Last Legacy seasonal fanzine

The end of year was a strange time in Blackthorn Hall.

To everyone else in Porrima, the ‘new year’ entailed forgiveness before moving on— the seasons starting anew. In Blackthorn Hall, however, like the bodies kept in its mausoleum— time seemed to be at a standstill. The sole inhabitant of the house, the sour-faced Escell did not care much for the festivities. For one, he was irreligious. Secondly, he could throw a better party.

…

Even though he didn't celebrate, it didn't stop the influx of gifts delivered to his doorstep. Piled high in his office was a mountain of presents and greeting cards. Most of them came from colleagues, the ones that worked alongside him in the capitol.

Their offerings were polite and shallow. Jewellery. Books. Alcohol. He'd keep the liquor and tell Withers to distribute the rest to the staff later. He had no use for most of them anyway.

He takes Florian's gift out of the pile. A fishing rod fashioned out of blackened steel, ribbon clumsily wrapped around the hilt (an afterthought).

A terrible gift.

Escell smoothed the cold metal with his fingers, testing the weight of it in his hands. He hadn't visited the seaside in what, a decade? Let alone went fishing for ‘fun’. He was too busy. He had no time. He didn't care much now for the wind against his cheek, or the spray of the ocean so reminiscent of home.

He didn't like to think of the home he left. Vela was his past, buried decades ago. It was cruel of Florian to make him remember a place he couldn't revisit.

There was a time where they knew each other better, he thinks. A time where he allowed the other to be privy to his secrets— never left him fumbling in the dark. Maybe he hadn't meant to be cruel. Perhaps… Florian's gift was a reflection of those warmer memories.

His gaze flickers to the frame he kept at his desk— of a younger them, him holding a prize catch, Florian stifling a laugh. The picture itself was taken at a low angle, their figures blurred slightly as the photographer struggled with the buttons. A little Scylla had taken that photo. He'd never bothered to take it out after the split.

It was still something he could never revisit.

His lips press into a thin line as he flips the note attached to the handle of the rod:

‘Don't work too hard.

Join us sometimes.

The sea is warmer

where Scylla's ship sails.

It'll be good for your health.’

He turns the frame downward and uncorks a bottle from the pile. A less-than-desirable Syrah— shittier than Scylla's kind, but he was saving that for a more miserable occasion. The liquid burns as he gulps it down. Join them. As if.

A laugh startles him from outside his window, reverberating from the courtyard. He stands behind the curtain and glances down.

Two… no, three figures clad in the same ugly red sweaters stand in the courtyard. Escell blinks, contemplating if it was just a trick of the eye, but no— Felix is there, standing next to Scylla as she laughs at the wilted plant he'd gifted Florian. His back is turned to him. Whether he was laughing, or frowning, Escell had no privilege of knowing.

… It was reassuring to know his son was still alive. Ten years of radio silence could be unnerving at times.

It was nice to know they were still on good terms with each other.

He wasn't content with being an outsider (ironic because he was the only one in the house), but if it had to be—

Florian calls out, waving his hand up at him: “Are you joining us!”

He startles from his thoughts, mouth twitching before it settles into his usual scowl. He narrows his eyes at the other man before he slinks back into the shadows, leaving the question unanswered.

He always did that with Florian.

So many questions left unanswered.

He picks up his peacock feather quill and starts writing, ink gliding across parchment like skates on ice. He could ask for forgiveness. But he won't.

‘Maybe next time.’

Yes. Maybe next year he'll join them.

If only to know them again.

‘Happy New Years.'

A/N: 😂 fixated on the worst character ever (i hate him)