Disclaimer: I don't own Enzai: Falsely Accused. I had nothing to do with the making of that thing, which allows me to breathe a sigh of relief for my mental health.
Author's Notes: Can anyone please say "ANGST" for me? :)
I know I spend way too much time on overanalyzing a dirty BL game and its characters... but I just love Ellis and Vallewida's story, because it was so totally messed up in the first place. I wish it had been given more attention in the game; alas, no, the references were brief. Fortunately, there's a great Drama CD out there that explains a lot of things.
I made up a few minor details, like the women's names, for example—but not the fact that Vallewida had a fiancé and an affair with a married woman somewhere along the way. I also skipped some things, because I didn't intend to write a whole novel on anyone's past here. It's just a quick, canon-based retelling of a certain ill-fated love and friendship.
On a side note, I think I just rewrote the history of Napoleon wars in this piece, but who cares. :D
The contents of this fic are mostly safe and the beginning is actually quite innocent (never mind the second paragraph), just like a common fic for teenage slash fans, but beware of the highly disturbing imagery near the end. I raised the rating just to be sure.
Memory(Undone)
by Lucrecia LeVrai
It's been four years since they last saw each other, but Ellis still remembers Vallewida.
How could he possibly forget him? Even these days, when he is laying next to a sleeping woman whom he does not love, and who will soon have his child, Ellis sometimes closes his eyes, moves his hand under the bedsheets and thinks about his former friend. Every now and then, he dreams about him.
He remembers that warm, summer afternoon when they met for the first time. As the young stranger jumped down from a tree after a bag he had just dropped on top of the other man's unsuspecting head, Ellis—angry and more than a little taken aback—was already opening his mouth to curse the clumsy bastard. Just before he could spit out a single insult, however, he managed to look up and see who was kneeling beside him, apologizing in a soft, genuinely worried voice. He saw a gorgeous face that could have as well belonged to a woman for its delicate cheekbones, gray eyes and smooth, silver hair. Ellis snapped his mouth shut at once. Because it occurred to him, at that very moment, that he was looking at a goddamn angel, cleverly disguised as a soldier by a blue uniform of the French infantry.
Even now, after all these years, Ellis is convinced that—no matter how ridiculous it may sound—it was love at first sight. It had to be just that, at least back then… At least from his perspective.
He remembers the unfinished sketch he saw that day, the thing that actually sparkled their friendship in the first place. Vallewida could draw so well as if he were a real artist. He could also fight with ruthless, deadly efficiency, which belied his fragile appearance, and then laugh in a lovely, light-hearted manner. He could listen like no other, but not read between the lines. The words that weren't always appropriate for a normal conversation between two soldiers, he would simply dismiss as a mere joke. He would ignore every meaningful, ambiguous gesture without a second thought, or easily brush aside hands that dared to wander too far. He could smile apologetically and lie down right next to Ellis, only to yawn, turn over and fall asleep a few moments later, completely oblivious of the torment his companion was forced to experience at the same time.
To Ellis, it seemed like heaven and hell merged into one reality, and yet he had no choice but to continue playing the game on Vallewida's rules.
After a couple of months of training, his friend was finally granted the thing he dreamt about: permission to join the special forces. Ellis remembers the day, on which they were supposed to part with each other for a longer, unspecified period of time, because the promotion involved moving to a different garrison. Vallewida almost cried with laughter as he saw the inept copy of his own picture from their very first meeting. Ellis couldn't hold a pencil even half as well as the other man, but he had done his best to recreate the scene captured on paper nearly a year ago on his request: the two of them resting together under a tree on that sunny afternoon. Ellis intended to give his sketch to Vallewida as a memento, so he could keep the original himself. On that day, he also wanted to confess his feelings. He wanted to grab his friend's shoulders and kiss him on the lips. He did nothing of that sort. He was stopped by a pair of gray eyes, sparkling with barely concealed mirth, and a slightly more serious question: Do you really care about this thing so much? I guess I could always fix the copy for you…
Ironically enough, Vallewida was one of the nicest, gentlest people Ellis had ever met. He served in the army—and later, when the disturbances near the Prussian border turned into an open war, he killed, both with a pistol and a saber—but he was incapable of committing deliberately cruel acts against other people. Ellis knew that his friend probably wasn't hurting him on purpose. He was just clueless, totally unable to comprehend the idea of two men being something more than friends. Such things didn't fit into his narrow, Christian worldview, and so, despite his otherwise outstanding intellect, he remained an ignorant fool when it came to their relationship.
Even back then, Ellis realized it was unawareness on his friend's part, not callousness or malice. Yet he can still remember how much he was hurt by Vallewida's sincere, careless laughter on that day. He also remembers clenching his teeth at certain letters he would receive from the other man on a regular basis, during the time they were both serving on different frontlines. I got engaged, Vallewida wrote happily, no doubt looking forward to some congratulations. Her name's Lucienne, she's seventeen and very pretty. Her father owns a large shipping agency in Reims. He seems opposed to our relationship, but I hope he will change his mind once I finally get promoted.
Ellis could barely contain his satisfaction when the engagement was broken. He was less than pleased, however, when it turned out that the wedding was canceled not due to the objections from the girl's father, but following Vallewida's own wish, for in the meantime the man got himself into an affair with a married noblewoman. Of course, he went in his letter, I know it's just a fleeting romance. Clarisse is not going to leave the general for me. We will say goodbye as soon as I'm done with my mission in Paris. But I still felt bad for cheating on my fiancée, so I had to make this decision. I can only hope that she will find happiness with a better man.
Ellis remembers other letters and a slightly longer list of female names appearing here and there. He also remembers the war: their troops conquering and occupying new lands one by one, and the destruction that followed. He was promoted to captain, and then reunited with Vallewida in Koblenz, in a tavern filled with grim-faced Germans who stared at their uniforms in hostile silence. His friend hadn't changed much. He was now carrying his saber with even more unforced grace than three years ago, but he still had the voice and the face of an angel. By a miraculous string of coincidence, he had been moved to Ellis's unit.
Ellis remembers that Vallewida spoke at length about corruption and the widespread moral decay among the military. He had a point there: the soldiers were gradually becoming engaged in more and more atrocities committed upon the civilians. Massacres, rapes, plunder, stealing food supplies and burning whole villages to the ground were a common occurrence those days. Vallewida sounded genuinely upset as he listed the crimes. He was the kind of man who would sooner stand up to his commanding officer than set a torch to an innocent peasant's house, let alone hurt a child or a woman. And speaking of commanding officers, it was of course no big secret which men were responsible for dubious orders, but they remained unpunished, for this was war, after all—not the best of times for setting high moral standards and following the rules of civilized society.
Ellis warned his friend—now also his subordinate—not to do anything stupid, like try to play the hero and save the world all by himself. It was very important to keep the soldiers' morale high, and the common recruits, those who originated from the lower classes, couldn't fight well if their basic needs weren't met. All they wanted was a full stomach, a good whore and a few occasions for some unreserved entertainment. It wasn't much, really. Vallewida listened to Ellis's speech on the immanent face of war in angry silence. I'm not a child, he said at last, and I understand everything that you're trying to say, but the things happening around us are vile, and I refuse to have a hand in it.
They had a similar conversation one more time, a couple of months later. Vallewida seemed disgusted with the fact that someone from the high command had started smuggling grain on a huge scale, consequently bringing down famine on thousands of civilians. Ellis knew who stood behind the illegal trade. He was also involved in that conspiracy, though he was merely fulfilling orders, receiving almost no material profit from the whole business. He sincerely cautioned Vallewida against taking interest in such things.
His friend bid him a cold, disappointed farewell, and Ellis could go back to nursing his drink and imagining how would it be if he could at last—at last!—tear the other man's clothes off and show him how much he still—has it been six years now?—desired him.
Due to the fact that they were such good friends, Ellis knew that Vallewida was working on the side as a French intelligence agent, gathering information on the enemy and passing it later to some much higher-standing officers. He would have never imagined, however, that his friend would prove himself so stupid, or that he would have the sheer impudence to turn against one of his own commanders.
Vallewida easily uncovered the war profiteer. He stole documents that were an indisputable proof of that man's crimes, and was probably planning to show them to someone in Paris, someone important who would have enough power to punish the corrupt officer. He was unlucky, though, and he got caught before he could even leave the town.
When Ellis entered Vallewida's cell, he saw no doubt, let alone remorse in his friend's gaze. It was the hard stare of a man who knew he had done the right thing, and who only regretted not having been able to succeed.
Ellis still remembers how furious he was with Vallewida on that day.
Vallewida was a traitor who dared to spy on his own people. He was a subordinate who broke his captain's orders and put him in serious trouble. He was a man who thought he had some sort of moral advantage on him—he stood up to evil and corruption when everyone else was just enjoying themselves or keeping a low profile. He was a friend who hadn't listened to his sincere advice. He was a deserter and a saboteur, currently in danger of being court-martialed and hanged.
He was a man who still did not understand, not even after those six years, how Ellis could feel in such a moment.
Ellis remembers clearly what happened afterwards. He sometimes thinks about it when he forces himself to make love to his young and pretty wife.
He remembers that Vallewida changed much by the end of those few weeks. No… Actually he changed long before that, almost at the very beginning, but the difference grew more pronounced with each passing day.
In the end, Vallewida wouldn't scream at all. He didn't protest in any other way, either, whenever someone told him to kneel down in front of them, or splay his legs and bend forward. He carried out every order nearly without hesitation. And he even seemed to… He even seemed to enjoy it. A little.
Ellis remembers how his friend—no longer his friend back then, no—shivered, not exactly in fear, when they were left alone together. He remembers his quiet moans, not all of them pained. Vallewida even responded to his kiss once. It was true that he was crying as his lips parted, but it didn't matter.
Sometimes Ellis really starts to wonder: maybe if it hadn't been for that first, unpleasant night, maybe if it hadn't been for his angry order… perhaps then, everything would have been different today. Perhaps Vallewida's soul would have belonged to him by now.
Or maybe not. It's hard to mistake the hatred reflected in a person's stare for anything else.
Ellis also remembers the day when he saw Vallewida for the last time, before Bollanet's men came and dragged him into a prison carriage, taking him in some unspecified direction, most likely to continue the interrogation, because Vallewida still refused to breathe a single word about the location of the incriminating papers he had stolen. He remembers that pale, naked man with mated, silver hair, laying on the floor; his wrists bound behind his back, his chest barely rising and falling. He remembers Vallewida's gaze, those gray eyes with unnaturally dilated pupils, staring blankly into space.
Ellis knows that if he ever decides to reach for a pistol he keeps in his house, it will be this particular detail that he will remember with utmost clarity as he will pull the trigger: the empty, unseeing eyes of a broken doll.
Even if asked directly, Vallewida would not be able to tell who Ellis is. He doesn't remember anyone by this name.
He doesn't remember the man whom he had considered his best friend for six years, the friend for whom he would have once sacrificed his life if necessary. The friend whom he thought even more important than his own younger brothers.
He doesn't remember the initial interrogation, the beating, his involuntary tears, or the throat scrapped raw from his screaming. He doesn't remember the soldiers who held him down, and then passed him among themselves like a limp puppet when he became too exhausted to resist. He doesn't remember their catcalls, the insults, or the mocking laughter. He doesn't remember that on that first night, perhaps the worst one of them all, he only lost consciousness after the fifteenth time someone had come inside him.
He does not remember the serious, harsh face of a man who stood to the side and watched it all happen, the monster who raped him first in everyone else's presence, thus setting a fine example for his subordinates. That man was an officer, he had unquestionable power over the uniformed savages. He could have stoped it at any moment. Vallewida actually swallowed the shards of his pride and begged him to make it stop. That man didn't do anything.
Vallewida doesn't remember the cutting words that Ellis whispered into his ear as he embraced his waist and continued to rip into him. You're beautiful, just like a woman. Your military career was a mistake in the first place. You should have been mine. You can still be mine.
He doesn't remember the acts and the speech that made him like this—unable to remember.
He is still alive, though. He regained his senses, at least to a certain extent, even though his mind was literally torn apart by the man he can no longer recall. Most times, he can work, act and talk like a sane person. He can read books, draw pictures, or hold an intelligent, stimulating conversation with Evan, a former journalist and a very decent man who landed in prison only because he became too interested in some military scandal a few years ago. Vallewida is supposedly involved in that scandal himself—he has monthly interrogations to remind him of the fact—but he doesn't remember why and how.
Only sometimes, when he is once again naked and kneeling, staring at the floor with blank, inhuman eyes, and the most hated prison guard around here buttons up his pants, throws a spiteful comment and finally leaves to seek amusement elsewhere, Vallewida feels that something is definitely wrong. A horrible headache pulls him out of his catatonic, dreamlike state, until he screams and curls into a ball, pressing both hands against his temples. His mind is filled with images and sounds, all of them equally horrifying, but it is always that man's face and that man's voice that stand out the most from this cacophony. Vallewida remembers his name then. Fortunately, it never lasts long. Seconds pass, minutes at best. The headache gradually subsides, and he can slip back into the white blizzard of forgetfulness, before opening his eyes many hours later, once again sheltered from the nightmare of pain and betrayal.
Vallewida doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to remember.
Certain things should remain buried forever, along with the friend whom he never had.
Author's Notes: This fic was supposed to be a short drabble (yeah, I always end up writing more than planned), so I purposely didn't take time to describe Ellis's feelings in detail. I bet he had some really serious issues with both Vallewida and himself, though, if he went for such a hideous deed in the end. Maybe it wasn't only his pent-up frustration that made him abuse his friend so badly—maybe the war caused him to lose some part of his humanity. It's safe to assume that he participated in some war crimes other than just the smuggling.
The Drama CD I mentioned before wants us to believe that Vallewida eventually remembers and forgives Ellis (after beating him to a bloody pulp and leaving him with a face that would scare the neighbors away for at least a week), and the two become friends again. I still find it hard—if not impossible—to understand, but yeah, that's Vallewida for you: always willing to turn the other cheek and see the best in people. And because of his perspective, I found myself being more magnanimous to Ellis, too. I no longer think of him as a monster without feelings. Hence the one-shot you have just read and are hopefully going to review. :) Thanks for your time! :)