fragileprophet | Week 2 - dreamshare catchall with Sandalphon

[Before you, a green-haired soldier falls to his knees, defeated in battle. He was wearing a mask, but it clatters to the ground, and even before he has time to shield his face you know...your suspicions are finally confirmed.

Because he has your face, too.

The others around you startle as they see it, too, so you decide there's no point in hiding this anymore. You sigh, stepping forward.

Just as I thought...you are also a replica of the Fon Master.

The others stare at you, faces torn in shock, so you persist. Your words feel like stones as they echo back in your ears.

I'm Fon Master Ion's seventh replica: the final one. You glance guiltily over your shoulder toward Anise. I'm sorry. It's only been about two years since I was born.

You can tell what she's thinking before she says it: the reason that she was assigned to you so suddenly, the reason the other guardians were dismissed: it's all because you were a fake. It's all been one big lie. The replica on the ground speaks, so you're able to tear your eyes back away from her and face him.

You had the closest abilities to the original unlike us trash.

Your stomach churns in violent discomfort.

Don't call yourself that.

He doesn't even meet your eyes, his teeth gritted in pain and bitterness.

That's what I am. My powers were so weak I was cast alive into the mouth of the Mt. Zaleho volcano. A replica that can't serve as a replacement is nothing more than garbage.

You try again. Desperation claws away at your ribcage.

Don't talk like that. You can come with us--you and I are the same!

You step toward him as he staggers back to his feet and extend him a hand. You hope...you hope...

And he slaps your hand away, angry, hateful. You're used to the hatred of the Grand Maestro, but this is something different. This is an intimate, deep-seeded resentment that is much more personal than a man hating you for what you are. This is someone hating you for everything that you took away from them. Everything you never wanted, and that you can't give back. The sting in your hand travels all the way up your arm.

No, we're not. I'm only alive to be used. Only the useful ones are ever kept alive...out of pity.

You don't know what to say, but you don't have time to react as, without a word, he steps backward, off the edge of the landing you stand on, into a chasm of certain death. Your whole body feels still as you watch the void where the other you once was. Your heart is pounding so badly it hurts, but you don't move. You don't know what to do, what to say. You don't know what you feel. But your eyes are burning and raw, your face hot.

Anise steps forward to examine the spot where Sync once was, then turns to look at you and her face falls.

Ion, please don't cry.

Her words confuse you.

I'm not crying, you assure.

But, those tears...

You lift a hand to your cheek, and find it comes away wet. You still don't know what to say.

I guess I was sad, you decide. This is the first time I've ever cried.

You understand now, this wrenching in your chest. You understand that the fear was never just fear. It was always heartache. Always loneliness. Always sorrow. Always everything terrible all at once.

All this time, I had it wrong.

You shouldn't have been the one they spared.]

Edited 2018-06-21 02:51 (UTC)

[Lucifer is here again. He asks if you’re doing well, and you answer that nothing’s changed when the icy grip of insecurity snakes around your core. You let the words spill.

“Oh, but there is one thing . . . ” you trail off, suddenly shy about burdening the supreme primarch with your lowly concerns.

“What is it? Are you still contemplating your purpose?”

You nod and explain that all archangels have a purpose—all except for you, who passes each day in peace and quiet. Perhaps this time, you hope, you’ll receive an answer for the reason behind your creation. Instead, Lucifer scowls.

“How many times must I repeat myself? That is not something you should be concerned with.”

And just like that, Lucifer leaves you behind despite the protest that escapes your lips and dies after a word. Dejected, you look down at your feet. You just want to be useful to him.

You wander the lab. Eventually, you come upon Lucifer and a researcher’s discussion of your purpose. You hide behind a pillar, your heart pounding in anticipation.

“He’s your spare in case something happens to you.” The researcher and Lucifer exchange a few words, and the former chuckles. “Realistically speaking, that won’t be necessary. You’ve far surpassed my wildest dreams. Sandalphon is useless. That scrap will be disposed of at an appropriate time. I suppose you may keep him if you’ve grown attached to him.”

Lucifer is speechless. The researcher takes him away to look at another specimen while you lean against the pillar for support. The researcher’s words echo in the empty wasteland of your mind.

You’re useless scrap. A stopgap. Good for nothing. Then why do you still exist?

For years, you’ve prayed that you might be useful to Lucifer someday. That day will never come.

You flee, but not before you start to weep uncontrollably.

Later, a collection of primals who can no longer stand their miserable fate band together to rebel against the researchers. It’s a primitive rampage, void of organized thought and overflowing with desperation. You join them, but not because you’ve grown tired of the experiments; you do so, because you’re a worthless pawn who has no place in Lucifer’s regulated world.

The rebellion fails, in large part due to Lucifer’s awesome power. Those who aren’t massacred, including you, are gathered up and imprisoned in a tower that strips you of your movement and power.

The darkness consumes you for two thousand years. Your anger, your grief, your guilt—innumerable emotions fester in your wretched soul. But you can't cry out; you can only think and drown in your poisonous thoughts for what feels like an eternity.

You want to see him again. You want to hear his voice. You want to meet him in that shaded garden and watch his smile while he brews coffee. You want to prostrate yourself before him and beg his forgiveness for your treason.

But it's too late.

You’ve ruined everything.]

[Sandalphon awakens groggily that morning, his eyes meeting resistance when he opens them slowly. The tears that gathered during the dream have dampened his eyelashes, and they cling to his face. An uncomfortable lump, too, has settled in his throat. He sits up and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, wiping away the moisture as he sniffles once.

He isn't sad. There's a chasm in his chest as his hands drop and he stares off into space. There isn't a lot to think about. The dream he just had made a twisted amount of sense.

His cheeks burn and he swallows the lump. The rest of him is numb; his mind, painfully sober.]

[Ion isn't exactly sure when he goes from the dream to reality. His mind shakes off the thoughts and the feelings, but still, everything is dark behind his eyelids and he grimaces, afraid to open them...afraid there will only be more darkness.

He feels the blankets and the sheets and the pillow behind his head--and at some point, he feels the soft rustling of Sandalphon beside him as he sits up. Still, Ion steels himself before he finally lets his eyes open.

But he doesn't know if he's relieved. He doesn't know how to react. A part of him feels like he's lived so long--but logically he knows, he's still only so young and so small. His fingers curl around fistfuls of blanket. Eventually...he has to say something. The pervading silence only serves to aggravate a budding sense of anxiety inside of his stomach.]

Sandalphon...

[But the words stop as he stares up at the ceiling, his voice feeling raw.]

[Ion is awake. The call of his name sounds distant as Sandalphon mentally navigates his way back to himself. Unlike the previous dreams, the transition is almost instant.

His gaze still fixed to nowhere, his question comes out as a near mutter.]

What did you see?

[Now, as himself, he has a lot to think about. He can't talk about what he saw yet.]

Mostly darkness.

[A lot of darkness. A lot of raw emotions. But, before that...such terrible words.]

I think I understand things a bit better now.

[He blinks, though his expression remains unchanged.]

Pandemonium. That's the name of the tower.

[Then he falls silent, because he doesn't want to ask what Ion means about understanding. He remembers the darkness so well: He'd only escaped recently. The same darkness brewing in his mind threatens to swallow him again as the deafening quiet of the room closes in on him.]

Pandemonium...a terrible name for a terrible place.

[It's fitting. A place to contemplate the pandemonium that was caused, if not a place for pandemonium itself. Ion shudders slightly. He doesn't like how empty he feels. So wretched.]

Sometimes...

[He has to push through a knot in his throat--when did that get there?]

Sometimes I find myself wondering the same thing: why do I still exist?

[At that, Sandalphon's eyes narrow as he turns his head away from Ion. It's a painful question that hurts, precisely because there's never a real reason.]

I don't know. I can't answer that.

[Thousands of years later, he still can't answer that even for himself.]

I don't understand . . . Why would you question your being chosen?

Because I have seen the pain that it has inflicted on others. Because I know what happened to those who were not.

[The blood on the floor...the volcano. Nobody every really tried to keep it a secret from him.]

Because despite having been deemed the best of the lot, it was made explicitly clear how easy it would be to simply create another. Life...shouldn't be a privilege.

Edited 2018-06-21 07:10 (UTC)

[Yet life is a privilege for those who weren't naturally given the gift of life.]

Would it have changed anything if another had been chosen? That pain wasn't your doing. You . . . were merely fulfilling your duty.

Is it such a strange thought?

[He considers this.]

I don't know why I am so different that way. Despite the purpose I was created to fulfill, the only time I ever found joy was when I decided to do something outside of what was ordered of me.

[Ion pauses again.]

I've never been able to stop thinking of the others. I was given a name--if someone else's name--and a chance to keep living, while they were killed. This wasn't my choice or my doing, but I feel that someone should know what was done. Someone should remember them. So I do. I mourn them.

[Sandalphon is quiet as he tries to understand that joy. But, having no frame of reference with which to compare Ion's experience, he is unable.

Mourning, however—he lifts his head.]

You honor them by remembering whom they were.

[Not for whom they were meant to be, but for the small sliver of identity they possessed as nameless faces. Ion is, truly, compassionate.]

Yes. Who they were, and who they might have become, if they had only been given the chance.

[But the world is...no, it could be a cruel place. It still has so much good in it, so much potential for more. And that's why he wants, above all else, to save it.]

I don't think there's any such thing as a life that should be thrown away for any reason.

[Though he knows, even as he says that, that he's such a hypocrite. Because hasn't he lived his own life as if it's one that's worth being discarded? Hasn't he been putting everyone here above him in importance? Why can't he just apply these truths to himself, too? Why is it so hard?]

[That way of thinking is too broad, too limitless for Sandalphon to comprehend. He looks down at his lap, his hands resting limply on the blanket. A saying that like can easily apply to someone as compassionate and wise as Ion, who's so young.]

Even a life like mine?

[His words are soft, faint; it's unclear whether he's talking to himself or Ion. The thought is puzzling.]

Of course.

[He doesn't hesitate with his answer--and before he even thinks about it, Ion shifts to his side and reaches out a hand to place on top of Sandalphon's, his small pale fingers curling gently around his palm.]

Of course even yours.

[His hand twitches, the touch of Ion's dainty fingers causing him to wonder.]

But I'm useless . . . What point is there for a tool like me to exist, if I'm unable to fulfill a purpose?

Please don't call yourself that.

[He'll recognize that tone. He just heard it, not so long ago.]

You don't have to be assigned a purpose to have one. You've lived such a long time already, but that doesn't mean there isn't more time for you to find the meaning that you've been seeking.

I don't have time anymore.

[It isn't an argument. He's stating a fact.]

I no longer exist in my world the way I do here. Besides that . . . I have nothing to offer.

I don't think that's true.

[His heart sinks. Could it be that they're both the same in that way, as well? Ion decides not to bring it up. The more people who know the truth, the harder this gets.]

You've offered me a lot, at least.

[He exhales through his nose. He doesn't think that's true, either. If anything, Ion has given so much more in return.

More than that, this week . . . ]

My fate has already been decided. I won't fight it.

[Even so, Ion doesn't let go of his hand. He holds on, steady, even as his voice gets smaller.]

I know I can't force you to change the way that you see yourself...but your constant companionship and support has helped me so much.

[Maybe it's not the same for Sandalphon. He doesn't know. Maybe he's just been annoying, an obligation, someone to worry needlessly over because he keeps getting himself hurt and keeps trying to hide it. But, still...]

No matter where we both must go, I wouldn't ever forget these kindnesses.

[That sentiment can't last. His vision focuses and Sandalphon pulls his hand free from Ion's grasp. Already, his skin feels bare without that tender touch. He doesn't look Ion in the eyes.]

As long as you're my partner, I'll take care of you. It's the least that I can do.

[Whatever it takes.]

...I see.

[He knows it's not a rejection, not necessarily, but Ion's hand feels so cold again. Instinctively, he brings it back around to hug himself.]

I'll do the same.

[No matter what he must sacrifice.]

Week 2 - dreamshare catchall with Sandalphon

WEDNESDAY

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