The shadows slink where light once lay,

  Faith falters, what it held at bay,

  Ambition turns gold of dreams to ashes grey.

  The sky rots to red, the ravens cry,

  Burning wings will blot out the wounded sky,

  As fell things whisper, “the light, must die.”

  Madness sings, betrayal at its height,

  It steals the warmth, devours the light,

  Turning brightest day, to endless night.

  The cold winds howl through broken halls,

  Dark murmurs scratch upon the walls,

  Faith grows thin, dark gods’ calls.

  Yet through the black, one spark remains,

  A fragile thing, that still sustains,

  For dawn will bloom, and break the chains.

  So, when darkness creeps, and hides the shore,

  When cold dread whispers, “hope no more,”

  Let them hear how lions roar.

  -Our Time, a poem by Reginald Archibald Patrick of clan MacAllister, Knight Captain of the Lions of Almaric and Suzerain of Caerleon Mòr (“Great Fort of the Lions”).

  =======================================================================================================================================

  Sleep.

  The most wondrous time of the year. You know, other than Christmas. Birthdays. Christmas in July. Weddings, or whatever nonsensical occasion people will think of next.

  For me, sleep has always been wonderful. Let me, a humble sleep advocate, Ambassador of the Horizontal Arts and Chief Executive of REM Affairs, tell you about the wonders of sleep.

  First, sleep is the ultimate do-nothing superpower. You don’t have to do anything, but you get refreshed brain cells. It doesn’t scream at you or tell you to do anything you don’t want to do, make you stressed out with bullshit, or deal with horseshit other dipshits throw your way.

  And the best part?

  You do it every day! Still not convinced yet? Well tough shit.

  I’m doing it right now — is what I’d like to say — but oddly enough, I seem to be awake — well, not awake-awake, more like stuck somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland. Of course, awareness didn’t come immediately and certainly not with fanfare.

  It came in stages, like a cat wearing socks, slowly tiptoeing, moving inch by inch, passing from the deepest depths of slumber, and now stuck here in the shallows of semi-wakefulness.

  Weird.

  Did I leave the cat outside?

  Wait.

  I don’t have a cat; I have two dogs.

  Did I forget something? Usually when I am semiconscious, I must have forgotten something. Usually. Maybe.

  Did I leave the stove on?

  No, we ate out last night. My memory is fickle. I know the information is there, but I can’t remember.

  Wait, where even is here?

  Hmm.

  Wait.

  I try to think about it.

  I am—well—in a comfortable bed, curled up while covered by a blanket. My head is resting on two pillows, both unusually soft. I think that was the reason I used two.

  What else.

  I can feel my toes and all of my appendages—all seems fine—so, no problem there.

  The room is cold, so either the air-conditioning is feeling dramatic, or a ghost with room temperature control issues has moved in.

  Either way, I like it. Both are doing their jobs properly.

  Okay, there are two problems right now: one, what am I doing? And two, I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten.

  Is… is that normal? Is that even how language works? I think I’ve forgotten how that works as well.

  Wait — hold on — no, not two. Three problems. The most important one: Why am I not sleeping!?

  I get — what? — a luxurious 10-hour sleep window every day, yet somehow, I still can’t even manage to speedrun unconsciousness.

  Ah, forget it. If one can’t remember it, it probably wasn’t important, ancient wisdom by Confucius, or the History Channel or something.

  With that thought dominating my mind, and before true sensation comes to me, I attempted the noble act of reverse-yeeting my consciousness back down to dreamland. The low thrumming of the AC unit acted like a mechanical lullaby, gently rocking me back to sleep.

  Ah, bliss.

  BANG!

  And it’s gone.

  The door to the room flew open. Someone burst in, screaming bloody murder, as if auditioning for a war film no one asked to be in—including them.

  “Nii-san! Wake up!”

  Is that—my brother?

  “Wake up, damn it! We’re running late!”

  Ah yes, definitely my brother. The anger in his voice is a dead giveaway.

  I can hear his footfalls drawing near the bed, each step delivering a dramatic punctuation mark in the legally ambiguous span of time of my holy slumber.

  “It’s nearly 9:30, we’re supposed to leave at 10!”

  SSSHHK!

  Someone opened the curtains, light flooded the room, and, somehow, pierced my closed eyes, which is impressive considering they were still shut tight, refusing to acknowledge the sun’s unwelcome enthusiasm.

  I curled up further, pulling the sheets over my face, like a sentient sushi roll avoiding all responsibility.

  “Wake up!” my brother repeated as he unceremoniously yanked my blankets away from my body.

  And just like that, I am again offered up, blanket-less and betrayed, exposing me once again to the enthusiastic light of the yellow devil blazing smugly in the sky.

  Sigh.

  I suppose I would have to talk to him at some point; fate demands it, or at least basic social etiquette.

  “But I’m not awake yet,” I murmured, though my eyes were still closed.

  “Screw that! Get the hell up!” he all but screamed, seizing one of my defenseless pillows and launching it at my delicate, unsuspecting face.

  Despite the pillow being soft, it somehow transcended its original state and became a weapon hard enough to make my dignity flinch.

  “Uuuuurrrrrrrrgugh,” I groaned as I got up. Disoriented as I was, I slowly opened my eyes and looked outside.

  Like a badly timed movie montage, everything came rushing back: the memories of why I am here in the capital city of this fine bureaucratic circus of a country, and of course the trip that I didn’t want to have nor asked for, but life insisted on giving me, like an overly aggressive travel agent.

  My brother, seeing that I was technically vertical and therefore "awake," nodded to himself.

  “Hurry up, 30 minutes,” he declared before leaving my room.

  As if time were a non-negotiable concept, and I hadn’t just been reborn from the depths of dreamland.

  I suppose I did a good job at forgetting my current predicament, at least for a brief moment. The magic of sleep.

  Then again, an actual stumble straight into coma would be enjoyable at this rate.

  I sighed again as I got my toothbrush out from my bag and then stumbled into the shower.

  I, a reluctant soul, entering a baptism of water I didn’t sign up for, was trying to speedrun the ancient art of getting dressed in under thirty minutes. Apparently, my life now has a leaderboard, and I’m close to or in the last place.

  I suppose an introduction is in order. My name is Marc Aira Reyvidaneo. You can call me Vi. I am currently in a hotel in the capital city of a certain country. As for what country, I will give you time to guess.

  It’s in the Philippines. Nope sorry, I lied, I didn’t give you time to guess. I’m telling a story dammit.

  The person who threw the pillow at my face with the precision of a heat-seeking missile powered by the pure essence of sibling spite was my brother William Seijiro.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  If you have been paying attention to our names, you may have guessed that we have unique-sounding ones. If you guessed that we are part Japanese, then have a gold star; you are correct.

  Our mother is Filipino, while our father is Japanese.

  And as to why you are reading, listening or maybe even watching this book in— well, in English, it’s because half of the time, we speak in English in our household the other half is spent on Japanese.

  Sometimes broken, sometimes mixed English and Japanese. Why? Because it’s funnier that way. The only time we speak in Tagalog is when we are with our Filipino friends or in school.

  Moving on.

  Because we’re part Japanese and our father is quite strict on such matters, we were required to learn the appropriate language. As if growing up on a steady diet of anime and ramen wasn’t enough.

  I got my N2 level last year, while my brother is still at N3. The Japanese parts in our names even have proper kanji by virtue of our father.

  As far as nanori go, or I mean the unique or non-standard readings of kanji characters used primarily in personal names, the kanji in my name, Aira, literally means purple orchid, while my brother Seijiro means conquering second son.

  You gave your precious firstborn a name that just means pretty flower, and then turned around and named the second one like he’s about to lead a military campaign to unite Japan. Balance, I guess? Thanks dad!

  I thought it was a trend that people named their child after a thing they like. Even in anime, there are names like, Levi, or Louis, or Cowgir-.

  Anyway, as to how a union came to be, well, Kazehiko Kagamiya and Annamaria Reyvidaneo are both smart people, both are civil engineers, and both met when they were working in Singapore.

  However, because my father wanted a large house and a large plot of land to live on, they decided to settle in the Philippines. Apparently, he had no attachments to Japan. And, as a sign of devotion towards my mother, he decided to take on her last name instead of the other way around.

  Our father’s parents are long gone, and though we still have relatives abroad, our situation when it comes to nationality is—complicated.

  See, our father is Japanese, but Japan doesn’t have dual citizenship, while under the Philippine government, dual citizenship is allowed. Meaning our situation is weird and complicated, so we don’t think about it much.

  Though there are still many pointed questions about such topics from schoolmates and friends. Some turn into jokes others into fights, but such is life.

  I’m 20 years old, well, turning 20 this October in the year of our lord 2019. It was a time when Wi-Fi still dropped randomly and world ending existential crises were just beginning to materialize properly.

  My brother just turned 18 last February 14.

  Now it’s currently the 12th of April in the country.

  If you were to describe the Philippines, it’s alright, I guess, I could point you to a thousand videos praising the country or better yet google it if you want, you don't have to take my word for it.

  But I would describe this place as 3 Hs: happy, humid, hot—in short, a coffee shop that is cosplaying as a greenhouse with Wi-Fi.

  Considering our heritage, unlike most of our countrymen, we are taller than the national average.

  I am 176 cm, genetics, I guess—taller than my brother, who stands at only 170 cm.

  Our father is as tall as my brother and our mother is 166 cm. Also, I am not using freedom units, so I apologize to people who do not understand the metric system of measurement.

  As for skin color, if you care about such things or matters, unlike our countrymen, we—and by that, I meant me, my brother and father—are fair enough to be considered white, but not white enough to unlock the full privileges of Caucasian-hood, like the awkward middle seat of skin tones.

  You could also say fair skinned, but why would you choose the less funny option?

  In my mother’s case, she has a medium complexion that doesn’t look tan, but tans easily, maybe due to genetics? Considering that our surname doesn’t sound Filipino at all; it sounds Iberian. That and she instilled the need to bring umbrellas wherever we go, which was drilled into her by her own parents considering she is their only daughter among five siblings.

  It’s either one or the other. Just so you know, the Philippines doesn’t do ‘one-shade-fits-all’.

  For our frames, sorry to disappoint, but the way I look, well, I’m proudly on the big side, not obese though, but still fat enough to make our jaw line circular. Same for my brother and father.

  My mother on the other hand, has been fit ever since I can remember. Like she’s a secret member of the ‘Forever Toned’ cult; she doesn’t work out, but she stays fit. Which is weird to me, maybe she uses witchcraft?

  People have commented that we would look handsome if we lost weight. What the hell do they know? It’s not as if beauty were something you could unlock like a skill tree, then drop ten pounds, suddenly gain cheekbones and romantic subplots.

  We got big, sure, due to eating — no surprise or any grand mystery there.

  We come from a slightly well-off family, the kind that doesn’t throw money around meaninglessly but has enough to keep us comfortable. We take trips every 2 years or so to Singapore to visit Father. A week or two in between school time for some rest and relaxation.

  And Singapore? Singapore is a dangerous place for people who love food. If you know where to look, every corner smells like something fried, steamed, or grilled, especially at night and we have years to know the ins and outs of that country.

  We mostly stay in Pasir Ris, near the coast, which was quiet and breezy, but there are some weekends when we’d cross into Malaysia. That was even worse, food-wise. Or better, depending on your point of view.

  So maybe we ate a lot — and that made us heavy, sure — but what’s important is that we ate together, and we grew closer as a family. No repressed emotions or any kind of drama for this household.

  And every time we got back home, we brought back more than souvenirs. We would have more than one recipe to try out for ourselves. Some we tried exactly as we remembered them. Others we ruined gloriously in the kitchen.

  Mother would get angry, of course, about the mess we would make. Either way, it became tradition: bring back a taste of somewhere else and turn it into something ours.

  As for how we can afford our trips, well, our wealth did not come from inheritance—my mother was a farmer’s daughter while my father was orphaned at seven years old.

  Whatever we have now didn’t fall into our laps; it was earned, one day at a time.

  My mother works for the government these days. Long hours, not 9 to 5 like in western countries, but 8 to 5 without noon break and includes 2 hour commute everyday. The no noon break is a government policy I kid you not, you can go look that up. They can still eat lunch but no breaks, just work.

  According to her, it’s a small sacrifice she made so she could raise us without too many concerns.

  However, our father is now a mid-level manager who is due for a promotion next year, or so he says, usually with a grin that dares you to doubt him.

  Usually directed towards our mother who would roll her eyes at him. These two had been competitors once upon a time, so I suppose this is also some kind of tradition—at least for them.