I will always love you, Abraxas.

  Those words dripping with affection and grace had clung to the mind of the Black Knight Abraxas. Each strike of the blade, each sway of his limbs, was weighed down by an invisible force, a viscous liquid that drained the warrior with every struggle.

  His eyes darted about the land of Gran Pinitus. He could sense it. The filth. Its stench was too strong for him to ignore, yet, in a strange twist of fate, The Black Knight Abraxas could not ascertain the creature’s exact location.

  Something was in the way, muddling his senses. Was it magic? Was it his fractured mind? Or perhaps it was that lingering sensation of warmth and affection? The truth remained obscure despite Abraxas’s countless inquiries.

  “Ridiculous…” He spat with vitriol. “If you wish to play this ridiculous game, then so be it.”

  Continuing his search was pointless at this stage. The enemy would not reveal themselves on this empty proscenium. The next best choice for the Black Knight was rather simple. If he could not strike, then he would wait.

  There was no telling when the egg would hatch, but if it was merely a game of time, Abraxas would never lose.

  ———

  “Excuse me ma’am, have you seen a knight with black armor running about? He is a close associate of mine.”

  “Sir, have you seen a tall man with black armor around here?”

  “Hey kid, have you seen a scary looking guy around?”

  It had been a few hours since Ereth began his search for the Black Knight Abraxas. He inquired from men, women, and children from all walks of life. Ultimately, the search was fruitless, and no new information was unearthed.

  “Seriously…” Ereth said to himself, “how the hell does a guy like that just up and vanish? He sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  Understanding the futility of his actions, Ereth called off the search, deeming it a waste of time. If he could not find Abraxas, then he had no choice but to bide his time until the man chose to make himself known. It was frustrating, but inevitable.

  Coral red filled the evening sky. Children retreated to the comfort of their homes. Flickering city lights adorned street corners. Nightfall was coming, and with it, sin.

  Sin and virtue, though commonly believed to be opposed, were closely entwined concepts. One must sin to learn, and one must learn to abstain. It was a necessary force, an intrinsic aspect of the human experience, that should not be shunned, but understood.

  Such was the position of the Pinius Church, and it is here where Ereth finds himself.

  The boy was exhausted, stressed, and lacking in any jocund mood. It was the perfect environment for a young boy such as himself to indulge in sin out of impulse or destructive habit. Today, on a coral red evening, Ereth found himself at a local bar.

  Upon opening the oddly-heavy (likely broken) wooden door, the overwhelming smell of meat and drink permeated through the air, bombarding his senses. It was a mix of both sweet and sour aromas, the scent of freshly-made meals contrasting against men with repugnant odor and foul-smelling breath. It was by no means a pleasurable experience, but the mixture of ugly and beautiful elements, clean and dirty elements, roused the young man’s rebellious spirit.

  He ordered grilled Myrik fish with a baked potato, a side of asparagus, and Porterbarrel ale. The Myrik fish had a mild, slightly sweet, and neutral flavor with lean white meat. For the cheap price, it was a decent meal - nothing to write home about. Not much could be said about the baked potato and asparagus, but the Porterbarrel ale was particularly dull.

  The ale was served cold to mask the off-flavors (though it was largely unsuccessful), with a light, watery body. It wasn't bitter, but it wasn't particularly sweet either, and it lacked any of the complex aroma or flavor profile Ereth had tasted previously with Freid. It was inoffensive, irritatingly so. After just a few sips, the boy put down the drink with a disappointed expression.

  “I think I’m done with this. Thanks for the service.”

  He handed the waitress 12 silver coins as he stood and approached the broken wooden door. However, just moments before his leave, a sudden shift in the atmosphere occurred. Men bickered and laughed no longer. The clashing of utensils against ceramic plates had ceased. Their attention was redirected to a certain individual, a young man…or woman(?) around the age of 22, with a violin in their right hand and a bow in the other.

  Their face was both sharp and delicate, with eyes emanating the loving warmth of a maiden and the danger of a blue rose’s thorny stem. They were eyes of the devil. A beautiful, angelic devil. Men admired them, and women stared for far too long, yet neither seemed to understand the basis of their affection.

  One could mistake this place for a church with its overwhelming reverence and stifling silence.

  “...”

  After what seemed like centuries of frozen time, they began their piece. It opened with a controlled, almost melancholic drag with a focused tone. The phrases were lean and flowed gently into one another, a feat performed with consistent bow speed and dynamic control. They neither rushed nor dragged. Such was the product of perfect control. A meal lacking in excess.

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  The notes bounced and danced with the rhythmic character of a mazurka. It was dignified, noble, and almost romantic in mood. The pitched rose and rose, as though climbing a mountain, before returning to baseline. Once again, the pattern was played inversely - sinking and sinking until returning to a familiar baseline. The performer oscillated between peaks and depths. It gave the work a well-needed sense of contrast and dynamism.

  Then, the violin’s volume steadily lowered until the room was filled with silence once more.

  And then, an eruption!

  The pace quickened. The volume rose. The audience's attention was once more grabbed and thrown about in a whiplash of emotion and pace. It felt not lazy, but tempered. Each stroke of the bow was delivered with the sole intent to pierce the heart of the listener, dragging them along a poem without words; a grand tale of love.

  The performer of both feminine and masculine make played the final note, a stinger, and bowed before the captivated audience. Applause erupted from the crowd as they sang their words of praise to the performer.

  “Beautiful!” They cheered. “How brilliant! Give us more of that wondrous melody!”

  The performer did not meet the demands for an encore with words. They merely waved with an innocent expression before taking their leave through the back door.

  “...!”

  Ereth did not know what overcame him at that moment. It was a rather rude, odd, embarrassing showing, but he rushed towards the androgynous performer and grabbed them firmly by the wrist.

  “E-Excuse me…” Ereth asked

  “Yes?”

  “That song…it was Rachmaninoff, yes? Sergei Rachmaninoff.”

  In an instant, the performer’s neutral expression lit up with excitement.

  “You know Rachmaninoff? Are you a violinist, perchance?”

  “No, I am not. Though I know some of the basics, I could never come close to your expertise. I am more of an archivist, if you will. I am quite knowledgeable about the old world, you see, including music.”

  The performer pulled Ereth close enough to nearly touch lips.

  “Come, come now! Come with me! We must discuss. I have yet to meet a man such as yourself, who shares a common interest in the old.”

  “A-Alright!”

  They escorted Ereth to the second floor of the bar. Before him was a hallway with three doors, one on each side and one in the center. The performer turned, opened the left door, and beckoned Ereth along. He gladly obliged.

  “So,” said the performer, “What would you like to talk about? Classical music? Or perhaps artistry and paintings of the old world. I do quite enjoy Kreisler.”

  Ereth cleared his throat. “I have two questions, actually.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I apologize if this comes off as a bit uncouth…but are you a man or a woman?”

  “...huh?”

  Ereth avoided the performer's eyes, his pupils darting about the room.

  “Do forgive me, but it has been bothering me ever since I laid eyes on you. Your features are both sharp like a man and tender like a woman, though I believe it would be quite rude to assume.”

  “Pft-”

  “...”

  The performer let out a small chuckle before erupting in laughter. Tears ran down their faces, as though they had heard a great jest.

  “Ah, apologies,” said the performer. “It’s just odd, that’s all. Most people are too intimidated by my appearance to confront me, but you are one of only three people to ever ask about me so directly. You see, I do not particularly care for my identification. Some consider me a man, while others a woman; it truly matters not to me.”

  They slowly closed the distance between themselves and Ereth, enveloping him in a beguiling aura.

  “So tell me, how do you see me, Ereth?”

  “I…I am not sure.”

  “Well, that’s fine. It’s not like you’re forced to pick one or the other. That’d make life rather dull, wouldn’t it?”

  The performer extended their hand as a greeting. “My name is Orpheus. I do hope we will become great friends.”