but one rotting away in a hole.

In spite of the backhanded inquiry, however, the prince answered most courteously.

"Well, well—most thanks you the hand you played."

A blithe chuckle, unfitting of his horrifying situation, arose from the unmoving corpse in the dark pit.

The orb's eyes lingered for a moment too long on the body before a cordial voice replied in turn.

"It is unfortunate that you have found yourself in such a predicament. Though I pity your situation, I am afraid I cannot be in your company for much longer."

Though he said that, his far-removed cadence made his true sentiments plain, and his body did not move a hair. The veiled figure stood in place, almost motionless if not for the swaying flames that made his shadows dance, as though aspiring for something.

The prince's voice soon returned to melt the silence of the room's interior, entering the veiled figure's ears as a low and rich note.

"Marionette's Hand, your mouth is still as healthy and false as ever, I see, spilling such words that almost make me rethink as to whether you did pierce my chest with a crook of your finger."

"We are not sufficiently acquainted for those words to hold weight."

"_Ironic—_I would say our first encounter was well over 'sufficient', would you not agree? But perhaps you are simply saying otherwise because you are still bitter of my actions. Shall I deliver you my deepest sincerities once more—?

—or would you rather that I return that dear arm of yours to your residence?"

His speech was flagrant and airy all throughout, making the steeliness of the last line all the more conspicuous and harsh.

"Neither," the Marionette's Hand answered, all traces of benevolence and patience vanishing.

In the small room, a pale-white hand loomed over the orb, glazed in candlelight. All five fingers attempted to grasp it, but all five fingerstips withered into an ugly coal-black.

The owner of the hand restrained himself from verbally expressing his displeasure to the soul connected to the orb's core. He dipped his dying hand into a jar of a discolored, transparent liquid. The jar rested on the obsidian counter to the side of the orb, framed by heaps of humanoid, crystalline statues and hammers and chisels in the background. The solution within seeped into the flesh and bones of the hand, restoring it to its formerly pallid complexion in an instant.

"Let us cease further back-and-forth. I have not come to you to argue on my nature or dwell on past disagreements—I only have a simple proposal."

A monotonous hum dominated the room, hiding a subtle viciousness behind its indifference.

"Oh? What is it?"

The prince replied immediately, showing a swelling of interest and signaling the successful deviation of the conversation. Contradicting his initial interest was his gloomy silence following the words the of the other:

"Join me."

One was sheltered within a cramped room; one was dead and buried alongside thousands of corpses in a pit millions of paces away. A crystal orb of unknown origins was the only thing closing the distance, connecting these two souls.

The prince in the pit understood the meaning behind those two words instantly; there was no need for further explanation that would simply transform civilized conversation into incisive remarks and murderous, two-faced squabbling.

Understanding hidden meaning and accepting an ominous proposal were two different things, however.

The man gave his answer to the Marionette's Hand with little delay, but he stubbornly refused to be concise with it as the other had wished, directly drawing a line to an extent of authority.

"Suppose I am willing to ally with the man who played the mastermind behind the war, destroying my homeland and bringing suffering my people.

"You surely have your methods to use me despite my state, and you have conveyed your wish to bring me to your side, but yet...you have not revealed to me your purpose? Tell me, why should I trust in a man like that?"

A pale hand twitched unnervingly in a jar of solution.

"My purpose is not essential to this matter, and you are in no position to demand it. As it stands, there are only two options for you."

As if deaf to the words of the other party, the prince continued on in a light and wishful manner.

"Ah, so you wish to remain silent? How unfortunate. Very well, then you may let me rot in his dirty hole for eternity, or at least, until my humanity is no longer. Perhaps if you have discovered a method to immortal life, you may even be able to visit me when that fateful time comes?"

_Crash—!_

Glass shattered and liquid spilled from the pitch-black counter onto the floor the of the room. A candleflame was extinguished as a drop of crimson red flowed from a pale finger.

The face under the black silk veil turned dark.

Never had he been so affected by another in his life until he met the prince. Between consistently escaping the influence of his threads, contending his every word, and doing as he pleased despite every terrible, wretched thing that could possibly happen to him, the Marionette's Hand did not know which aspect struck him so violently down in his core the most.

He had watched the prince fight desperately to gain position on the frontlines, and then, plow his way through the enemy lines, competent and powerful despite his ostensibly-sheltered bearings.

Wanting to strike down this rising power at his peak and prevent his pawns from being wiped out too quickly, the Marionette's Hand had deployed his strings, his runic tongue, everything at his disposal, yet it was all met with retraction, pain, and impotence.

His first physical encounter with the prince was a violent confrontation that deprived him of his right arm; his second filled him with a burning desire to control this enigmatic, evasive being and crush his persistent will and obnoxiously light heart.

"Is it due to your baffling penchant for those overabundant, sentimental things? Or is it because you simply wish to oppose me, even at the stake of your life? Is it worth it—remaining awake, yet ignorant and powerless, all to lose your humanity and become a mindless beast?"

By now, his voice had become uneven and coarse, grating on the ears and sending chills down the spines of all those alive and uncontrolled who could hear it.

The 'God of Benevolence' no longer existed, and indifference died under the surge of wrath.

Despite the dangerous turn in the situation, the prince, lying in a bed of dried-blood and corpses, remained unfazed, his attitude unchanging.

"There you are, Marionette's Hand. So you have finally decided to reveal to me your true self, but still refuse to answer my lone inquiry, instead resulting to condemning me?"

His jest was met with boiling silence, so he sought to clarify himself.

"Alas, it is neither of those suspicions you carry. Is it so wrong for a man to reassure himself of whose hand he is taking before he takes it?"

"..."

"You must know, I am not opposed to you in any way like you say. Revenge is a fruitless deed, and rather than that, you intrigue me more. I feel that you and I get along rather well, you see.

"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Let us have many more encounters in the future, shall we?"