Day 47: Sun Room [4th Shift]

[forgot_it_all]

[For Yuna!Fish and chips weren't his favorite thing ever, but he did make sure to eat it all. He just liked to think of the fish as the Filet'o Fish without the bun and it made it easier to eat. The french fries had been pretty well cleaned off and he'd even managed a bit of fruit, although he avoided the oranges and other sour things his nurse

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[finalwitch]

The blurring sensation of bewilderment hung thick in the air, like a mantra to relieve a curse. Only this proved opposite: a curse to end a prayer. Had the meeting been fated from the start or a mere luck of the draw? Ange did not know. She couldn't begin to reason out the transition of events. Perhaps this was the kakera Bernkastel promised to search for, that one-in-a-trillion lifetimes of a chance. Perhaps she had really died in the fall, splattered her grey matter across pavement and glass, and arrived in Heaven.

Or Hell. Either could work.

The chance to relive wholesome exercise was instantly rejected, and the young woman was led to the Sun Room. A few patients were already milling about the area, but she gave them no attention. Instead, Ange sank into the nearest vacant couch, her hair over her face, her eyes to the floor. Names from lunch fell in and out of conscious thought as she took note of the implications. Ange. Battler. Greta. Onii-chan.She could wring her hand at the decision. Even a fake Battler deserved her true

[purpletaint]

A daze. This was how time had passed. Slinking silently through the enshadowed and darkened hallways of his mind; the places forgotten by time, the spaces filled with nothing, for nothing remained. He could blink away the tiredness, but nothing would change. Nothing remained except a startling similarity between reality and dreams. All the happened during the nights here had become something questioned. Something considered

[finalwitch]

The path to introspect severed mid-step, and Ange leveled her vision to the one who'd addressed her. This "one" proved small, with an unusual head of white hair and eyes of violet. She blinked, mildly surprised. Now why did that strike familiar? His words, too. There existed a quality she'd known prior to this encounter. Like they had spoken previous--

Ah. Right. He had to be the instigator of the hangman games on the bulletin. The boy with over six hundred not-siblings and two true. Seemingly like her. Kind of

[purpletaint]

Memory had held. Something that had remained stable in the flux. Again, his head tilted opposite, and then the boy sat with no prelude, the couch shifting under his weight. There was something curious about her mentality, but she had seemed curious enough as it was. This was simply another ideal, to go hand in hand with rigging his games. He had never gotten mad about that. A part of him was delighted. He couldn't tell you why.

All this slid by, silence settling like a shroud as his mind worked against constraints he himself had placed. Hansel and Gretal. Bread crumbs. A trail to lead. A witch that devoured. Witch?

"Witch?" he murmured, an echo. "Perhaps warlock instead. Oath-breaker, blood-betrayer." Oh, fiery destroyer of hearts still beating. The boy leaned forward, chin on hands, elbows on knees, to copy the girl and stare at the floor. "Perhaps I have gotten lost along the way."

[finalwitch]

Ange smirked at the comment, albeit the expression lacked as much mirth as it held cynicism. For someone to speak in this manner implied a broken heart, a suffocating spirit. No wonder this boy's words read differently: he was without. As to what, she had a few conjectures.

"Then you're lucky to have met me," Ange returned, the sarcasm seeping momentarily into her tone. No harm was meant by the words, only a simple thought: he was in company of one who also happened to be lost. The young woman canted a head and watched him through her lashes. "You're younger than I expected."

Which did not surprise her. Not really. She had been six when she reached this state; Albedo had to be a few years older than that.

[purpletaint]

Both comments held amusement, something darker in the tones. "Oh?" he wondered. "Are you to lead me out of the dark?" The boy smiled then, sharp but not unfriendly. "But I'm not your cross to bear. You have your own, from what I've deduced

[finalwitch]

The first of the comments stung, though Ange hadn't a clue as to why. A residual reaction from seeing ghosts and witches, maybe. It hurt to listen to, and if left unchecked, her smile might have escalated to laughter.

But a red-haired brother caught the corner of her eye, and all amusement died within. He appeared occupied in exchanging words with a fellow patient, someone who didn't at all look familiar. Someone, she hoped, who would distract him from the unpleasantness of lunch. Ange straightened in her seat and brushed aside her hair. She let the smirk fall to nothing, let the boy understand she was sobering.

"That's right," Ange began. "We're just crossing paths. But you know--" There was always an exception. "--a traveler's most useful advice comes from other travelers." She shrugged, as if saying, Maybe, maybe not. There might be gain; there might be loss. It would depend on their interpretation

[purpletaint]

Losing count seemed oddly appropriate--he could lose count of injuries in the same way; he would lose count of deaths the same in the days of future past. It didn't matter. Age was so seldom graced by appearance, and hadn't that been proven true. Albedo allowed the silence that rose, took a breath, and placed a hand across his face. (See no evil.) The dark could comfort like nothing else would. There was a dying in this, but little choice remained.

"Advice?" he wondered, his voice copying her expression; sobering and losing tones that seldom vanished. There was a lost of hope heard, something old in it. Albedo had lost hope long before this place--all this institute served was memory and truth and driving one further along the path in front of then. "Should I tell you riddles, or will you lay words at my feet?"

There was something harsh in that, but nothing was directed at the girl who escaped the witch. All he had been hearing was words. From twin and sibling... From a friend gone. From another twin, and another who knew loss, and

[finalwitch]

The question reawakened her sardonic nature. For once, she wanted nothing more than to objectify the circumstance and tear apart the illusions, the soft underbelly of lies built within. They were patients in a mental institute, broken and unnerved by things that should be of no consequence to regular people. Because, frankly, they were not true--not in her case, at least.

Still, Ange kept cordial. She didn't have the whole story on this one, after all, and the familiarity in him tasted bitter. Not to mention...

"Whatever you want," she answered, blunt. "I'll respond in kind." Her eyes slid to the side and for a long minute, the young woman watched him once more. "But I admit, I'm curious. You have siblings."

The source of her wonder was obvious: Tell me about them.

[purpletaint]

The giggle that returned her words left much to be desired, weak and self-depreciating. It was funny, though. He'd repeat; irony would hold the place that life should. No matter where he was or who he was currently conversing with, his siblings came up. Now, and with Ritsuka... Should his question, instead, be if he was that utterly transparent

[finalwitch]

Despite the boy's poetic inclinations, his words were not at all difficult to decipher. He had a twin, whose fire and blood rang closer the state of Rubedo. The youngest? Nigredo. Red, white, and black. Their creators had such a terrible sense of humor.

Ah. Ange tapped at her chin, observation in analysis. Maria had written about the stages in her grimoire. Not as extensively as the witch Beatrice and her Seven Stakes of Purgatory, but there had been enough regarding The Great Work to render some consideration. Along with Jung's comparison to the evolution of self and Albedo's revealing depictions, she had a fair idea on the nature of these siblings.

Names, as they say, were more than simple labels.

But it seemed the child had yet to finish. Ange had no reason to dissuade; whatever he wanted meant nothing else. "Go on," she said.

[purpletaint]

There was something like a breath caught in this; something inherently wrong but altogether necessary. Somewhere he knew he was breathing normally, still he felt like he was gasping, choking for air in a world in which there was none. The words themselves had freed something--words a spell? He had never thought so until this moment. Go on?

Albedo looked at her now, eyes widening wildly. The light behind his eyes caught and flashed iridescence. "Go on?" he echoed, words disbelieving. "What shall I say?"

But the boy was already caught, his fate turned over to the truth spilling out in the simplest of ways. The day had been too much, too long, and the night before as well. And before then, and before that as well! What to say? The words had already came. "A million tales I could tell." (I will speak to you in parables; I will utter hidden things."I, a mistake. My other heart, the perfect weapon. The third, a careful fail-safe placed to hinder and destroy us if we become too much." The words were thrown with sharpness but no heat. His

[finalwitch]

She could only supply a candid answer; it was not in her nature to do otherwise: "You'll know what to say." Those without had nothing, no million tales to choose among and share. This boy was the very opposite-- Here, she decided, was the contrasting point between them.

Ange listened quietly, making no note or interruption. There existed none she required clarification on; Albedo had a remarkable talent for laying everything bare. Everything, except one. Ah, this couldn't be allowed; she liked complete answers. Her vision slid to the side.

"You mentioned three. You explained two." A pause. "There is a story with your youngest." It didn't require confirmation. The boy had hinted as much himself.

[purpletaint]

Something shaking continued to shudder, a forceful silent breaking. All spoken... Had been nothing but true. Nothing but what was and had been. And all of it... Came to nothing. Nothing was all that remained. No tears showed, but his eyes widened even more. The hand's open palm moved up to grab at his hair. What was he doing? What was all this? What was going on?Her words grated, touched delicate and splintered. Awareness rose into being as he glanced fearfully towards her, then fell away all the same. What had been... What was.... "Three to two," he murmured like a chant. "And then two to three. And three to one. And then?... Where? One to two to three to none. Soon enough, at least." Already. Too much

[finalwitch]

Ange would admit the details were sketchy at best, but this was a case left without specifics. Ah, and was she glad? More than she would confess. Another's tragedy had hardened the view against her own; since the instant a dead brother came to life, she felt a resolve strengthen within

[purpletaint]

Dying. The world held and shook, freezing him. Dying? No... No. Albedo couldn't even laugh at the irony. Nigredo had died, to return, and he would die, if another heart's words were true. Dying. It seemed far too slow for them, when their deaths would be abrupt. It seemed far too accurate, for their timelines counting down each second to the cutoff already in motion. (He imagined he could see it sometimes; late at night at the foot of their beds--the cells breaking down, dying away, the process of aging, of entropy consuming them--But on the whole, it was maybe that he was the one truly dying. Hadn't he said that, half-forgotten to Rubedo that night? Hadn't he claimed everything he hadn't meant to say