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 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.

Should the events of lunch and their aforementioned acquaintanceship had never occurred, Ange might have greeted in sarcasm. Outside of Maria and Sakutaro--even then, they hadn't counted--her experience with children was next to nil. Her crassness could not be withheld for the sake of age.

As it was, she simply shifted her attention back to the floor. "Good," she replied, quiet in turn. "You might have fallen into company with a witch." And they couldn't have that, now could they?

She gestured mindlessly to an empty seat, as if telling him to quit standing around.

[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."

And how that held. Those two parts warred inside, the misery and hard amusement. Giving into either would be folly, and Albedo had still enough mind to realize that. Caring, however, was slowly depleting. He would stop treading the line soon, and simply slip into one or the other. And he would no longer care. For he held his own secrets, had dug his own graves, and in the weighted moment after, had realized that he was to hold his own hand. This had only become more apparent. Unconsciously his jaw set.

"Age has become like truth," he intoned blandly, unaware of if he even believed what he was saying. "It's relative." The word slid past his lips without warning, and he laughed, panicked, before calming. His fists clenched on his knees. "I've become both twelve years and as old as human civilization in turn. And you lady? Do you call your age your own?"

[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.

The older girl paused as consideration was given. "Twelve and thousands, huh?" Now there was an age that fit, more so than her earlier guess. Didn't puberty kill some sensitivity? Ange frowned at the thought. "I can't say on mine. I lost count."

[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 even from one who knew languages and the loss of a brother. And none of it was an answer that he could take in full. It was not as simple as that. It was not as straightforward. And it was, part of him realized. Past his own denial, simplicity graced the place where Albedo would not touch.

The actions were known, the motivations uncaring, the solution clear-cut, and Albedo would not touch it. He would rather hold to this... this wrenching pain forever, for as long as his desperately clinging life continued than accept the fact of letting go of something he possibly never had.

No, he would harbor it. He would let it fester. Something his, dark and deep, residing in the place that silence would keep. And if tears dropped down, in his mind or outside of it, Albedo never knew.

[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?

He passed on the option, swallowing and dragging his hand down off of his face. Moments had passed, only, in his false darkness, but still the boy winced. Too bright. Much too bright. The shadows hid too well.

Albedo glanced over at her, expression permeable, inconsistent but ill-defined. He leaned a chin into his palm, elbow pressing into his thigh. "I have two brothers," was how it started.

"Purity may be my definition, but irony would rather fit me to lacking any kind of life. My mirror calls forth thoughts of blood and murder, love and hate in both highest quality. But like fire, what burns brightest goes out quickest, and passion may be his only redeeming quality." Don't ask him more, he'd rather not think. Touching too close already to words brimming tears.

"The youngest is death itself, a pale rider on a dark horse; the Executioner bound. He twists words and hearts to suit him, unrevealing his own." A beat. A thought. "He has one, though. That, at least, is reassuring."

Should she ask, of bonds of blood and their breaking? The boy might relent and speak freely. His mind was already slipping, a train from its tracks, and he would answer. He would not offer, but he would answer.

[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 tone quieted, evened. "What should I say?... The only thing I ever held dear abandoned me and worse. Left me to my time with monsters, hiding from his own true nature while defining it with his actions. And worse... All worse." His hand turned; he stared at his upraised palm like the girl wasn't there. "Should I mourn this?" he murmured. "Is a sharp break better than a slow death? Is it better to know pain instead of deluding oneself constantly? It is better that he hates me, and is alive, even as I have to bear it, every day, the knowledge of being without?"

His stretched fingers trembled. His eyes remained wide. Time will heal? The truth will set us free? A prison made of lies, and no comfort in this broken hall of dreams. His mouth opened to add a clever endpoint, a witty retort or quip dashed with truth, but the moment held. Albedo stared down, mind collapsing onto itself.

[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.

"My youngest," he echoed, amusement touching. His? What a quaint thought. There was something like lucidity, and Albedo's hand fell down. He smiled without reason, something lost in the expression. "He holds both hope and despair, it seems. He can destroy everything that has meaning, and he can offer... much. When he chooses. And it seems his lack of life is just an act. He can dance, when the mood strikes or blood is shed. He can lose the strings for a time. And he..." Felt the same. The Rubedo had left them both. Albedo's eyes shut. And what would happen, in the future past? The moment passed with a whisper, processes slowing. "And he is becoming just as broken."

[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.

"Dying," she interjected, red hair a wall between her expression and the observed. "Not broken." Broken implied abruptness, the roots torn and scattered. Girls turning to glass, for instance. Perhaps Ange was running away with metaphors and assumptions, but the boy needed to understand the difference.

The difference? She seemed so good at understanding that.

With a slow finger, Ange ran it through her hair. She supposed she could offer Albedo sympathy or the usual bout of optimism. Things would turn better for the best, look to tomorrow, etc. Girls were supposedly known for such hopeful statements, right? But they paled in comparison to Maria's magic, and Maria herself had been broken just the same. Ange would give the boy a truth, her truth. In exchange for this distraction.

"You're in a unique position," she continued, "compared to your brothers."

[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?

Albedo had started shaking without warning, a vibration of need and denial intermingling. "If you claim he is," the boy responded. "Then I am far closer."

Impressions slid and shifted, an internal argument played out in a moment's haste--comparing the value of loss placed to himself and his younger sibling. It was a failed attempt, anyway; the thought tread too close to something like compassion and empathy to be wholly successful. But he would reconcile this-- Perhaps both of their loss was severe in nature. Albedo couldn't know. And he hadn't known. An open link was a gift; something to haunt and tear.

But as if to lift the warring placed within, she spoke again. For the smallest of moments, Albedo considered her, wondered at her chain of words and their cause. His mind held to constants. She, too, could be like Ritsuka and himself, albeit preemptively. Knowing loss of siblings, from death or cowardice or a witch, could effectively change one to become another. And for that moment, he wondered, and responded without thinking, voice tired, watching her without emotion. "What position do you see me in?"

[finalwitch]

Closer, huh? She did not hold any objections to that statement. Nor did Ange feel a tinge of disappointment or disdain. Albedo was beginning to get it. With this, he had stepped closer to her plane of existence.

No further, however. There were limitations to these things, after all.

"The position you hold yourself to," stated Ange, her words simple. "You're the middle child. I'm the youngest in my family and can't explain it as well as you could; however..." With an air of apparent indifference, the girl leaned forward, her hand tucked under her chin. "Older brothers and sisters have a responsibility over the happiness of their younger siblings. They have a choice to uphold or abandon that responsibility; in the end, they will never escape the consequences of their choice. Your brother is no exception." His would meet his own, or perhaps he was already suffering. The thought to observe this Rubedo was carefully tucked away.

She continued, "The younger, on the other hand, are impressionable. Just as older siblings are chained to their actions, younger siblings are chained to the effects. We can only want. Or hope or beg or wait for a disaster or a miracle." For a witch to appear. "The actual fulfillment is outside of our reach. We can only chase what we may never have." Her gaze crystallized, another truth forming in the process. "Your brother is no exception."

There was a sigh, as though the girl had revealed more than expected. "But you see, Albedo. You have both a younger brother and an older brother. You have a power the others lack."

[purpletaint]

Another time, the words spoken may have been doubted; placed to analyze and choose the parts to keep. Now, staring at nothing, Albedo took the words as truth. Because she had touched it already. And here, she said so again, in as many words as he would not say. The elder had a responsibility to the younger--they defined their happiness. He knew it too well, and he knew the lacks present. More than one had said Rubedo had shirked his responsibilities; here was only another, giving him more dirt to work with.

His hands fisted and released. He didn't seem to notice.

The second portion spoke true. As well, he knew this. Only want. Too well. Yes. He knew too well. He would continue living, hoping in vain for a miracle. For his death that may yet come at the hand of the one who refused to let Albedo's own happiness slide in-between his own. He twitched, the thought pressing. Chained to the effects. There was no escape in that, none. And this would continue still, and--

She was still speaking and Albedo absorbed it without true awareness, kept up in his own wanderings. For a moment, only. That something settled, clicked in a simple way that it would have never before. Nigredo. He, too... Was a younger brother.

The words spilled backwards, the context shifted. In that... In this... What was Nigredo waiting for? What chains bound his heart, his existence to another's actions? Albedo understood. Like he wouldn't have. Because he felt freely the longing deep within the other Variant's mind that morning. Albedo felt the deep want that was controlled so carefully. And in only this, did he start to understand. Did he start to realize.

The boy's expression still held a mix of vacancy and shock, still he was prompted to gain more details. "I do," he whispered, wondered. "But what power do you say I have?"