Swan Song [Dark Fantasy | Progression Fantasy | Slowburn]

[Volume 2 Epilogue | Chapter 82: To The Next Phase (III)]

Alaric Ptolemy… was utterly bewildered.

All of that nonsensical placating for what? Just to reprimand him again?!

"What the hell does that mean?! You 'understand' but can't 'forgive'?! The book was going to kill me! What choice did I have?"

"I'm not going to use hindsight reasoning. I'm also not going to say 'the prediction was wrong, so you were stupid to go through with it.' That's too easy, and it misses the point entirely."

Acacia took a practically room sucking breath, making a clicking noise with his teeth that was both unsettling as it was awkwardawkward.

"You still had a choice, Alaric. You always had a choice."

"That's bull! You weren't there! You didn't see what it was like, how it—"

"The moment it started predicting absurd situations with the Bloodhounds, you should have immediately handed it over to the Windsor Investigation Department, or at least to Pandora herself."

"..."

The blueblood was stunned silent.

"At that time, the Tome wasn't pressuring you into doing anything dangerous. It wasn't threatening your life. Every time you opened it, it was out of your own curiosity."

Acacia stopped, turning to face Alaric directly.

"But you didn't turn it in, did you? At that moment, you weren't thinking about how dangerous the book was or how it shouldn't be allowed in a public space. You were thinking about how you could use it for your own selfish benefit. You were also thinking about you could hide it in plain sight in the restricted section so you can use it more."

"That's not true! I was manipulated from the beginning! There was nothing I could—"

"Was there even one moment when you seriously thought that you could use the book to get stronger or enhance your goals without putting in the work? Just one moment when you saw it as a shortcut to the power you wanted?"

He moved closer to the bed, forcing his sapphire eyes to meet Alaric's hazel ones.

"That was the moment you lost."

"That was also the moment you allowed it to take over your decision-making. If you decided to keep reading the book after you knew it was potentially dangerous, then how could it have not been your decision to kill those children to fulfill the ritual?"

Alaric flapped his mouth open to deny it, but the lie died on his lips. Of course there had been such moments! Countless moments! The book had offered him everything he'd ever wanted—recognition, power, the ability to finally meet the expectations placed upon him.

How could he not have seen it as an opportunity?

"You didn't even know what the book was. You assumed its total credibility based on one successful prediction of a major situation. What if that was the point? What if the decrees were designed to make you more willing to kill those kids? To see if you would cross that line?"

The words hit like a hammer of accusations.

"You had chance after chance to say no to the book, but you still said yes, because each 'yes' brought you closer to what you wanted." Acacia continued, relentless in his logic. "Humans are beings with agency. If you strip that away, you're no better than an animal."

"You're cruel," Alaric hissed, tears welling in his eyes again. "Absolutely cruel."

Acacia's laugh was short and bitter. Absence of humor.

"Cruelty would be telling you that you had no choice. Cruelty would also be me telling you that you were simply a puppet dancing on strings. That would rob you of the one thing that makes you human: the capacity to choose differently next time."

He looked at Alaric, or possibly through him.

"The moment I say you had no agency, I'm saying you're incapable of change. That, Alaric Ptolemy, would be the cruelest thing I could possibly do to you."

Alaric stared at him, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions and thoughts. Anger, shame, denial, and... something else. A small, flickering spark of recognition. He wanted to dismiss Acacia's words as those of a self-righteous prig, but something in them resonated with a truth that had been nagging at him since he woke up in the hospital.

But... the book had manipulated him! Tricked him into doing its bidding! It was responsible for everything that had happened!

Wasn't it?

"I... wasn't born a prodigy."

Alaric's statement was soft, barely audible in the sterile quiet of the hospital room.

Acacia's eyebrow twitched. He didn't respond, but his expression invited Alaric to continue.

"Yes, I'm a noble, and yes, I have a Birthright. But I was never as talented as my younger sister and brother. I used to not care for Thaumaturgy. I even hated it. I liked art. Sculptures. Paintings. The things that I felt were really beautiful. I even won a competition once. I wanted to pursue those beautiful things, but my parents... they were having none of that. They pushed me to excel at Thaumaturgy, live up to our family's reputation, and uphold our legacy."

He sighed, remembering those early years of training—the frustration, the exhaustion, and the constant feeling of inadequacy.

"At first, even if I didn't love Thaumaturgy, I was still above most as long as I put some effort in. Then... Upper Preparatory came. No matter how hard I trained, I could never beat people like Leila Trafalgar and Elias Scryer. Especially the latter. He was a genius, an absolute monster. I hate him. I utterly despise him. I put in every single ounce of effort, and it's not enough. Even with a noble bloodline, it's not enough."

The Ptolemy scion clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

"Every. Single. Day. I worked harder than I ever had in my life. But that rat bastard was always one step ahead. Always better. It was like he had the universe on his side. At first, it was just them, and then I started falling behind as more and more geniuses began to suddenly pile up. Why me? What did I possibly do to earn such a fate?! I'm... I'm a Ptolemy! A future patriarch! Why can't I ever win? Why can't I ever be first?! Why can't I be as talented them as them?! Why can't I love Thaumaturgy like they do?! Why?!"

His voice broke on the last word, a choked sob escaping his lips. Alaric Ptolemy, the proud scion of the noble Ptolemy line, lay broken in his hospital bed, tears a testament to the pain and frustration that had consumed him for years.

"So when that book showed up and told me I could be better, that I could finally be enough, what was I supposed to do? Tell me!"

As his tears fell, the messy-haired boy walked towards the windowledge. After debating it for a bit, he decided to sit on the ledge and swing his legs like a pendulum. For a moment, Acacia's gaze followed the pendulum movement of his legs. He didn't know why. Maybe it was a coping mechanism to avoid looking at the sobbing mess in front of him.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"I'm... not good at this," he began. "My mom always told me I had to get better at consoling people when they get emotional like this so when I have a wife in the future, I won't have to feel so lost... if she were around, I probably would have told her 'Jokes on you to think a girl would ever be interested in me!'"

He laughed at himself before shaking his head.

"You know, I'm the same as you. I'm not a genius. In fact, you could argue I'm worse."

Alaric sniffed, but he was listening. Acacia took that as a sign to continue.

"There's a reason I didn't use a single spell during that fight, you know. I'm so crappy at Thaumaturgy that it's probably best to think of me as an Irregular."

At that statement, Alaric couldn't help but snort. It was a hoarse, disbelieving snort, but it was a snort nonetheless. The kind of snort one makes when they hear something too absurd to be real.

But he didn't interrupt. He wanted to see where this was going.

"In my opinion, the idea that 'hard work beats talent' is the opiate of society. It's a bunch of self-serving baloney that people use to moralize success."

The words were surprisingly sharp and biting, but Alaric couldn't deny the truth in them. He'd heard the same platitudes from teachers, parents, and even other nobles countless times before.

"Hard work will always triumph over natural talent!"

"If you just keep trying, you'll succeed in the end!"

Hogwash. Absolute hogwash. And he'd believed it for so long.

"The reason these platitudes are sold to us from a young age is because the idea of a meritocratic society like the Tachyon Empire becomes much less appealing when we realize that there's a huge factor of luck. The idea that someone could have the best work ethic in the world and not get what we want is depressing, and it's a truth that's hard to accept, so instead of telling people 'yeah, you may not be as good as that person, even if you work harder than them,' we lie to ourselves and say that hard work is the solution. All men are not created equal in talent, and that's a fact. It's the reality of life. Thaumaturgy is the pinnacle of that unfairness in my eyes, because Birthrights are literally a random genetic mutation or they depend on whether you were born into a noble family or not, and they're one of the biggest factors in someone's talent and potential."

"But..."

"I'm not saying hard work doesn't matter. I'm saying that hard work without talent will never beat the talented person with the same amount of hard work. If a genius puts in as much effort as you, they'll always win. It's a basic principle. You can't outrun the hare if you're a tortoise."

Acacia was firm, but not unkind.

"S-So you're telling me to give up?" Alaric said, his voice trembling. "Accepting that I'll always be a loser, second to Elias, second to Leila, second to everyone?!"

The messy-haired boy sighed.

"Can you let me finish? Look, you're right. You'll never be able to beat Elias or Leila. You'll always be behind them in terms of thaumaturgical talent, and you'll probably never catch up. And that's fine."

"It's fine?!" Alaric spat. "How's it fine?!"

"Because you're a different person with your own talents, and that's what makes you unique. Instead of obsessing over what you can't do, focus on what you can do. What makes Alaric Ptolemy stand out from the crowd?"

"But... what is that? I'm not talented, I'm not a prodigy, I'm just..."

"An artist, right? You said it yourself. You loved art. You were even good enough at it to win a competition. That's something unique to you, isn't it?"

Alaric paused. That provincial competition in Straiton. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

He even got a scholarship out of it.

That his father rejected, of course.

"Art... is worthless," Alaric muttered, a cry that was barely above a whisper.

The statement came from years of his father's derision. The arts were frivolous, pointless for a heir. Only Thaumaturgy, politics, and academics mattered.

"Yet some cosmic existence decided to make you talented at it. While I do think that the wishful thinking of a meritocracy is sophistry, I also think that the universe—generally—doesn't make mistakes. In other words, I don't believe that you were born with that talent for no reason."

"..."

"Let's say hypothetically that you did become the best Thaumaturge in the Empire, but you did so through the Tome. Would you have been happy? If your happiness is truly reliant on other people's views of you, then I suppose you would have. I don't think that's true, though. If you don't actually like Thaumaturgy, then being the best in the Empire would only bring you a short burst of happiness. That feeling of being above others, I imagine, is pretty intoxicating. But… it'll never satisfy the hole in your heart, because that hole isn't filled by other people's expectations, but rather your own. You want to create beautiful things! You want to see beautiful things! That's who you are! So… you don't actually give a crap about Thaumaturgy."

Acacia hesitated, taking a deep breath before continuing. He wasn't used to talking this much, nor was he used to engaging in such a controversial topic.

"Let me say this, though. I don't think it's impossible for you to reach Elias and Leila. But, the amount of suffering and hard work you'll have to go through just to be on par with them is so absurdly hard that... only if you became something that wasn't human—something above that—would you possibly be able to do it. You have to ask yourself if you really want to go that far... and basically disregard the pleasures of life and what makes you human."

The Irregular simply shook his head.

"...I don't think you want to go that far, Alaric."

Silence fell over the room. Alaric's eyes were fixed on his hands, trembling slightly atop the hospital blanket.

"Why would you say that? Why would you tell me to give up and… accept mediocrity?"

"I didn't tell you to give up," Acacia replied, shaking his head yet again. "I told you to stop living someone else's definition of success. Whether it's your family's or society's. It's killing you. It nearly made you kill others."

"But the House of Ptolemy—"

"Will survive whether you become the greatest Thaumaturge or the greatest artist. Houses have survived worse than an heir with different talents."

Acacia's gaze drifted to the window where Windsor's windmills turned ceaselessly against the afternoon sky.

"The question is whether you will."

Alaric opened his mouth to argue, to defend his family's honor and traditions, to explain why everything Acacia was saying was naïve and simplistic. But the words died in his throat.

Instead, a different inquiry emerged—one that had been gnawing at him since he'd regained consciousness.

"Why did you save me?"

Acacia remained silent for a long moment, still watching the windmills. The mechanical rhythm of their turning seemed to hypnotize him.

"It was purely selfish," he admitted. "You remind me of someone I knew. Someone I utterly hated."

"Huh?"

"Hating someone is fun for a little while. It gives you purpose, direction. But it gets exhausting after a while. Carrying around that much anger... it weighs you down. So consider this my final conversation with that person."

The messy-haired boy spoke as if he were recounting a personal experience. Eventually, he turned his attention back to the scion lying on the bed.

"I don't understand." Alaric stared at him, bewildered.

This cold, logical, rational being who had systematically destroyed him and yet somehow built him up in the same breath. Who had defeated him utterly and then risked his life to save him. Who saw through him with such clarity that it was terrifying.

This boy was a walking contradiction, and Alaric Ptolemy was at a complete loss as to how to process any of it.

"Do you really think..." Alaric began, then stopped, afraid to give voice to the thought. "Do you really think I could live a life pursuing what I love... without the pressures of my family?"

"Dunno. You're the one who knows that answer, not me."

With that, Acacia Belmont rose from the windowledge.

"This is probably the last time we'll see each other," he said casually, as though discussing the weather. "After today, the IPA will be moving you to a holding facility once you're stable. Then after that, who knows?"

"Wait!"

Alaric called out to the contradiction walking towards the door.

"You saved my life twice! Once from the fire, and once just now. I don't know how to—"

"Don't thank me. I didn't save you out of kindness. I told you, it was purely selfish."

He pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor.

"Just... make it worth it."

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.

Alaric stared at the space where Acacia had been, feeling as though a storm had passed through the room. His rational mind insisted that what Acacia suggested was categorically impossible. He was the heir to the House of Ptolemy. His path was set from birth. To deviate would mean disgrace, disownment, and disaster.

And yet…

A seed of doubt had been planted. And doubt, by its very nature, could not exist without hope. The certainty that had guided his life—that had driven him to such desperate measures—now seemed less absolute.

The doubt that once existed, buried beneath layers of expectation and fear, had been unearthed by Acacia Belmont.

Alaric's vision blurred as tears welled up once more.

They were tears of release.

Release from the pressure of living a life that wasn't his own. Release from the burden of an identity not chosen.

Release from the shackles of an existence defined by the expectations of others.

And for the first time in his life, Alaric Ptolemy felt free.