Clinging to Darkness

Part of the Turning Point collection.

Note: Really lengthy. More writing practice after being swamped with homework and basically this is a fic that was born out of a need to write as a form of break.

Aug. 8: Finished it after putting it on the backburner.

Summary: He can never escape the darkness he still clings to.

***

In the stillness of the night he leaned against the cold stone pillar, seated in a pool of clustered moonlight that pierced the greyish clouds. He looked above him, regarding the regal Geffenian architecture so carefully and expertly carved into the stronghold, down to its buttresses and cornices.

For the past four months, this bastion of unerring fortitude served as his new home. Though it was physically made of white marble, daunting and cold as visitors would often say, the people who call the fortress their home were rather different. Uncommon, some would describe it.

The people living within its walls were a far cry from being completely normal, in the man’s perspective of the word. The high born and low born, the poor and the rich, the well-educated and the streetwise, and all of them were members of the guild he was recruited into. Now, he was well aware of the social strata and the discrimination rampant in society, which was why after four months of adjusting to the guild’s routines and mingling with the folks, he was mildly surprised with the peace amongst the members, at least regarding anything about the social hierarchy that existed in the world’s society. Despite coming from different walks of life, they treated each other as simply friends or allies tied by a common goal. It was a mutual respect and trust that went beyond formalities at meetings or competitive spars.

For the man, it was refreshing despite the setbacks and the few people he had come to dislike, not that he could do anything to help it in the latter case. The seeming normality was what kept his mind and his laughter -in his opinion- a little more sound and whole than what he could have accomplished on his own, not that he would have ever admitted to that fact.

However he wasn’t inclined to seek such company tonight.

It was one of those moments when he needed to be alone. No interruptions. Nothing to sway him from the thoughts feeding the dark mood surrounding his presence. Gone was the light of humour in his emerald eyes, replaced by that stone cold gleam of a man who had seen too much harshness, experienced horrors a man normally should have not.

Silence had fallen over the stronghold, the quiet hands of sleep lulling its inhabitants into the pleasant darkness, their bodies safely tucked in bed. The wind barely rustled the leaves on the trees, neither were the crickets filling the air with their mesmerizing chirps. The few sentries that patrolled the gates and ramparts were lax on their watch. Likely they would hear from their head of security come daybreak.

The man broke his silence with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his messy, jet black hair. He hadn’t been graced with a peaceful slumber this night. He woke finding himself half sprawled on the floor, his heart beating too rapidly in the wake of a nightmare. He even guessed that it hadn’t even been past his second hour in sleep when he was harshly awakened.

He thought himself fortunate to not remember the details, except for the screams that rebounded even now in his mind.

Seeing that he wouldn’t be able to return to sleep until he had calmed down, he pulled a robe over himself and walked aimlessly around the keep. Not an hour later, he returned to the sleeping quarters but situated himself on the railings rather than simply returning to his room.

The screams and voices haunted him still. Returning to the darkness in his room would only serve to give them the grasp they needed to make him scream, lose what firm hold he had. He wanted to shut them out, will those echoes of ghostly sorrow and despair away but nothing he did could keep them away for long.

“Shut up...”

Murderer... Coward... The words echoed like a mantra underneath the wails and moans begging to be spared.

“It wasn’t my fault.” He murmured, shaking his head. But his words were ignored. They continued to taunt him, growing neither fainter nor louder. He wanted to scream, but refused to allow himself that. It wasn’t wise to wake the whole populace within the vicinity, this act also bringing down the wrath of one man he didn’t want to cross tonight.

He tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t going to fall. This isn’t real. This isn’t real... Nothing that is happening is-

When he looked at his hands, his heart nearly stopped. Fresh blood stained his hands, and he felt them dripping down his forearms in tiny rivulets slowly staining his robes the same color. Part of him urged to look away, but his eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the disturbing image.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

This isn’t real.

He belatedly realized his breathing came in short gasps. Memories flashed through his mind, each a fleeting second of blood dripping down lifeless limbs, slackened jaws and severed necks. He closed his eyes, shutting away his mind’s eye from the horrors resurfacing. He kept muttering the same three words to himself. Shakily. Desperately. Clinging to that small hope that it would pass like all the other fits he had after a particularly strong nightmare.

He took in a shaky breath. “Breathe, Saint. Breathe.” He told himself, forcing himself to inhale and exhale as close to a rhythmic pattern as he could.

Seconds ticked passed. The wails in his head softened until they were mere whimpers, the moans ebbing away into quiet gurgles. The images flickered and faded slowly into the darkness, until it was no longer visible to him. His breathing slowly returned to normal in the process.

You coward. Was the last thing he heard before everything completely went silent. With bated breath, he opened his eyes, hoping that it was over.

But as his eyes widened and his next breath caught in his throat.

Eyes, hundreds of eyes filled his vision. Bloodied corpses littered the floor before him, staring emptily at him, devoid of that spark of life. He couldn’t recall who each was, but a part of him knew they were all his victims.

No words were spoken, yet he could feel the accusations that they were throwing at him. He couldn’t look away, nor could he push them out of his mind so easily.

Don’t look at me like that! I wouldn’t have done it if I had a choice! He mentally screamed. There wasn’t anything I could have done! I didn’t want to die... I couldn’t die!

The eyes remained fixated on his form slowly backing away from the horrors before him. Though life had fled those orbs, they seem to shine in the darkness. The pillar behind him prevented him from moving any further, and though he could have jumped from the railing, he decided with every ounce of his sense against the urge.

This isn’t real.

As if to prove his words wrong, whispers rose from the corpses’ unmoving mouths. A steady chorus began to build, their words unintelligible but it sent shivers down the man’s spine and clenched an invisible fist around his chest. It was getting harder to breathe again, but he wouldn’t give in to his weakness of mind. Over and over, he murmured those three words, the only anchor he had as he was mercilessly dragged further away from the secured shores. He covered his ears with his hands, but it did nothing as the voices seemed to come from within him.

“S-stay away from me...”

It was his guilt plaguing him. He never had a choice in the matter. He ended lives not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t allow himself to be killed. Not so long ago, he found an escape from the vicious cycle that imprisoned him. He was freed, but at the same time, his guilt became unfettered and festered in his dreams, in his thoughts, in the stillness of the night. He could barely remember any one night that he had managed to sleep through until daybreak. Only when he had driven himself on the brink of exhaustion would he fall into blissful, dreamless sleep.

The first wave of the wailing and whispering voices hit him. Surrounded by the sound of despair and accusation, his mantra lost its voice in the overwhelming chaos. He needed to get out. Not now, he will not fall to this!

“I said leave me alone!”

His eyes snapped open. He hadn’t realized he was holding his head in his hands, hunched over with his eyes squeezed shut. The wall sconces, lit by magic, flickered like fire in the night. The world surrounding him was just as he had seen it before falling to the trappings of his own mind.

There were no deadened eyes staring back at him, no corpses on the pristine floors. He pulled his hands away, expecting to see blood tainting them. Slicked with sweat, but they were otherwise clean of any crimson stains. His wide, frightened eyes regarded his hands for a moment longer, before they fell limply into his lap. The priest leaned against the pillar, letting out a sound crossed between a shuddering sigh and a grunt.

An illusion. It’s all in my head. Sitting back against the pillar, he took a deep breath to calm himself. His hands rested on his lap, quivering as he fought to control himself again. A light sheen had formed on his forehead.

His freedom did not rid him of the sins he had committed to preserve his then broken life. Even when he wanted to start anew, that dark past simply didn’t want to be left behind.

What hurt him the most about his past was that he could only remember the pain, the suffering, the blood and tears that were shed in those years of his imprisonment. All the memories before then were nothing but scattered pieces of a faded and worn puzzle, one that he wasn’t sure he had all the pieces in his hands anymore.

To where have the innocent laughter and untainted smiles fled to? Where was that hopeful, vibrant youth who longed for the adventures of the world? Where was that young man who dared to dream of a wonderful life ahead of him?

Where was Johan?

Dead. A thought escaped his mind like a breath on the wind.

“Dead... just like Jean...” The words dripped from his lips as he leaned against the pillar, closing his eyes as mental exhaustion pulled him under.

***

“So this is what you’ve reduced yourself to.”

Tainted. Scarred. Changed. If someone were to say they were fine after going through such a living nightmare, he would have thought them the biggest fool. It was impossible for anyone to not have come out of madness unscathed. Those heartless bastards took what interested them, used him like he was nothing more than a mindless tool that was dispensable once it had spent its worth. He hated them. He hated them with a passion that could kill. And it was one passion he allowed himself to keep after all this time.

“Are you listening to me?”

Belatedly, he was aware of a voice. He forced his eyes to open, shaking his head to shake off the sleep still lingering. With a yawn, he blinked at the very human form looming over him and stopped midway through rubbing his head.

“What the Hel...”

“A very usual response coming from you.”

His eyes widened a fraction before he blinked. Once then twice before suddenly pinching himself on his cheek, just so he was sure his eyes weren’t fooling him.

“Ow!” The pain was real, if hearing his voice weren’t enough of a bonus. But it’s still too surreal to be true. I am really losing it.

“Who are you?” He found himself asking. Surely it was a doppelganger he was speaking to. There was no other explanation. Unless something had happened when he fell asleep and the fort was under attack by something. It wasn’t sensible given what he knew of the guild’s goals, but it was a possibility.

“I’m sure you have an idea.” Answered the other coolly, breaking the chain of thoughts. The plain grey shirt and pants he wore couldn’t give the priest any real idea as to who it was. Each time the first man blinked, the other’s hair went from short to long and back, something that confused him. But he had his face sans the scar, an identical build and emerald eyes that clearly reflected his own.

He decided against pursuing the other’s identity, knowing that it would only be a waste. He was already exhausted from the repeated attacks on his mentality but he supposed he had to endure this last one out. Shifting his position, he asked, “What do you want from me?”

The doppelganger tilted his head. “I should be asking you that. What is it do you want from me?” He answered. He might have been aware of how uncomfortable the other was, but he made no move to change his position.

Irritation rose from the young man like smoke from a strengthening flame. “Stop playing games with me.” He poked the other man in the chest as he spoke.

“I’m not.” The phantom sighed, his eyes narrowed in reflection of the man’s own irritation. Before the first could react, his double leaned against him, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist and buried his head into the other’s partially exposed chest.

“Hey! Get off me, you bugger!” He was sorely tempted to release the plethora of curses idling on the tip of his tongue. “Doppelganger or not, this is still considered homosexual harassment!”

And yet the other did not move nor seem fazed by the exclamation, rather it seemed to spur him to nuzzle his head further against him. “Shut up. Why do you insist so much on keeping this emotion?” The question was so muffled that the other barely caught the words.

“What feeling? What the Hel are you going on about?” The first exclaimed, trying his best to push the other off him. But the other held tight, refusing to relinquish his hold.

“This drive to exact vengeance on the people who wronged you.”

Hate. Kill. Hate. Kill!

This was not only his anger, Saint wanted to say. It was also Jean’s anger. Jean’s despair. Jean’s thirst to have justice. But at the same time, he wasn’t Jean. He wasn’t as cunning, as passionate or as smart as his brother was.

The silence that fell quickly broke. “You’re not free, Johan.” The phantom muttered as he locked eyes with the man, his whole physique melding into a reflection of his own. But there were no scars and the blood red eyes looking back at him seemed to smirk. Slowly, that cruel smirk blossomed on the other’s face.

“Isn’t it about time you let Jean rest?”

“I...” What could he tell his reflection? His brother died an undeserving death. That was the basic idea. Revenge was one of the two reasons he planned to escape. If he were to let it go, who would avenge Jean? How else could he stop the nightmares from coming back?

His face set into a grim expression, he answered. “Not yet.”

“Wrong answer.” A hand shot out, pinning him to the pillar as the hand choked him. His hands shot up, trying to pry the hand off him, but it was like hitting a wall.

The other squeezed his neck painfully, cutting off his air. “You’re a lying masochist, you know?” Was that what his voice sounded like when he was being cruel? No, it can’t be. His vision swam, his mind screamed in its fast fading voice at his hands that slowly fell limp to his sides.

No, he can’t die! He can’t die at the hands of an illusion. His thoughts were jostled, fading into the darkness-

“Are you alright?”

Standing by his side was a damnably familiar woman. He didn’t know how long she had been standing there, he was however only partially aware of her presence. Taking this silence as a matter of concern, she bent down and felt his forehead. It was warm, but nothing that signified a brewing fever.

A whimper escaped his lips and she came closer, wiping the beading sweat away from his face.

“Who were you talking to, priest?” She tried again.

The familiar voice caused him to snap back into reality. For a moment, he was still lost. What had he been doing? “Didn’t you see someone here?” He asked, his brows furrowing in slight confusion. Hadn’t he been sitting on the railing alone? That was the last thing he remembered. Absentmindedly, he rubbed a hand against his neck. Somewhere in his mind, a voice was complaining that it should have hurt.

“You’re the only person I see.” She answered him candidly, raising a brow at his confusion.

He opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it and instead replied, “Never mind.”

“Saint, is something bothering you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to completely hate the woman, despite all her annoyances. But at the same time, he couldn’t like her for the same reasons. She was a damnably confusing one, that she is.

“None of your damn business, woman.” He kept himself from saying anything else. He didn’t feel like getting into a battle of words with her tonight. Slowly, he stood and stretched. He wanted to pat himself for hiding as much of the shaking he felt in his limbs.

“You can always tell me some of your troubles.” She spoke as he began walking away. Her words made him stop and face her. Saint’s face immediately told her that he hadn’t taken it jokingly as he was wont to be in the day.

“And have you making snide remarks at every turn? That’s a very tempting offer, Blue.” He said, not at all hiding the sarcasm in his tone. “I think we’ve already established that some time back.”

“We’re not friends. And never will be.” He finished.

The girl remained silent, her hands fisting a handful of her powdery blue chemise as she kept her stoic face from falling. “Of course.” She said, matching his sarcasm with a tone chilly enough to send most men taking a wary step back. He was impossible, so very impossible to handle, but it came as a surprise that she had stuck this long. She shook the thought from her head and fixed him with another glare.

She unclenched her fists, turning to continue on towards her room. “Good night, priest.” She bade him, cold but polite. He watched her disappear around the corner, but he did not bid her in return.

END ENTRY.

Forewarning

A/N: Finished one of the old pending fictions I have lying around.
***

It was an uncommon occurrence that anything would be able to rouse her that was not the silent whisper of bloodlust. Blue eyes opened to dark surroundings. Confusion hovered like a second layer in her hazy mind but it soon retreated, taking some of the uncertainty with it.

The soft and smooth fabric beneath her reminded her -assured her- that she was still in bed. The familiar cold of her room touched already chilled skin, and the silence told her that no other soul had trespassed while she slumbered.

But something certainly had stirred her from sleep.

She bit her lip, a light sneer making its way onto her face. Ah. “So this is the confounded wake up call.”

A heavy feeling had settled in her chest. A feeling crossed between anxiety and excitement, of a deep and howling emptiness that made her feel suddenly wary. Wary? Indeed. But wary of what? The silence did not grace her with an answer.

Claiomh Solais, through all the trials she had gone through in her relatively short life, had never felt a more ominous and sorrowful chill run down her spine.

Slowly she untangled herself from the blanket around her, slipped away from her bed without so much as a creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Her shaggy, golden hair fell about her face like a lion’s mane, mussed up from her sleep. It was still deep in the night, judging from the darkness of the sky but she didn’t feel like returning to sleep anymore. Rather she felt restless. She knew what to blame for it.

“Hell’s bells, this isn’t turning out to be a good night.” She groaned. A walk would ease the tension that found its way into her muscles. Perhaps. Maybe. That, or dragging a certain sniper out of bed and using him as a sparring partner. He wouldn’t appreciate it of course, but his opinion was of little concern to her most days. Fortunately, she wasn’t in the mood to barge into his room this night.

She walked to the dresser across from the bed and took the light blue scarf sitting on the top surface, wrapping it around her neck comfortably before walking out into the darkened hallway. The not-quite-humble abode belonged to Kia, and was in fact one of many that the woman apparently owned. This house stood on the tail-end of the southern residential quarters near Mercurim, half-nestled in the mountainous back of the city.

She recalled Rio asking why she had extended such a generous offer to them. Back then, it was so out of the blue.

‘Because I need live-in house help.’ The deceptively youthful-looking weapons specialist had answered without missing a beat. But that sort of answer was expected from someone like her. Sola, for the most part, understood the true message of that reply.

Two months later and she was deigned to wonder just how did the house managed to stay mostly intact. Among the residents, it was rocky semi-apathy at the very least. There wasn’t an improvement since Sidhe had wittingly manoeuvred them all into having high noon tea in the kitchen.

Or that could simply be her. She didn’t like making friends.

Back in the present, Sola made her way through the empty hallway towards the common room. The hallway was sparsely decorated. No light shone from underneath the doors she passed by. It seemed like everyone else in the house was fast asleep.

Her footfalls barely made a sound against the marble tiled floor, a testament to her training as an assassin. The magical sconces that hung against the walls were surprisingly dark and void of their permanent glow. For a moment, she felt her shoulders stiffening. Had their home been compromised?

She shook her head. That notion was improbable. She lived in this house. Not to mention there were others who could cause enough noise to alert the more battle able warriors. The hallway opened up to the spacious common room, which the ragtag residents had taken to decorating with their own unique tastes. While she maintained a certain detachment from involving herself in such things, she has heard of many an argument that happened because there was too much blue or too much green, or something like that.

“Can’t sleep?” A vaguely amused voice rose from the silence. Blinking in alarmed surprise, she turned to a man lounging lazily in the armchair to her right. Her hand flew to where she would have knives strapped, only then did she remember she didn’t bother equipping herself with any.

Green eyes twinkled with barely veiled amusement, his lips quirked upward as one hand twirled a half-filled glass. He wore a loose dark shirt and a pair of dark cotton pants. Glossy black hair fell rumpled and messily around his fair face, giving him a rather childish appearance despite him being her senior by a handful of years.

“Saint.”

The addressed man lifted the goblet in greeting before downing the bronze liquid in it.

From first introductions, she knew he would be complicated. He did not live to disappoint her. After catching him countless times sneaking bottles of cherries from the pantry and somehow getting his hands on her stash of biscuits, she learned to stop warning him and just throttle him right then and there. That was provided he didn’t cheat and used his magic to escape before she could get a punch in. That annoyed her more than him always figuring out where she hid her snacks.

Not to mention he claimed to be a priest. Well, to be fair, she did have a fair share of experiences with priests who were out of the ordinary. But Saint was a different sort of odd altogether, and not entirely in a good way. The only one who could keep him under control was the crusader he was introduced with. His wife, she later found out with rising suspicion and confusion.

Yet another reason why she questioned his credibility as a priest.

Putting all that aside however, no one could ever say that Saint and herself never got along. Once in a while.

Sola watched him for a moment, unsure of how to properly start a conversation with the dark-haired man. Eventually, she decided to simply go for the first thing in her mind. “The hell are you doing getting drunk at this hour?”

Saint coughed at the end of his drink, then chuckled as he proceeded to let his body sprawl all over the armchair like a lazy cat. “Decided to check out Kia’s liquor cabinet. ‘Sides, was planning to try something that wasn’t sake. You know, it’s getting old and I think I’ve built an immunity to getting drunk on them.” He replied with an air of mirth.

The blonde rolled her eyes. “Or getting into trouble with Kiara again.” She crossed her arms over her chest, watching the man laugh at her retort. He didn’t, as far as she could tell, look close to being plastered. Or maybe he was. Saint was hardly any different when drunk or sober. A shame, really.

“How drunk are you?”

“About half a bottle down on this whiskey.” He got up and poured himself another glass. “Single malt. I’ll admit I’m feeling a good buzz right now.”

“Remind me how old are you again? You seriously want to kill your liver before you even have kids?”

Saint shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. He lifted a finger, ticking off his reasons as he spoke, “First one, no plans.” A second finger flicked up. “Second one... depends totally on the variables involved.” Sola chose to ignore how Saint practically whined at the end.

Instead, she stalked over to the couch across from where he sat and sank into it, putting her legs on top of the coffee table in front of it. Saint had gone back to pouring himself another glass.

“You want a go?” He offered.

Sola waved a hand. “I’ll pass.” There was no way she was going to risk a hangover in the morning.

“Hel, why not? You’re... what, something like an Irish right? I know you could handle your alcohol.”

The assassin rolled her eyes, crossing a leg over the other. “Yes, I’m aware I’m something like an Irish. Yes, I can handle my alcohol but I’m not stupid enough to attempt getting drunk at this hour.”

Saint ran a hand through his hair, looking every bit thoughtful. After a moment, he let out a noncommittal grunt then tossed back the fresh glass. She watched him cough on the slight after burn, her scarf thankfully concealing the lower half of her face as she could barely keep a grin from her face.

Stupid, she thought. No self-respecting drinker would simply toss back a whole glass –let alone down a whole bottle in one sitting- without some ulterior negative mood goading the self-destructive tendencies on. Then again, she’d already seen him putting away sake like it was water during happy hour. She didn’t believe Saint to be suicidal. Idiotic? Yes, but not suicidal.

“Had the same feeling too huh?” The light tone shook her from her reverie.

Sola’s head shot up, fixing him with a puzzled glare. “What are you talking about?”

Saint leaned forward, a knowing grin growing on his face. “You know... that thing that woke you up and made you come all the way out here to sulk and be my impromptu company.”

“I don’t know about that feeling.” Denial was certainly not a mere river.

That infuriating smirk was back. “Really?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Repeat your lie, you mean.”

“I wasn’t lying, priest.” She didn’t like the way he was staring at her. It made her remember feelings of being stared upon by pale blue eyes, slowly peeling away the numerous layers to her being, to expose what lay within the closely guarded center. After a world of hurt, she taught herself to hate that vulnerable feeling.

“Stop staring at me, bastard.” Sola spat out.

Thankfully, Saint didn’t look offended. But at the same time, he didn’t look apologetic. The priest sprawled back into his armchair, idly swirling the glass in one hand as the amused expression never left his face.

“Then how about a drink? Surely it would help you rid yourself of my company faster. I can try looking for some chocolate mudslide one if it’s more of your taste.”

Sola pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. By Nuada’s grave, this man is incorrigible. “I already told you I’ll pass.”

“So just water? Or do you want some milk? I think we have some tea leaves leftover too.” Scratch that. This laughable farce of a holy man was annoying as hell.

A loud smack resounded in the room, followed shortly by a muffled yelp and the shatter of glass on the wooden floor. Sola had an arm outstretched, slowly lowering it back to her side. She looked away dispassionately while Saint dumped the firm but fluffy projectile on the floor.

“Hey, ow? You know you have a good throwing arm there. Even a pillow to the face smarts.” He rubbed his sore nose with a hand. She felt herself slipping her grip on her anger upon seeing him so unfazed by her light threat.

He sniffed, looking down at the shattered glass. He muttered, “What a waste of good wine.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

“Ah, but it’s fun getting a rise out of you.” Came the jovial answer.

Getting a rise... well wasn’t that just peachy. “You really have a death wish you know that?” Sola spoke, forcing herself to stay seated and not reach for one of the throwing knives she kept under the furniture. “Kiara mauls you every other day. Your attempts at riling me up always come close to having a blade in your back. You take every opportunity to be a flea on every person you’ve ever met. Not to mention that the few Visitors you do know end up traumatized or pissed off to the high heavens.”

“Well I have to say that is a rather wonderful talent that I have. Charisma, I mean.”

“That’s not the point. Your whole existence seems to have the purpose of trying to make our lives miserable.” That, at least, earned her a reaction that wasn’t another playful comeback.

“Not my fault you all couldn’t understand me any better.” He griped.

Sola countered it mercilessly. “You’re not making it any easy for us. I doubt making a show of your presence with your tongue– which many would probably want to cut off to be honest, counts as trying to make anyone understand you better. Not to mention you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.” Now she questioned Kiara’s apparent aloofness to his attitude. She must know perfectly well how Saint was with people, but why allow him to do what he wanted? She didn’t understand the first thing about those two and the crazy relationship they shared.

The assassin rubbed her head. It was too late in the night to psychoanalysis either of them. “Just what I needed, a migraine. Thank you so much.” Sarcasm practically dripped on her words.

Saint opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly shut it, looking pensive again. The assassin didn’t want to wait for another word from his mouth. Much as killing him would probably be beneficial, she didn’t want to deal with a grieving and unpredictable crusader. And to be very honest, the priest hadn’t done anything wrong to merit the death sentence.

So much for trying to appease the restlessness. Arguing with the priest only served to calm it for a while, only because his loquaciousness demanded the full use of her half-asleep mind. She stood, making her way back to her room.

“You felt it.” Saint’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “It’s a sign. Quoting a popular show, ‘Winter is coming’. I suggest you prepare for whatever is coming, because it won’t be pretty.”

Sola scoffed at him without turning around. “You think I would be caught without my wits and my weapon? You sorely misunderstand me.”

“No.” The tone was very sober and serious. Vaguely, she could see him with an expression reflecting that tone. It disturbed her to think about it. “I didn’t misunderstand. Knowing the world? Expect something unexpected. Your weapons and wit may not be enough to save you.”

She left then, paying no attention at all to the last words that followed. Whatever, she knew what a warning was, she didn’t need him explaining it further.

“Winter is coming... eh?” She muttered as she opened her door. “Well come at thee. I’ve been itching for something to happen in this place.”

End entry.

Blurred Lines

A/N: Finally posted.

*** 

When do dreams become a reality? There are, honestly, so many different answers to that question. It was frightening, like the doubt that threatened to destroy what he had strived hard to create. But it was beautiful, like the eyes and the smile that was akin to a precious gift whenever he did something to make that face drop its cold mask.

Blue. That was his name for her. She was his angel, albeit calling her a vengeful angel seemed more apt. Her eyes, they were the reason why he called her so. They were the most beautiful startling azure he had ever laid eyes on. But she denied it. She denied everything about her that was beautiful. But time and time again, he loved to tell her that she is. Her face could use a blush and a smile every now and then.

That same face hovered over his as he lay against the soft pillows, sleep hazing his thoughts as muffled words escaped those lips.

“... should sleep... is calling me... be back in a little while.” Were the only things he managed to understand. Still, he might have said something, for he felt those soft lips on his cheek before everything was swallowed in darkness.

The next thing he knew, a cold almost nostalgic silence greeted his forest green eyes as the dark ceiling focused into view. He moved one pale arm over his forehead and felt a rough fabric against his fingers.

Bandages? Damn, I really hate manhunts. The details of that day were too hazy and fleeting, he didn’t bother dwelling on it. He kept still as he listened to his own steady breathing.

Strange. He knew that something had woken him, but with the last vestiges of sleep scampering away into the dark, it was as if his wakefulness had also chased that memory away. He couldn’t help a groan as nausea swept in. It didn’t last long, but it left him with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Damnation, Blue was going to have a fit taking care of him.

“Are you feeling better?” The voice that called his name was laced with quiet concern. Looking towards the source, he found a man seated at the windowsill. The grey skies offered little light to illuminate the form comfortably leaning against the glass. But he could make out the tussled, dark tresses framing a fair face, long enough to settle somewhere near the elbows. Eyes that reflected the same leaf green color as his own were fixed on his form, darkened only by the lack of light.

“Another nightmare?” The man on the windowsill asked, shifting his leg over the other. “You’re plagued by a lot of them recently.”

The man in bed knew that staring at the man was like staring into a mirror, sans his own hair barely brushed against his shoulders. He wasn’t sure however, if his own eyes reflected the strength hidden in the depths of the other.

A name quickly came with that doppelganger face. Jean? Yes, Jean. His beloved older twin who had always shown such care that betrayed his stern aloofness. That was probably why he didn’t need to contemplate why the other’s presence was so pleasantly comforting.

“Nah.” He replied, giving the man a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Something else woke me up. Can’t remember it though.” That at least softened the frown that was appearing on Jean’s face. Well, his aniki did grow up with him after all. He would know if his brother was lying through his teeth or not.

A sigh escaped Jean’s lips. “Come here. You spent too much time in that bed, it’s finally taking your shape.”

With a chuckle, the younger patted the mattress. “I happen to like this bed. You should try lounging in it rather than the windowsill.” Regardless, he obeyed. Kicking off the covers, he unsteadily padded towards the other, half throwing his arms on his brother’s lap and settled his chin on them.

A disapproving grunt was heard before a hand roughly pulled his hair. “You’re getting too old for this.” Jean chided. To this, the young man grinned at his twin. “Hey, you always said I was a big baby.”

“I didn’t mean for you to make my life more miserable.”

He chuckled, prodding the hand that held his hair with a finger. “Admit it, you’d go insane without me making your life pleasantly miserable.”

There was a slight upward curve of his Jean’s mouth, but that was all. “You honestly are too confident about yourself.”

“And you’re saying that you can make it without me?”

A short contemplative silence ensued before those eyes settled on him again. “Your bandages are coming off.”

“Don’t change- Hey!” He squirmed when those hands began to unwind the loosened bandages around his head.

“Odin, don’t be a brat. Stay still for a moment.” Came the stern voice. The younger brother pouted, but couldn’t fight against the stronger hands. In the end, he opted to just sit as still as he could –but he squirmed every now and then- while trying to think of something to occupy his thoughts.

He thought back to that dream that woke him. He tried recalling it, recalling the scenario with what Blue had taught him. Invoking emotions helps recall those dreams. She once said. But it seemed that it didn’t work this time for him, but served to give him a headache instead. He groaned, making the hands on his head stop.

“Does it hurt?” Jean asked him. He shook his head, saying only that he was just trying to think but his head was hurting. Jean let out a hum in response, all the while tying the ends of the bandage securely. He felt those hands rubbing circles on either sides of his temple, and he couldn’t help but smile gratefully at the ebbing pain.

“I will regret saying this, but sometimes you’re too cute.”

The younger man let out a chuckle. “That’s also what I’m for.” He replied to his twin’s words. “And you could be my smartass servant.”

“Shut it or I’m not doing this anymore.”

He grinned, but made no move to reply. Instead he let those hands take away the pain. His mind began to drift, drift to where nothing but the eyes of his mind were all that he used to see the images that began to fleet about, accompanied by emotions that both seemed to comfort and stab his heart.

He had been used to her rough manners, had been used to her sharp gazes and equally sharp tongue, that when warm and surprisingly gentle fingers brushed against his cheeks, he nearly pulled back in surprise.

But these hands, these calloused hands that smelled faintly of blood, were not hers. No, they were bigger, the warm roughness suddenly felt distant compared to the feathery electric touches in his thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Blue eyes look to him, curious and nervous. He wanted to say something to her, but the words caught in his throat. The silence that fell around them was beginning to intensify as her eyes took on a new emotion.

His hands reached up, catching his brother’s wrists in a firm grip. “Where’s Blue?” He looked about the room, looking for the person he was asking for.

He drew a breath and pulled her close. “Sorry.” He whispered before she could open her mouth. “I’m just trying to get used to this. You’re happy though, right?”

“Happy?” She asked him. He smiled, the quirk of his lips hidden against her hair. “Happy that you’re with me.” He felt her shift more comfortably in his hold, snuggling her head under his chin. With her fingers intertwined with his own, he watched in amusement as she brought his hand to her lips.

“I have no regrets.”

“Blue?”

The younger twin nodded. “Yeah. She was here until...” He glanced at the window but the grey skies offered no clue as to what time it could be. “Well, some time back. She said she’d be back. Did she come back when I was asleep?”

At this, something in his mind wondered about the concerned look on his twin’s face, but his brother did not speak at first. His gaze however, made him grow uneasy. He looked back to the sky outside. When did it become so dark? Before he slept, the weather had been clear and sunny. But the sky of course, wouldn’t give him an answer, so he returned his gaze to his brother and saw the emotion on the other’s face.

“Aniki? Your face looks weird.” He laughed. His eyes bore into that green hued gaze, seemingly as if trying to pry an answer from that gaze. It was then that Jean drew a breath.

He pushed back a stray lock of dark hair from his face. “Just as well. Two days without eating made you more of an idiot than I can handle.”

“My what? Aniki, don’t skirt around my questions. Did Blue come back or not?” The concern in those eyes remained. At the same time, a feeling of confusion was settling into his head. What was wrong about asking his brother for his wife?

“And more whiny too.” His brother pushed him off. “What do you want? Milk? Chicken soup? I don’t think you can digest solid-”

“Aniki!” He wasn’t in the mood for Jean’s stubborness. Not now when he wanted to know where his wife had gone. She hadn’t come back, had she? Why couldn’t his brother say anything?

“Johan.” At this the younger twin paused. He looked at Jean as if he’d grown a second head. Johan... Johan...?

“Johan.” Jean repeated, levelling his gaze with his younger brother. “I’ll be honest. A few weeks ago, we barely avoided getting killed by Rekenber’s agents. We survived but you took a bludgeon to the head. We couldn’t stop to rest, so we had to keep moving despite your condition.” He grabbed his brother’s shoulders and squeezed lightly. “I... tried my best to take care of you when the circumstances permitted it, but right now you need to realize that it’s only been the two of us since our betrayal of the company.”

The silence between them stretched, strained further and further as time went by. A quiet murmur quickly grew into a laugh, and soon Jean was puzzled when Johan patted his shoulder.

“Your attempts at joking is pretty screwed, aniki.” Johan said. Jean swatted his hand away, saying, “I’m not joking, Johan.”

The rest of Johan’s laughter died on his tongue. “You’re lying then.” Johan searched his brother’s eyes for any form of deceit, anything to betray the spoken words.

The expression Jean showed betrayed nothing. “I’m not lying.”

“She was here!” Johan’s tone was rising, the frustration fuelled it no less. Why did it feel like his brother was lying and at the same time not? Why, if it was supposed to be a lie, could he remember Blue’s touch and face as if it were real?

She was real!

“Maybe you’re the one who’s lacking a few brain cells. Any minute now, Blue’s going to come through that door and then I’ll laugh in your face while she wonders what the Hel’s going on with me out of bed and you screaming that she ain’t real.”

“Johan, calm yourself and try to think straight. You were bludgeoned, in the head no less. Hel, it was a miracle you didn’t fall into a coma!” The words of his brother sunk into his mind, and yet Johan couldn’t recall the memories of those events.

Rekenber, he knew at least that he managed to escape their clutches after years of planning. He remembered escaping. Running far from the Republic, hiding and changing his identity, and eventually settling into a guild and meeting her. But there was something else that he remembered that made this situation feel all the more surreal.

“Johan!”

The shaking jolted him back to himself.

“Johan, I’m telling you, there’s no one else here.” The hands returned to his face, gently cupping his cheeks as a warm forehead met with his. The smell of blood made the younger twin nearly retch, and he struggled to push the other away.

“That’s... that’s not my name.” He uttered, succeeding in pushing Jean away when the other had paused. Suddenly, nothing made sense.

“What are you talking about?” Nothing at all made sense.

“That’s not my name!” Johan cried, clutching his head whilst stepping away. “Saint is my name! It’s not Johan. Johan is dead... That part of me died when... when...” He paused, unable to form the last words. The feeling of confusion refused to let him go. What was wrong with his brother? Was he so blinded by his own hatred, so far into insanity, that his world consisted only of the two of them?

He didn’t want that to happen. He loved his brother, just as much as he loved Blue.

“Johan, get a hold of yourself!” Jean jumped to his brother’s side, making to grab his arm when his hand was suddenly swatted away.

And yet, the younger twin couldn’t help but feel threatened by his older sibling. There was something, something that he couldn’t quite place but it threatened him all the same.

“Don’t touch me!” Johan exclaimed, a fierce anger in his eyes. “Aniki, don’t you dare touch me!” Just as Jean was about to reach for him again, those words immediately made him retract his hand in surprise.

He was quick to recover. “There’s something wrong with you! Don’t you get it?” Jean retaliated, baring his teeth in a reflection of Johan’s expression. Before the other knew it, his brother had pinned him to the floor. “There’s no Blue! There’s only me and you. You! Johan. Not Saint, not anyone else! Do you understand?”

Fortunately, Johan’s head didn’t hit the floor, but the sudden vertigo threatened to explode his tender head with pain. “I don’t!” He screamed. “I don’t understand!” He threw a punch that grazed Jean’s cheek.

“I’m making it easy for you. How much more simple should I make it? It’s flat out in your face already!” A kick to Jean’s chest made him stumble back.

“Shut up! You think you always know what’s best for me?” Saint said, “I went through the same Hel as you. I felt the same pain as you.”

“I’m not a little boy anymore who couldn’t get over okaa-san leaving us. I’m not the dependent teen back in that dirty, Odin forsaken cell. I’m a grown man now, aniki. It’s about time you understood that I can’t always be that weak, idiotic brother you think I always was.”

A long silence ensued, with each of the brothers staring each other down for different reasons. In the end, it was Jean who broke the silence.

“Fine... fine. Who am I to deny your happiness?” He said in a biting tone.

There was a pang of guilt, but Saint made no verbal response, instead sliding to sit on the floor next to his bed. He ran a hand through his hair, little mindful of the bandages. Perhaps... he thought, glancing askance at Jean. The other was avoiding his gaze.

Perhaps this was all just a dream. But that wasn’t true either. It didn’t feel completely like one. It hurt his head too much he didn’t want to think about it anymore.

His head lifted slowly to rest against the bed as his eyes sought out something beyond the walls. “Aniki... I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Neither do I.” Came the soft reply.

Saint closed his eyes. “I just... I don’t want any of us to be left behind.” But this situation isn’t right.

Movement shifted at the corner of his eyes, but Jean stayed where he was. “Neither do I.”

“Funny though...” Saint yawned. He struggled to stay awake, to muster enough strength to say the words he felt compelled to say earlier. He felt himself being moved, then saw Jean gathering him up in his arms. Huh, his brother should have been a ninja if he could move that fast.

He saw emotions in those eyes, but he couldn’t tell them apart.

Another yawn escaped him, but before his eyelids drooped of their own accord, the words finally left his lips in a hushed whisper. “... You’re supposed to be dead.”

***

Lost in the haze of sleep, Saint hadn’t notice the tremble in the hands that held him. Though no other soul existed in the room, Jean’s passive countenance did not change until he lifted his brother back to the bed. Once he made certain that Saint- no, Johan was asleep and tucked in comfortably under blue sheets, the older brother turned and trudged back to the windowsill.

Hidden beneath the dark fringes, Jean’s expression did not change. It did not waver, though the crease in between his eyes deepened. There were no words that echoed in the dark. Thunder echoed ominously outside, rattling the glass.

He was afraid that he hadn’t saved them from insanity after all. And his beloved brother was oblivious to his own tragic degradation. He rarely cursed, but now was one of those times when he needed such a vent.

He felt so torn. With a snarl, his fist connected with the adjacent wall. His breathing was heavy, his pupils unfocused as emotions warred within.

“Wrong.” He whispered, shaking hands making their way to rub at his head. I am alive, very much alive. I wouldn’t leave you behind. Never.

You’ve forgotten the extent of what we’ve been through. I should have watched over you more carefully. He looked out of the window, then to his hands. He had already washed them, but the smell of blood was still there.

No matter. He had been turned into a murderer against his will a long time ago. What difference did it make if he used that sin to protect what remained of his family? But now, the weariness had finally caught up to him. He’d realized that when Johan lashed out at him.

He was tired of running. He was tired of fending off those who would try to take away what was his.

The last flare of determination lit his eyes, turning them into the color of a ravenous fire. “I let you sought comfort in your world. Where this Blue is your happiness, and where I do not exist.” He muttered the last phrase was spat out with bitterness.

Jean walked to the door, picking up a bloodied dagger that Johan had missed noticing. Many times, he had killed those who had wronged them, who wanted to break them apart. Always, he did those on his own. He didn’t need Johan to be bothered by the sight of the burnt bodies and occasional puddles of blood. His brother had gone through enough. It was time he did something in return.

“Forgive me then, if I want both of us to move on from worlds of fancy and finally be free.”

His brother didn’t need to know whose blood stained it now, he would most likely make it all the more difficult to listen to his brother. Neither did Jean bother himself with the victim of the blade, though he swore that a quick death hadn’t happened. People and their devotion to love, sometimes he hated when that combination teamed up against him. But it was all over now. Jean climbed onto the bed, straddling his brother between his legs.

“Don’t worry, otouto...” Jean smiled weakly, holding the dagger against his brother’s pale neck. Tears fell from his reddish eyes as he dug the blade deeper.

“Neither of us is getting left behind this time.” After all, no one but Johan was important in his eyes. He wouldn’t leave behind the only person that mattered. That would be too cruel of him.

He failed to see eyes staring up at him in wide-eyed terror. Under his breath, the last word was uttered, breaking the seal that caged a horrendous blaze so reflecting his own madness.

“We’ll go together.”

End entry.