fragileprophet | Week 2 - dreamshare catchall with Sandalphon

[You stand in your room. On your bed, a girl with long brown hair lies, asleep, in clear pain. Everyone talks about what to do--the miasma is consuming her body, they say, and nobody has been able to figure out a way to save her. At this rate, she'll surely die...and it won't be long.

Your friends mean so much to you. Thanks to them, slowly but surely, you've begun to feel like more than just the seventh replica of the fon master, a thing in the skin of a beloved boy.

You owe them everything, so you can't keep this to yourself.

I know of a way that we can save her, you say, but there isn't time to explain. Anise runs into the room, panicked, and grabs you by the hand. Saying it's an emergency, she pulls you out before the others can follow.

Before you know it, you're face-to-face with the Grand Maestro. There he is, once again, regarding you like an insect. He beckons you both to come, and you know...you know. There's no use in fighting this. It's time to read the Planetary Score.

Your friends catch up with you and demand to know what Anise is doing, but as she distracts them, Mohs grabs you by the collar and shoves you forward. Your mouth tastes like metal as you let him drag you down...down...

All the way to the Fonstone hidden deep inside the Mt. Zaleho volcano. Back to where you started, back to where the other yous were thrown, alive. It's your turn. Maybe it was always meant to be this way.

Anise and Mohs linger behind you as you press your hands to the Fonstone and read its contents. The words flow through your body and pass through your lips: war, disease, destruction, death, and ruin. The world is over. The world will fall. There is no hope left, not for any man, woman, or child--

Luke's hands pull you back and away. You can feel your body breaking. He begs you to stop, but you keep going, one final thing, one he deserves to know: he can stop it all. You fall and he catches you, cradling you in his arms, watching your face. You're so weak you can't feel an inch of your body.

This was my final reading of the Score for you, Luke. A single path among your many possible futures. I don't expect you to use it...but this is the only way I could help.

His voice breaks. He tells you that you've always helped, and that you'll always keep helping. Your smile falls. Why is he so sad? He knows what you are. Knows that there are others.

Please don't look at me like that, you beg. I have plenty of replacements.

Don't say that--it isn't true! The other replicas aren't you, they don't know me!

You don't understand.

You don't understand.

You don't...you try...you don't have time. You call Tear over and take her by the hand, absorbing the miasma from her body into yours. She tries to protest, but you don't let go.

This was always the only way...and now, you're dying. Now, you can finally pay them back for all that they've given you. All the smiles, all the warmth, everything.

The poison rips through you as your body continues to deteriorate from the inside out. Something strange is happening. There's a knot in your throat, and you feel what's left of your life dragging out into an impossible length. You know that there's so much you'll never get to experience. There's so many feelings in your heart you just don't understand, that you haven't learned, will never learn.

And it hurts, how badly it hurts, what you won't have.

Anger, you've never felt anger.

Love, you've never known love.

Life, have you ever had it, really? Have you truly known?

You want to live, you want to live, more than anything, you truly want to live.

Tear, Jade, Guy, Natalia, Mieu...Luke.

Anise.

As you fade to nothing, as Luke holds you so tightly, you know that there's only one precious moment left for you here, and if you can have nothing else that you want, you at least want to see her again. You want to speak to her again. You want to see her smile, and laugh, and you want to tell her...

You want to tell her...

You have to tell her, this is the last chance, everything you've always--

The memory stops here.]

Edited 2018-06-22 08:22 (UTC)

[The sky is blue and bright . . . and yet so dull. Where you once marveled at the sight of its majestic vastness, you now smile sardonically as you pull your hood over your eyes. You may be free, but this realm of bountiful islands suspended in the skies has no place for you.

You’ll burn it down, you decide. And upon the ashes, you will create a heavenly realm of your own. For that, you’ll need power—and an archangel’s power lies in his wings.

You steal the wings of the archangels who preside over the elements, disrupting the balance of nature and sinking islands across the skydoms. The archangel of fire, Michael, dares to mention the supreme primarch during your ambush, so you kick her while she’s down to shut her up; the mud and blood that cake her face give you a twisted sense of delight, but you don’t linger there for long. Your sights are set higher than she can see.

Earth, wind, and fire. You miss your chance to steal the power of water, but you’ve accumulated enough power to rival that of a god—to overpower Lucifer, if you so choose.

So why has he not descended to confront you yet?

Then everything goes wrong. The archangels enlist the aid of mortals and other primal beasts to weaken you, and the raging battle that follows ends in your inexplicable defeat. Drained of your stamina and energy, you plummet onto the nearest island. The wings you’ve stolen return to their rightful owners, and you are weak again. You find yourself at the mercy of the archangels, who declare that your judgment shall be writ by none other than the supreme primarch.

The next series of moments is a blur. You feign remorse, then shove the young captain of the crew—little more than a child, even by human standards—off the cape of the island as a sacrifice to break the seal on Pandemonium and release the primals hungering for violent justice. Raphael, the archangel of wind, restrains you with a look of disapproval amid your deranged laughter. He asks why you drag this out. You answer that you want the world that doesn’t need you to burn. Gabriel, the archangel of water, is disgusted by your infantile raving, but you don’t care. You’re simply here to watch everything that Lucifer loves, die.

But somehow, the mortal survives, and the seal on Pandemonium remains. A cold fear grips you.

In a ray of light, Lucifer appears from above. Your heart pounds when he speaks, only for the old wounds in your heart to flare up upon learning that he was responsible for holding the seal intact. All this time, he knew what you were scheming and chose to ignore you; you weren’t worth the confrontation.

No matter what you do, he won’t look your way.

You lash out. All you ever wanted was just one person to tell you that you matter, you say in a shaky voice. The rest of the world can hate you, and you’d still be happy. But such a person doesn’t exist. No one will acknowledge a deplorable wretch like you, who only knows how to destroy everything that's good.

When Lucifer responds to your tirade, he does so with a pinch in his brow. He asks your forgiveness for not noticing your feelings earlier.

“Your purehearted words would always instill me with such tranquility,” he adds, referring to the taboo past between the two of you, and your heart stops. You're more afraid now than you've ever been in your long, pointless existence.

You tell him that you don’t believe his lies, that it’s too late to make amends. Despite your strong words, desperation creeps into your voice as you shout yourself hoarse: “Hate me! Destroy me! Punish me! If you forgive me, then my last 2000 years will have been . . . ”

For nothing. All your feelings, your time in imprisonment—senseless, like everything about you.

Lucifer cuts you off, claiming partial responsibility for your rampage. He beckons for you and you gasp his name when you feel yourself being undone. You're powerless to resist his judgment, even though there are so many things you wish to say.

In an instant, your body disperses into tiny particles of light. Your consciousness is fragmented, then lulled into a deep slumber as you’re brought back into Lucifer’s core. It ends before you realize what's happened. Just like that, you cease to exist.

It’s over.]

[That he gets any sleep is a miracle, and it certainly isn't restful. Even in sleep, he can't seem to escape a certain level of torment.

(But that's just what he deserves.)

This time, he snaps awake, his body jerking upright the instant he regains consciousness. What was a burning sting on his palm now feels distant and numb as he clenches his fists around their shared blanket. Beads of sweat dot his temples, and he struggles, wide-eyed to remember how to breathe. Overwhelmed by the pain and yearning before the dream's abrupt end, he makes nary a sound.

What time is it? This is a natural awakening. It can't be time for the investigation yet . . . ]

[It's over...it's over...so why is he awake again?

Ion's already coiled on his side, facing away from Sandalphon as he comes to. He's never felt anger before. Was that what that was?

No, not really. It wasn't anger at all, was it. It was just so lonely, so desperate, so wanting. A call, a plea, to just please be seen...to be heard.

Ion doesn't want to fade away. He doesn't want Sandalphon to fade away. He clenches his eyes shut again as he feels his lashes grow wet, and covers his mouth with a hand.

If everyone must die, why must they seem to die so suddenly, without a chance to find the things they so desperately crave? If life is so beautiful, so fleeting, why is it so unfulfilling?

In the end, are they doomed to always feel so separate, so alone, so in need?]

[When Sandalphon regains the ability to breathe, it isn't a cleansing breath that he takes. There's a knot in his throat and he lets out a convulsive gasp in a pitiful effort not to cry.

Death. So much death. His (Ion's) death, that boy's—Sandalphon doubles over and buries his face in his hands, tugging on his hair. His shoulders tremble.

He doesn't know whether to cry or to laugh. He can't tell if these many emotions are just his, or a sick mixture of his wretchedness and Ion's sorrow. Something in him feels like it's about to snap.]

[It takes Ion another moment--he's not sure how long, exactly--before he's able to shake himself just enough out of the roiling emotions of the dream to realize that Sandalphon's also awake. He quickly rubs his eyes and sits up, whirling around to look at him.]

You're still...you're still here.

[It's enough to make him want to cry again. What he sees renders in his brain in groggy, disjointed thoughts. His posture, his silence, what he might have seen--what's even left?

But Ion reaches for his arm with both of his hands, wanting to hold on, wanting to make sure that he's really there, that he's not alone, that he's alive, they're alive.]

I'm...I'm so...

[Happy? Glad? No, that's such a dramatic oversimplification that he can't even say it. It's so much more than that. So much that he doesn't even have a word.]

[Sandalphon is still. Several beats pass and the tension in his fingers loosen, releasing the iron grip on his fringe. He doesn't raise his head. Ion's awake and reaching for him, but he finds himself trapped in his crowded thoughts and emotions.

Ah . . . Is that how mortals experience death? Is it truly so unfulfilling to fulfill one's purpose to the bitter end? Then why does it hurt so much to not have a purpose?

What did Ion do that was so wrong, to face such a miserable demise?]

[Even without a response, Ion keeps going, his wrenching heart and his spinning head propelling him thoughtlessly forward until his arms wrap around Sandalphon's, holding onto him like a child.

And that's all that he is, ultimately.

Here, without his artes, with a meaningless title, losing more and more what feels like by the day, he feels smaller than ever. Weaker than ever.

He tightens his hold instinctively, as if he fears that Sandalphon will dissipate into light between his fingers. The thought is too much to bear.]

[The weight of Ion's arms is heavy on Sandalphon's. Whatever this gesture is, he's not familiar with it. He isn't mortal. He doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand.

Another fleeting moment goes by, and he shifts by a minuscule inch.]

What . . . are you doing?

I don't know.

[He knows what the gesture is, but not necessarily the why. Not what it will solve, what its doing for him, if this is even comforting on any level. But he can't stop. He can't unhook himself. Ion clenches his eyes shut.]

Please just let me stay like this for a bit longer.

[He takes a deep breath through his nose. If Ion doesn't know, then he has no hope of figuring this out. In a defeated tone, he replies:]

Do as you wish.

[As comforting as it is to know that Ion is still here, Sandalphon is uncertain as to whether he can look at his partner.]

Thank you.

[Slowly but surely, his body calms, his mind clearing. Ion still feels shaken, but he feels like he can contain it now. Bury it with everything else that hurts. He unwinds his arms, but stays close.]

I'm sorry...I just woke up feeling a little shocked, and I guess I reacted instinctively. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable.

[He peers down, past the gaps between his fingers, at the twisted fabric of the blanket draped over his lap. His arm is light now that it's devoid of Ion's grip, and the room feels bigger than ever around them.

Ion doesn't make him uncomfortable; however, his throat has closed up. He intends for his silence to be taken as a negative. He doesn't know what to say.]

[The continued silence sets Ion's heart pounding. What has he done so wrong now, he wonders.]

...I'm sorry.

[He only just apologized, but it feels like the only natural thing to say. To keep saying.]

I'm sure that was the last one.

[Slowly, his hands peel away from his face to rest on his lap. That was the last one. Of course—there can't be anything more than that.]

I don't understand . . . Why did it hurt so much?

Why did what hurt?

[Considering the dream he just had of Sandalphon, it wouldn't be too hard to put the pieces together, but...it's hard for him to immediately assume which painful part of his little life to zero in on.]

[Key thoughts from the dream echo in his mind. As Sandalphon recites them, he tries to understand.]

You wanted to live. You wanted to live for yourself.

[And that want ached.]

...oh.

[So that's where they are. How fitting, that the two of them saw each other die. Or at least, Sandalphon saw him nearly die. But it's definitive enough. Ion leans backward on an arm. His wrist is still bandaged, but he doesn't feel anything.]

I always expected to die soon, or suddenly. For most of my life...I was resigned to it. It wasn't until it was happening that I realized I was fooling myself. And I suppose it hurt...to have to face that when there wasn't any more time.

[Realizations always come too late.]

What's going to happen when this farce ends? Will you . . .

[The words die before in his throat. Does that mean that everything up till now has been pointless?]

Die, yes.

[Ion flashes one of those self-deprecating smiles.]

That’s why I asked you when we first met not to concern yourself with my well being. I have but one moment more to my name.

[He remembers. It feels like so long ago.]

No . . . If you're here, then there must be some sort of a way.

[A way to preserve this precious life, whose only desire is to live. There has to be.]

[It does. Strange how a few weeks can seem like the start of a whole new lifetime. But then, Ion's perception of time is a bit lacking.]

It would be nice if there was, but...

[His smile starts to fade. His expression says it all: it hurts too much to hope for what he wants just to find out that it won't matter. It's easier to just accept nothing now.]

I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound defeated, or like I don't appreciate what you're saying.

[He stares down at his hands, and his gaze is drawn to the fresh cut on his palm. Craning his neck, he finally sees Ion's expression—and something else.]

What happened to your wrist?

Hm?

[The question feels so sudden, it confuses him. He looks own at his wrist.]

Oh, this? Sorry, I forgot. Did I not tell you? I took one of Stephanie's injuries--from last week.

[Subconsciously, he curls his hands into loose fists, concealing the cut.]

How many more do you intend to take unto yourself?

Week 2 - dreamshare catchall with Sandalphon

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