Challenge 234 , "Remembrance"
Title: Remembrance
Challenge: [234] Coping strategies
Word count: 527
Warnings: Mild spoilers for Birth By Sleep, and some degree of idle speculation.
Summary: Perhaps silence is his own variation of a defence mechanism.
Notes: Eeeeeyargh. This idea has been chewing on my head for the past few days, so I figured, why not? Anything to get rid of extra muse.
Perhaps silence is Ienzo’s own variation of a defence mechanism.
Even is not the only one shocked by the boy suddenly stirring as the battle over names rages over his head; when he speaks, nobody takes notice, nobody hears him, and at first, they all dismiss the sardonic whisper they hear to be a trick of the air.
“Zexion.”
This is one of the few times they have heard the youngest apprentice speak; he surveys them with the blank-eyed stare of a lizard, lips curling into a thin crescent as he enunciates his new name for the first time. Satisfied with catching their attention, he hops off the chair and departs the impromptu meeting room, leaving them to stare after him as he leaves.
When Even…no, when Vexen stumbles upon the boy, sprawled on a sofa and reciting a dreary litany of pleasantries - good morning, good afternoon, good evening, salutations, you’re welcome, thank you, I beg your pardon? - he is taken aback; after Ienzo was taken in by Ansem the Wise, he had not spoken about the loss of his parents, and had only responded to their queries with monosyllabic responses. Perhaps he was more talkative in the presence of his mentor, nobody knew; now, Vexen finds it unsettling to hear the boy actually speak more than ten words in a row, as his head bobs over a child’s reading book, tongue articulating long-unspoken words as he re-familiarises himself with the crisp syllables that hang in the air.
The Darkness that claimed his heart has aged the boy, Vexen notes with detached wonder, scrawling hurried annotations on a scrap of paper: his eyes are colder now, and more distant, despite the courteous greetings that tumble from his lips.
“Ien…Zexion, what in the world are you-”
He is taken aback by the glazed look the boy gives him, eyes shadowed by unruly bangs; after Vexen stopped attempting to keep the boy’s hair in order, Zexion took to the task himself, hacking off dark tufts with blunt, rusted scissors, but leaving his fringe untouched when Xigbar jokes about the perils of playing with sharp objects too close to one’s eyes. The scientist is unprepared for the smirk that arches the boy’s lips into a quizzical curve, for the polite look of unruffled disinterest on his face; he watches in silence as the youth calmly rips a page out of the book, deftly creasing the sheet into a square.
“Zexion, kindly explain yourse-”
The boy ignores him, and before their eyes, the paper shapes itself into a crane, with arched wings and childish block-print striped across its belly; wordlessly, Zexion cups the origami bird in the palm of his hand, and Vexen scowls. Before he can open his mouth to demand an explanation, the young researcher clenches his fist, compressing the delicate folds underneath his fingers.
Without a word, he rises to his feet, flicking the slender book shut with a clean snap; Vexen is half-certain he hears the other apprentice respond with veiled mockery as he gently drops the crushed paper bird on the floor behind him.
“People don’t change,” he murmurs, “they evolve. Remember that, Vexen.”
Challenge: [234] Coping strategies
Word count: 527
Warnings: Mild spoilers for Birth By Sleep, and some degree of idle speculation.
Summary: Perhaps silence is his own variation of a defence mechanism.
Notes: Eeeeeyargh. This idea has been chewing on my head for the past few days, so I figured, why not? Anything to get rid of extra muse.
Perhaps silence is Ienzo’s own variation of a defence mechanism.
Even is not the only one shocked by the boy suddenly stirring as the battle over names rages over his head; when he speaks, nobody takes notice, nobody hears him, and at first, they all dismiss the sardonic whisper they hear to be a trick of the air.
“Zexion.”
This is one of the few times they have heard the youngest apprentice speak; he surveys them with the blank-eyed stare of a lizard, lips curling into a thin crescent as he enunciates his new name for the first time. Satisfied with catching their attention, he hops off the chair and departs the impromptu meeting room, leaving them to stare after him as he leaves.
When Even…no, when Vexen stumbles upon the boy, sprawled on a sofa and reciting a dreary litany of pleasantries - good morning, good afternoon, good evening, salutations, you’re welcome, thank you, I beg your pardon? - he is taken aback; after Ienzo was taken in by Ansem the Wise, he had not spoken about the loss of his parents, and had only responded to their queries with monosyllabic responses. Perhaps he was more talkative in the presence of his mentor, nobody knew; now, Vexen finds it unsettling to hear the boy actually speak more than ten words in a row, as his head bobs over a child’s reading book, tongue articulating long-unspoken words as he re-familiarises himself with the crisp syllables that hang in the air.
The Darkness that claimed his heart has aged the boy, Vexen notes with detached wonder, scrawling hurried annotations on a scrap of paper: his eyes are colder now, and more distant, despite the courteous greetings that tumble from his lips.
“Ien…Zexion, what in the world are you-”
He is taken aback by the glazed look the boy gives him, eyes shadowed by unruly bangs; after Vexen stopped attempting to keep the boy’s hair in order, Zexion took to the task himself, hacking off dark tufts with blunt, rusted scissors, but leaving his fringe untouched when Xigbar jokes about the perils of playing with sharp objects too close to one’s eyes. The scientist is unprepared for the smirk that arches the boy’s lips into a quizzical curve, for the polite look of unruffled disinterest on his face; he watches in silence as the youth calmly rips a page out of the book, deftly creasing the sheet into a square.
“Zexion, kindly explain yourse-”
The boy ignores him, and before their eyes, the paper shapes itself into a crane, with arched wings and childish block-print striped across its belly; wordlessly, Zexion cups the origami bird in the palm of his hand, and Vexen scowls. Before he can open his mouth to demand an explanation, the young researcher clenches his fist, compressing the delicate folds underneath his fingers.
Without a word, he rises to his feet, flicking the slender book shut with a clean snap; Vexen is half-certain he hears the other apprentice respond with veiled mockery as he gently drops the crushed paper bird on the floor behind him.
“People don’t change,” he murmurs, “they evolve. Remember that, Vexen.”