fragileprophet | Week 0, Monday

Week 0, Monday - Sandalphon

[It's morning and Ion is already tired. He sits on one side of the bed, rulebook in one hand and walking staff leaning against his side. He closes his eyes, thinking--frustrated? Or just worried? But at the sound of another's approach, he--you guessed it, looks up with a smile. It's much more weary than the smiles of just a few days prior. Naturally, he recognizes his roommate right away.]

Hello--I saw your name on the door. It looks like we'll be sharing this space together, for the time being.

[He gives a polite dip of his head.]

I'll try not to be an inconvenience for you.

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[Ion's shoulders tense, but he's able to take the anger in stride. He's seen it before--the yelling, the accusations. Some people just don't know how to express what they're feeling. If he's being honest with himself, he supposes he doesn't really know, either.]

It's alright if I die, so please don't trouble yourself with the unnecessary responsibility. That said, I'm sure that you're much more capable and valuable than you give yourself credit for.

[It's almost liberating to be absolved of any future failures; however, that does little to stay Sandalphon's tirade.]

I know exactly what my value is. I'm useless scrap . . .

[A good-for-nothing stopgap, full of selfish treachery. Even now—]

It would have been fine if it were just me. Why prolong this wretched existence? But you . . . you're here now, so what am I supposed to do!

[Useless scrap...it resonates perhaps a bit too close to home. Without thinking, he puts down his rulebook and places a hand over his heart, as if to check that it's still beating. In a terrible sort of way, this makes sense.]

Ah, I think I see why we were chosen for one another.

[He smiles almost as if to himself, a smile full of helpless anguish.]

It sounds as if we may have a decent amount in common. I'm so sorry...it's a terrible thing, to question the meaning of your existence.

Edited 2018-06-05 09:22 (UTC)

[To have it said so aptly, Sandalphon is stunned to momentary silence. He sucks in a sharp breath as he breaks eye contact.]

What . . . do you mean?

[Ion takes a deep breath, glad for the reprieve from a raised voice but wary of the tense, meaningful silence that falls in its wake. He stands, and looks down at the symbol at the top of his staff as if that will somehow help the words come to him more easily.]

I've spent most of my life thinking something very similar: is this really what I'm meant to do? What is it about who I am that matters? I believe...I've always believed, that every person in the world serves their own special and equally important purpose. Still, I can't apply that same logic to myself, who was brought into the world only to serve as a substitute for someone else. How can I be unique when I've been molded into a life that was never meant for me? The more I think about it, the more lost I feel.

[His hands ball into fists, his soft voice somehow growing even softer.]

I've known since the moment I came to be that, at any moment, I can simply be replaced by another replica of who I'm meant to be--like a tool, easily broken but just as easily supplied.

[A thick knot forms in the back of Ion's throat and he shoves it back down, suddenly aware of how much he's been talking. Maybe too quickly, he turns back around to face Sandalphon, and smiles apologetically.]

I'm sorry. I got carried away--it probably wasn't appropriate to say so much, and I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable.

[In his refusal to meet Ion's eyes, Sandalphon doesn't see the apologetic smile. Instead, he mutters:]

It's not the same . . .

[There are plenty of differences. Ion talks of individualism, but Sandalphon has only ever craved to be like everyone else. Ion fears replacement; Sandalphon fears the uselessness that precedes such an outcome. They're not the same.

Yet there's no greater pain than being an obsolete substitute. That much is the same.

With a shaky exhale, he goes to sit down on the opposite end of the bed. His back turned to Ion, Sandalphon looks down at the parchment in his left hand. In spite of the former's obvious anguish, the latter finds himself, in a fit of childishness, feeling envious.]

You have a purpose.

Maybe.

[Maybe at one time. A purpose he made for himself when, unlike every other person to exist in the Score, he had no written predestiny. When he was told to sit still and stay quiet and play the part of a puppet, and chose to make his own path. But now, the boy he was meant to replace has returned, so ultimately, what use is he? He can't exist at the same time, he wouldn't have ever existed in the first place if it hadn't been for the absence they knew he'd leave in his passing.

No, better not to talk about it. They still don't know each other very well, after all.]

An interesting choice, to bring up divinity.

[We'll just go with him having gone here before looking at the tapestries.]

[A dozen thoughts vie for his focus, nearly all of them revolving around the child behind him. As far as he's concerned, the root of the problem still lies before his feet: their lives are linked, but it's the same as pairing a person with a broken doll. It just doesn't work.

He'd almost forgotten about what he said in the beginning. It was supposed to have been ironic, coming from a being whose world has long been forsaken by the gods. Sandalphon is almost reluctant to ask.]

Why is that?

[Ion laughs softly to himself. Being separated from is life, it feels so absurd to talk about.]

On my world, you could say that I act as the voice of our God.

[Or, the voice of the voice of their God, he supposes is even closer to the reality, but semantics.]

It's my task to guide and advise the masses according to our sacred Score. [He pauses.] So, in a sense, the possibility of divine retribution isn't too far from the truth.

[Loved, respected, and wanted by all—surely this is the sort of fate that someone with such importance possesses, just like him. (Does he know? That Sandalphon is here, escaping judgment for his crimes . . . ) But that doesn't make sense in the context of this topic.]

Why would the voice of God face retribution?

Your guess is as good as mine.

[He tries to sound lighthearted, but he can't keep up the demeanor. It does make him wonder. He can't really imagine such a thing happening. The way that he views the Score and their system of beliefs is much more forgiving than the way everyone else tends to. Perhaps it's just in his nature to expect the best in everyone, even those incorporeal.]

But if I was, I'd say it's because I've gone against the Score that I preach to others. I'm supposed to follow it as law, but...

[He sits back down again.]

I've chosen a different path.

Because you want to be your own person.

[It isn't something with which he can identify, but he thinks that he can understand Ion's story. Beings who are created for a specific reason (whether it lasts or not) all suffer from self-awareness.]

You chose that over your purpose . . .

[No matter which way he looks at it, Sandalphon can't understand that.]

No, that's not exactly what I mean.

[He frowns, not sure that he wants to just come out and say it, but, well, they're partners, so he might as well be open and honest.]

Being alive, that's what went against it. "Ion dies at the age of twelve--" it's one of the first things I ever read from the Score.

[His brow twitches, and his grip on the parchment softens. It makes a startling amount of sense all of a sudden. He doesn't know what the Score is, but it's easy enough to match the pieces.]

You're the replacement.

Yes, that's right.

[In a small sense, it's a bit of a weight off of his shoulders, being able to say it. He had to keep it a secret for so long--and from so many people who deserved to know the truth all along.]

That's why I hate it to cause you any amount of anxiety if anything were to happen to me.

[At the end of the day, that knowledge changes nothing. Ion—this Ion—has purpose whereas Sandalphon does not. Yet, with the former's feelings laid bare, something feels like it's shifted. His shoulders slump forward.]

Created, only to be condemned . . . How pitiful. What's the point?

[At least at the moment, Ion doesn't have an answer. He's not sure Sandalphon is even looking for one. So he takes a quick pause, and decides to offer something else instead.]

If you're willing to tell your story, I'm more than happy to listen.

[Sandalphon is quiet for a moment. With slow, fluid motions he folds the parchment up and tucks it away on his person, then rises to a stand.]

There's nothing to tell.

[His next words are soft-spoken, drained of the energy he exhibited earlier in their encounter. His attention has already wandered to their bleak future.]

A pair of stopgaps with a fleeting purpose . . . Heh. Will we even last the week, I wonder?

[He's gonna just take a raincheck on that Tragic Backstory, for now. At the change of subject, however slight it is, Ion's able to find his smile again.]

I think so. Naive as it may be of me to say so, but I believe we can all work together to find the most peaceful solution to the war we've been recruited into.

[Upon remembering his brief exchange with one of the hosts, Sandalphon scowls as he works on attaching the scabbard of his sword to his waist.]

We're not the first ones to be drafted into this war. If such a solution existed, we wouldn't be here.

[He's being evasive, but this is an easier topic to handle. Right now, he can't talk about himself.]

You don't think there's even a chance for peace?

[Ion watches him work, his voice as gentle and patient as ever.]

I'm certainly not foolish enough to believe in a bloodless victory, as much as I'd pray for one, but...to end with the fewest possible casualties...if war is ever necessary, I'd consider that the ideal conclusion.

Edited 2018-06-06 07:54 (UTC)

You'd have to defy the guidelines established by our hosts to achieve even one less casualty. The risks are untold. That ideal conclusion is likely beyond our grasp.

[There's always a chance for anything to happen, but it's very slim.]

You might be right.

[Even if it isn't what he wants, or hopes for. He has to at least admit that much. Ion looks at where he's let his own rulebook rest, his stomach twisting as he recalls the contents.]

Between what we've learned from them and whatever it may be that you've been personally tasked with...may I ask how you plan to proceed?

[He pauses, his right hand frozen over the hilt. It's just a moment he needs to reprocess the task he was given, and his hand settles down on the pommel.]

Whether we like it or not, our lives are tethered. For your sake, I won't place myself in needless danger. If you need anything, tell me.

[From one pawn to another.]

That's all for now.

...alright. Thank you.

[Regardless of the emotionally lows and tense words exchanged in their conversation, Ion's expression of thanks is nothing short of genuine.]

I may not be able to offer much, but please don't hesitate to do the same.

[Such sincerity makes Sandalphon uncomfortable. He heads for the door, barely acknowledging Ion's offer with a slight nod.

This won't end well . . . The odds are stacked against their very nature, and the last thing he wants is to drag someone down with him (he's over that). As much as it hurts, he needs to think.]

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Week 0, Monday - Sandalphon

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I wanted to keep tagging so badly but I had to admit defeat to sleep

Sleep . . . our one true archnemesis.

it's true

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