Night 53: Solitary Room 1
{Rubedo might come back.}
That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Words said at the break of day, tinged with irony and dramatics. And what had happened that next day? What had accumulated from knowledge and belief?
His little brother had been proven right. His twin had returned, lacking recollection of the reasons and whys.
And everything had turned to rot.
And everything had already been well on the way.
“I don’t want to fight you!”
Empty promises and callous lies, burned into admission by his twin’s own behavior, his gleeful wanting for battle, and for Albedo’s own demise. Here, again, beginning again, Rubedo had begun to lie to him, lie again in ways that fell flat against further knowledge. He hadn’t meant to leave him behind? But it was Albedo’s own fault, was it not? These two statements held too high a contrast.
Time has passed, marked only by needles and heartbeats, and darkness became a natural resolution to a sound fate. The passage of moments was unbearable, and soon became unnecessary. Like so much else. It had been two hours. It had been two days.
There was an echoing, within him and without, and if he reached out he would only find. The link was cut for now, Albedo’s being refusing any contact more with the only two that could harm him, and sense slipped away as soundlessly. Only darkness. Only a brief pinching. Only a constant pounding.
Only a Song.
It was quiet, unlike the night he moved as he had before. It echoed dimly within his mind, attempting to remind him of things he once knew. Security. Confidence. Reasons for movement. None of these pressed through to him; none of these affected as they once had. They would again, in time. They may have now but for the sedation. But it remained a quiet sound, a comforting presence at the back of his mind. An old friend, newly awakened, come to comfort him through his trials.
And time passed. And all was forgotten. And all was remembered. A noise had begun to echo from the room Albedo was closed in. A wordless mimicry of what had undulated around his body. For any who had heard it, it was obvious what it was. It was obvious what it meant.
Madness. Enlightenment. There really wasn’t much of a difference, was there?
There was a delicacy to the Song; a stumbling child’s tone matched with the patience and care of the most devoted of lovers. He never chose what he devoted himself to, did he? Rubedo was fated, and he hadn’t really had any choice here, had he? There was no complaining, for either really, even as he understood his pain was accentuated by the fact he loved his twin enough to kill him. Even as he understood that Nigredo had once wished to kill him for his taint, that at the very least it had crossed his mind.
And where was his little brother now? Playing it up with the eldest? Or maybe, things would remain as they were, but what did that leave? Nigredo alone, then, and Albedo the one who abandoned.
There wasn’t a choice, really. As unfair as it was, Nigredo would understand. Might hate him for it, but he would understand. The youngest always did. He saw the things the others missed.
But Albedo still held his secrets, lock and key, better than any other. He knew this, would cackle at it. And what had he held? Dark and earth, the bitter release of graves. A plot and a promise, of a conscious attempt to be tainted, of a desire for death from the one he loved most. And most secret. Most held. Unable to be touched or looked upon. Was a girl. Moss-green eyes and earthen hair. And blood. Blood portrayed in a place that shouldn’t reflect the effect. She had died from a brain tumor. The doctors said. And no one would ever know. Ever know. No one would know but Albedo. How she died. Why she died.
Why had she died?
There was something there but it slid away.
And what had changed? He had ceased his compulsion after that third secret. There was no point and no meaning. And his desire for his own demise? Still there and willing--he had almost moved to allow the monsters to consume his flesh nights past after all. A want and a promise denied him such. He promised to be near Nigredo. Wanted to meet Rubedo again, for them to fight as they had often been denied. For something like completion.
But even the half-assed version of their war had accumulated in what Albedo could not abide. Perhaps in time, years, a decade, fourteen years, Albedo would truly want that desire with all of his being. Revel in Rubedo tearing him apart like he had imagined. But the truth of the matter was that even a twelve-year-old encompassed by knowledge and temptation and taint was still twelve, and having the one you most love look upon you with utter distain and hate and wish for your demise was anything but wanted. He had still loved him. Albedo had. He had still wanted Rubedo to want him, to love him, to hold him and not leave again. Albedo had been childish, and full of hopes.
None yet remained. None had survived the past weeks of examples set forth before him. The fact of his twin? Was reduced to the undeniable fact of Rubedo’s hatred. Of his words and actions, and the future simplified into Rubedo claiming that he killed him.
And now he was here again. And Albedo’s want only broke halfway. While Rubedo was not here, it was possible to forget, for a while. To cease remembrance of betrayals unaccounted. To try to not remember. To not recall. And now he had returned. Like nothing had happened. Again, speaking softly, denying wants. Albedo had learned. Those were only preludes to what remained as true. Rubedo would scream his hatred again, try to play at murder again, and Albedo could die in this place. Albedo could die here.
Albedo might let him.
There was something in this, something fleeting and permanent enough to cement in Albedo’s psyche, but it was something that echoed and faded, cooling, leaving little more than a doll, crooning a Song to a missing lover. There was darkness, the memory of needles, and a double-beat. It had been two hours. It had been two days.
That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? Words said at the break of day, tinged with irony and dramatics. And what had happened that next day? What had accumulated from knowledge and belief?
His little brother had been proven right. His twin had returned, lacking recollection of the reasons and whys.
And everything had turned to rot.
And everything had already been well on the way.
“I don’t want to fight you!”
Empty promises and callous lies, burned into admission by his twin’s own behavior, his gleeful wanting for battle, and for Albedo’s own demise. Here, again, beginning again, Rubedo had begun to lie to him, lie again in ways that fell flat against further knowledge. He hadn’t meant to leave him behind? But it was Albedo’s own fault, was it not? These two statements held too high a contrast.
Time has passed, marked only by needles and heartbeats, and darkness became a natural resolution to a sound fate. The passage of moments was unbearable, and soon became unnecessary. Like so much else. It had been two hours. It had been two days.
There was an echoing, within him and without, and if he reached out he would only find. The link was cut for now, Albedo’s being refusing any contact more with the only two that could harm him, and sense slipped away as soundlessly. Only darkness. Only a brief pinching. Only a constant pounding.
Only a Song.
It was quiet, unlike the night he moved as he had before. It echoed dimly within his mind, attempting to remind him of things he once knew. Security. Confidence. Reasons for movement. None of these pressed through to him; none of these affected as they once had. They would again, in time. They may have now but for the sedation. But it remained a quiet sound, a comforting presence at the back of his mind. An old friend, newly awakened, come to comfort him through his trials.
And time passed. And all was forgotten. And all was remembered. A noise had begun to echo from the room Albedo was closed in. A wordless mimicry of what had undulated around his body. For any who had heard it, it was obvious what it was. It was obvious what it meant.
Madness. Enlightenment. There really wasn’t much of a difference, was there?
There was a delicacy to the Song; a stumbling child’s tone matched with the patience and care of the most devoted of lovers. He never chose what he devoted himself to, did he? Rubedo was fated, and he hadn’t really had any choice here, had he? There was no complaining, for either really, even as he understood his pain was accentuated by the fact he loved his twin enough to kill him. Even as he understood that Nigredo had once wished to kill him for his taint, that at the very least it had crossed his mind.
And where was his little brother now? Playing it up with the eldest? Or maybe, things would remain as they were, but what did that leave? Nigredo alone, then, and Albedo the one who abandoned.
There wasn’t a choice, really. As unfair as it was, Nigredo would understand. Might hate him for it, but he would understand. The youngest always did. He saw the things the others missed.
But Albedo still held his secrets, lock and key, better than any other. He knew this, would cackle at it. And what had he held? Dark and earth, the bitter release of graves. A plot and a promise, of a conscious attempt to be tainted, of a desire for death from the one he loved most. And most secret. Most held. Unable to be touched or looked upon. Was a girl. Moss-green eyes and earthen hair. And blood. Blood portrayed in a place that shouldn’t reflect the effect. She had died from a brain tumor. The doctors said. And no one would ever know. Ever know. No one would know but Albedo. How she died. Why she died.
Why had she died?
There was something there but it slid away.
And what had changed? He had ceased his compulsion after that third secret. There was no point and no meaning. And his desire for his own demise? Still there and willing--he had almost moved to allow the monsters to consume his flesh nights past after all. A want and a promise denied him such. He promised to be near Nigredo. Wanted to meet Rubedo again, for them to fight as they had often been denied. For something like completion.
But even the half-assed version of their war had accumulated in what Albedo could not abide. Perhaps in time, years, a decade, fourteen years, Albedo would truly want that desire with all of his being. Revel in Rubedo tearing him apart like he had imagined. But the truth of the matter was that even a twelve-year-old encompassed by knowledge and temptation and taint was still twelve, and having the one you most love look upon you with utter distain and hate and wish for your demise was anything but wanted. He had still loved him. Albedo had. He had still wanted Rubedo to want him, to love him, to hold him and not leave again. Albedo had been childish, and full of hopes.
None yet remained. None had survived the past weeks of examples set forth before him. The fact of his twin? Was reduced to the undeniable fact of Rubedo’s hatred. Of his words and actions, and the future simplified into Rubedo claiming that he killed him.
And now he was here again. And Albedo’s want only broke halfway. While Rubedo was not here, it was possible to forget, for a while. To cease remembrance of betrayals unaccounted. To try to not remember. To not recall. And now he had returned. Like nothing had happened. Again, speaking softly, denying wants. Albedo had learned. Those were only preludes to what remained as true. Rubedo would scream his hatred again, try to play at murder again, and Albedo could die in this place. Albedo could die here.
Albedo might let him.
There was something in this, something fleeting and permanent enough to cement in Albedo’s psyche, but it was something that echoed and faded, cooling, leaving little more than a doll, crooning a Song to a missing lover. There was darkness, the memory of needles, and a double-beat. It had been two hours. It had been two days.