DGM, "His Broken Remnants"
Holiday fic: apapazukamori, prompt 14th/Lavi, gift
Walker returns to the house of his birth, his youth. He remembers his own life, and he remembers the life of the boy called Allen Walker in his honor, and something begins to change.
Warnings: Spoilers about the 14th. Theories about the 14th. Theories about Lavi and Allen. CRAZY theories, for reals you guys.
Contains vague hints of Lavi/14th & Lavi/Allen. Kinda follows His Borrowed Toys.
.his broken remnants.
The safe house had belonged to the Walker family, once -- a long, long time ago, when that family had been wealthy. Nowadays it was empty, the corridors dark, the furniture that remained layered with dust. The family prosperity had ended quite thoroughly with Allen Walker.
Now he was passing silently through the corridors like a ghost, thinking of the day when he had awakened as a Noah, and the Earl had slaughtered his family.
'If you think it's necessary,' he had said, shocking Mana, dear Mana. 'But not my brother. He must come with us.'
He had held his older brother's hand, and smiled at him reassuringly, his vision clouded red with the blood seeping from the bandages on his forehead.
Allen raised a hand to the gauze wrapped around his head. It was dry -- probably it had been long enough that the bleeding had stopped.
Marian stepped into the entrance. "Bookman Junior's in the back bedroom."
"The back..." Allen echoed, his eyes widening slightly with alarm.
"Don't look like that. I took the liberty of cleaning out the place," Marian said, a cloud of smoke obscuring him for a few crucial seconds as he exhaled. When Allen looked at him, he had found something interesting in the next room, facing away. "I dragged all the skeletons out back. Who were they?"
"My parents. Our servants," Allen murmured. "I saved Mana, but the Earl said the others who had known me had to die. So, while they slept..." His voice trailed off. Mana had been by his bedside day and night during his transformative sickness; the night when he finally awoke had been the last one for everyone else.
Marian chuckled, low. "You say that like you find cold-blooded murder distasteful."
Allen frowned, and didn't respond. Marian had an eerie way of seeing to the heart of things, and he knew -- must know -- that the memory of Noah's love was not a generous emotion. It was giving, and embracing, but it knew that sometimes, death was unavoidable. The parable of the Ark: only a few brilliant souls were worth saving when the world needed cleansing so deeply, but that didn't mean that the decision to kill was done out of cruelty.
He had only ever needed Mana to be alive; and now, Lavi.
"I hate the Noah in me as much as you do," he said mildly. His left arm cramped, twitched; he forced it still. The Innocence hated him. "That's what all this is about. Destroying the Noah for good."
Marian wouldn't look at him anymore. Lavi wasn't present, but he hadn't been able to look at him, either.
Perhaps he would color his hair. Dark, the way his own had been.
Although Mana's foundling child had also had dark hair, once upon a time. Allen had watched through those winter eyes as bit by bit, old hair fell out and was trimmed away and began to be replaced by a faded white. He wished he could say that he remembered the child's distress at premature graying, but the truth was that he hadn't been distressed. He had just watched, numb inside, broken, as if he were already the passenger in his body.
Allen let out a slow breath. If only the poor, miserable thing had stayed that way, things would have been much easier. Marian and Lavi wouldn't have avoided his gaze.
But the child wasn't his concern. He was just a memory now.
Probably.
Cross Marian was a good man, trustworthy. He had provided them with as much safety as he could offer. Promised to take care of Mana. Promised to see Allen's vessel through until Allen could return. But the child had won him over, somewhere deep where no one else could see, maybe where no one else had ever touched him before. And now what had once been a bond of solidarity -- mutual agreement about what must be done -- had been soured.
And Lavi--
He would have to acknowledge soon that he was running away from the fact that the only person who had ever loved him for who he was -- Mana, dear, beloved Mana -- was gone forever. But for now, it was so much easier to think wistfully of Lavi. Lavi was everything he'd wanted for himself, all in one, just barely unattainable package.
Marian stomped out his cigarette and turned his back, ready to leave. "Yeah. That's what all this is for," he said, distantly. As if reminding himself. "Merry Christmas, Walker."
Christmas? Allen thought, startled. He hadn't realized how the days had gone by while they traveled. When he did the math, it seemed so obvious.
It was December 25th. Christmas Day.
I should get Lavi something.
Allen turned his head up. He wasn't sure where that thought had come from. The trainee Bookman was a tool, and what he felt for him was a misplaced sentiment, lingering from the child he had possessed and his own longing to be the object of Lavi's -- someone's -- anyone's attention.
Other than Mana's.
Mana had loved Christmas.
Unfortunately, it would likely be a poor idea to give out any gifts at all. Even if he had the means right now to give anything that hadn't been entombed in this dead house for decades, the holiday had been ingrained quite deeply as a day associated with the child. Mana had given it to him as a birthday, and it was the day that the Earl had found him, and any acknowledgment of the day could only serve to remind them of him.
He wandered through the house, drifting; he found himself drawn to the sitting room where he and Mana had spent their days as children, receiving lessons in history and manner and other cultured subjects. Against the window -- once letting in bright light, illuminating the house, and now gray and haunting -- was a grand piano.
Allen moved slowly towards it, reaching out with gloved fingers to brush its unpolished surface, coming away thick with dust. He and Mana had been such secretive children, making up their own coded writing and giggling together on the piano bench over their private world.
Impulsively, he ducked into the case, considering. It needed to be cleaned, of course, and tuned extensively -- probably the work of hours. But when it was done, he would have his piano back. He would have his serenity back.
I wanna hear him play too! he remembered Lavi saying, enthusiasm for his playing through the boy's hands -- his hands again, now.
When the piano was together again, he would write a new piece. Lavi, in the bedroom above this sitting room, would be able to hear its gentle strains drifting through his window.
A song for him; a gift that Allen couldn't give, because Lavi wouldn't want it, because it would remind him of the child he cared for. But if he didn't know that it was for him...
He started composing it in his head, the chords that reminded him of the Bookman Junior. While he worked on the piano, he ran back through his mind over his borrowed memories, reliving his namesake's life, and all the treasured moments that had deepened his futile resolve to live and to protect.
The longer he mentally composed, the quieter and calmer he felt inside. It was like some restless part of him enjoyed the memories -- or took strength from them.
If he didn't know better, he might have said it was the other Allen Walker.
Walker returns to the house of his birth, his youth. He remembers his own life, and he remembers the life of the boy called Allen Walker in his honor, and something begins to change.
Warnings: Spoilers about the 14th. Theories about the 14th. Theories about Lavi and Allen. CRAZY theories, for reals you guys.
Contains vague hints of Lavi/14th & Lavi/Allen. Kinda follows His Borrowed Toys.
.his broken remnants.
The safe house had belonged to the Walker family, once -- a long, long time ago, when that family had been wealthy. Nowadays it was empty, the corridors dark, the furniture that remained layered with dust. The family prosperity had ended quite thoroughly with Allen Walker.
Now he was passing silently through the corridors like a ghost, thinking of the day when he had awakened as a Noah, and the Earl had slaughtered his family.
'If you think it's necessary,' he had said, shocking Mana, dear Mana. 'But not my brother. He must come with us.'
He had held his older brother's hand, and smiled at him reassuringly, his vision clouded red with the blood seeping from the bandages on his forehead.
Allen raised a hand to the gauze wrapped around his head. It was dry -- probably it had been long enough that the bleeding had stopped.
Marian stepped into the entrance. "Bookman Junior's in the back bedroom."
"The back..." Allen echoed, his eyes widening slightly with alarm.
"Don't look like that. I took the liberty of cleaning out the place," Marian said, a cloud of smoke obscuring him for a few crucial seconds as he exhaled. When Allen looked at him, he had found something interesting in the next room, facing away. "I dragged all the skeletons out back. Who were they?"
"My parents. Our servants," Allen murmured. "I saved Mana, but the Earl said the others who had known me had to die. So, while they slept..." His voice trailed off. Mana had been by his bedside day and night during his transformative sickness; the night when he finally awoke had been the last one for everyone else.
Marian chuckled, low. "You say that like you find cold-blooded murder distasteful."
Allen frowned, and didn't respond. Marian had an eerie way of seeing to the heart of things, and he knew -- must know -- that the memory of Noah's love was not a generous emotion. It was giving, and embracing, but it knew that sometimes, death was unavoidable. The parable of the Ark: only a few brilliant souls were worth saving when the world needed cleansing so deeply, but that didn't mean that the decision to kill was done out of cruelty.
He had only ever needed Mana to be alive; and now, Lavi.
"I hate the Noah in me as much as you do," he said mildly. His left arm cramped, twitched; he forced it still. The Innocence hated him. "That's what all this is about. Destroying the Noah for good."
Marian wouldn't look at him anymore. Lavi wasn't present, but he hadn't been able to look at him, either.
Perhaps he would color his hair. Dark, the way his own had been.
Although Mana's foundling child had also had dark hair, once upon a time. Allen had watched through those winter eyes as bit by bit, old hair fell out and was trimmed away and began to be replaced by a faded white. He wished he could say that he remembered the child's distress at premature graying, but the truth was that he hadn't been distressed. He had just watched, numb inside, broken, as if he were already the passenger in his body.
Allen let out a slow breath. If only the poor, miserable thing had stayed that way, things would have been much easier. Marian and Lavi wouldn't have avoided his gaze.
But the child wasn't his concern. He was just a memory now.
Probably.
Cross Marian was a good man, trustworthy. He had provided them with as much safety as he could offer. Promised to take care of Mana. Promised to see Allen's vessel through until Allen could return. But the child had won him over, somewhere deep where no one else could see, maybe where no one else had ever touched him before. And now what had once been a bond of solidarity -- mutual agreement about what must be done -- had been soured.
And Lavi--
He would have to acknowledge soon that he was running away from the fact that the only person who had ever loved him for who he was -- Mana, dear, beloved Mana -- was gone forever. But for now, it was so much easier to think wistfully of Lavi. Lavi was everything he'd wanted for himself, all in one, just barely unattainable package.
Marian stomped out his cigarette and turned his back, ready to leave. "Yeah. That's what all this is for," he said, distantly. As if reminding himself. "Merry Christmas, Walker."
Christmas? Allen thought, startled. He hadn't realized how the days had gone by while they traveled. When he did the math, it seemed so obvious.
It was December 25th. Christmas Day.
I should get Lavi something.
Allen turned his head up. He wasn't sure where that thought had come from. The trainee Bookman was a tool, and what he felt for him was a misplaced sentiment, lingering from the child he had possessed and his own longing to be the object of Lavi's -- someone's -- anyone's attention.
Other than Mana's.
Mana had loved Christmas.
Unfortunately, it would likely be a poor idea to give out any gifts at all. Even if he had the means right now to give anything that hadn't been entombed in this dead house for decades, the holiday had been ingrained quite deeply as a day associated with the child. Mana had given it to him as a birthday, and it was the day that the Earl had found him, and any acknowledgment of the day could only serve to remind them of him.
He wandered through the house, drifting; he found himself drawn to the sitting room where he and Mana had spent their days as children, receiving lessons in history and manner and other cultured subjects. Against the window -- once letting in bright light, illuminating the house, and now gray and haunting -- was a grand piano.
Allen moved slowly towards it, reaching out with gloved fingers to brush its unpolished surface, coming away thick with dust. He and Mana had been such secretive children, making up their own coded writing and giggling together on the piano bench over their private world.
Impulsively, he ducked into the case, considering. It needed to be cleaned, of course, and tuned extensively -- probably the work of hours. But when it was done, he would have his piano back. He would have his serenity back.
I wanna hear him play too! he remembered Lavi saying, enthusiasm for his playing through the boy's hands -- his hands again, now.
When the piano was together again, he would write a new piece. Lavi, in the bedroom above this sitting room, would be able to hear its gentle strains drifting through his window.
A song for him; a gift that Allen couldn't give, because Lavi wouldn't want it, because it would remind him of the child he cared for. But if he didn't know that it was for him...
He started composing it in his head, the chords that reminded him of the Bookman Junior. While he worked on the piano, he ran back through his mind over his borrowed memories, reliving his namesake's life, and all the treasured moments that had deepened his futile resolve to live and to protect.
The longer he mentally composed, the quieter and calmer he felt inside. It was like some restless part of him enjoyed the memories -- or took strength from them.
If he didn't know better, he might have said it was the other Allen Walker.