an. okay, this is a sort of AU story that sort of centered around the possibility that I think Ada could've been a really sad character. Except, uh, maybe I didn't do this idea justice because I can hardly stand to write long stories, and I have the attention span of, well, something really small. So it's quite obviously rushed in the end-though I hope, maybe, the idea that I had might come through in some way, or this might invoke some sort of emotion.
The end continues as the manga did, just with an obvious difference. I think Abyss is quite cruel, in that way. You.. can tell I got really lazy at the end. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
m e m o r i a}
but the white rabbit was so insistent, so insistent, and there was never any time, it had said, never any time at all.
tick tock tick tock tick tock.
and she looked to the sky.
There were some that doubted whether Ada Vessalius—the meek, shy fifteen-year-old prefect (bless her soul, bless her soul)—even had a brother.
She sang only the highest praises of him when asked. He was kind, and brave, and mischievous, most importantly, and apparently he had a servant named Gilbert, whom he treated more as a friend. At that point, the people she told this to already deemed him as a slightly… irregular person. What kind of noble kept servants as friends? Perhaps she was speaking of Elliot, who everyone thought she held in a somewhat high regard as well, and thus, perhaps, she shifted these traits to her would-be brother. Of course, if asked what her brother's favorite book character was, she would say 'Edgar, yes, he loved Edgar…', which would cause Elliot to snap if he was in the general vicinity.
Yes, perhaps she was not speaking of Elliot.
There were some that earnestly believed that Ada Vessalius had a brother. They were mostly the ones that had their own brothers, or siblings, and they recognized the sparkle in her eyes when she spoke of the times He would hide in the closet, and she would sit on his lap, and then the maids would run 'round like headless chickens looking for them while Gilbert would lead them in all sorts of directions that were hardly correct. And all the while she would be stifling giggles, with His hand over her mouth.
"They would find us in the end, though," she said at the end of her stories, shifting her feet like she was young all over again, looking towards the ground meekly as not-quite-men tugged her this way and that. "But He never learned his lesson."
"Who? Gilbert or your Brother?" the audience asked, and she always paused, as if she wasn't sure, her memory was a little dull, or she was making up lies.
"Both," she answered after a while, and then she laughed a small little laugh. "They were always running around. Sometimes I couldn't keep up."
What those that believed didn't quite notice or recognize was the look in her eyes she got sometimes when she spoke—it was a dull sort of shine. Sometimes the laugh was somewhat out there, or sometimes the way she wrung her hands when she spoke of this brother and the journeys he used to whisk her on would indicate something else. But they didn't notice that.
"Isn't that a little inconsiderate? Seriously, boys," one of Ada's friends scoffed, smiling even as she said this. "They don't still do that, do they? Run around and leave a lady behind? They're too old for that."
"Gil's always running around now," Ada smiled, "But not for fun."
Sometimes they liked to ask what her strongest memory of Him was.
This always invoked a reaction that differed each time. Sometimes she widened her eyes slightly, as if the very question was taboo. Sometimes she laughed awkwardly and, after a long silence, reply with a request for more time. Sometimes she wouldn't react at all, and simply give them a small stare. Always, though, she looked towards the ground, shuffled her weight, and answered with, simply:
"All of my memories of Him are precious."
Of course, that always caused the inquirer to request more detail, and she always pulled out some memory from her mind—of a smiling boy with green-eyes and his friend, playing around in the fields and getting their clothes dirty. Later, they would suffer a lecture from the maids, and then they would repeat the process, laughing and grinning and then she was crying.
"Oh my god, Ada, why are you crying? I'm so sorry, I'm sorry—"
"No," she sniffed, shaking her head. "No, no, it's okay."
"Is it a bad memory?"
"No," Ada gently pushed away from the hold of the inquirer, and she looked up towards the sky, always, where the blues were gentle and the clouds were gentle, and the birds would fly, and they would be free. "No… it's a kind memory."
But it wasn't her strongest.
Her strongest memory of Brother Vessalius was not of smiling, or panting, or even of daytime.
If one were to ask Ada what clothes He was wearing on those days she liked to say were brightest, she really wouldn't know. He had a lot of clothes, really. There were vests, and shorts, and pants, and shoes of all colors, but she knew not the specifics. She wore dresses on those days, pinks and greens, which made her look like a strawberry, He used to say, but she never paid much note to what He wore.
He wore a fancy white cloak that day, bordered in green, framed in yellows. That day, he would've worn black, with lots of flowers, and the pale makeup of—
"How come I've never seen your Brother around, Ada?" her friend asked.
"Well… he's older now," she said gently, leaning against the pillars of the school courtyard and counting the flowers on the bush in front of her. One, two, three… "It's almost like he's in a whole other world."
"He doesn't make time for you?"
"It's not that he doesn't!" Ada responded quickly, waving her arms to dissuade that comment and protect his pride, because he was a kind brother, he really was! "It's… he just can't," she turned back to the flowers. "It's not a... choice. He would if he could. I know he would."
Four, five, six…
"You really love him, don't you?"
Seven… Six…? "A lot. A lot."
"… Huh," her friend walked into the courtyard then, picking at the flower on the bushes that Ada was counting. "I wish I thought that highly of my brother," she muttered, picking at some of them until Ada had lost count of which she had and which she hadn't.
"You should love your brother," Ada bit desperately, absolutely certain, absolutely uncharacteristic, "You don't know—!"
Her friend was stricken. "… Don't know what?"
"… Well, you don't know when he'll get busy," Ada covered up quickly, turning her gaze off to the side. "Yes… He might get really busy."
One… Two… Had she counted that one?
"Maybe."
Three… Five?
She was lost.
Every year, on a certain day, she went to a little marker she had put on the ground, in front of the church she had gone to a couple of years ago. Those couple of years felt like a couple of decades—and those small moments where she sat in front of the marker and put her hands together and prayed seemed more like years.
She had first come here a few days after her Brother's fifteenth, tears running down her face as the leaves flowed around her. There was no company with her, just the wind, as He was nowhere to be found, and neither was Gil. Of course, if He went, Gil would go too. It was always like that.
She had stuck a plank of bark she found in the courtyard into the ground. It was the nicest one she could find, really, and then she tied the ribbon from one of His shirts unto that piece of wood, and then put her little hands together and prayed. Brother come back, brother come back, brother come back, over and over like a mantra, until the maids had found her and plucked her away from the little grave marking.
The marker was harder to get to as time went on. Pandora had gotten a hold of the manor, and sometimes there were those that took pity on her situation and let her in, with some supervision, but sometimes there were those that put duty above all else and could care less about her situation.
Today was one of those days. Usually, if she encountered these people, she would sneak past them as she had always. But, it seemed, they had gotten more cautious and much more wary, and the possibility of doing that seemed almost slim. Or she would have Uncle Oscar with her, and he would easily part the way for her to do her ceremony in peace. But he wasn't with her. She wanted to come alone.
"Really, Lady Vessalius, you can't enter," the man said, gesturing towards the carriage that she had come from. "You need to leave."
"Please," she bowed deeply, her skirts shuffling around her legs as she did so. "You have to let me! It won't take that long."
"I would, really," was the further excuse, and he sounded anything but sincere, obviously tired from searching for something and coming up with nothing. "But I'm hardly allowed to let anyone but those involved with Pandora in, and, Lady Vessalius, you are not yet involved in Pandora."
"But… It won't take long! Really!"
"Lady Vessalius, aga—"
"Just let the Lady in," a voice cut in, and, so did a man, tall and handsome and feminine, almost, with long blond hair and eyes shut. A small smile, there, on his lips, and Ada was certain that he was what most knights in the stories she had read before should look like. Well, right alongside the green-eyed ones, and the golden-eyed ones.
"Master Nightray, I honestly—"
A Nightray, Ada thought to herself shyly, shuffling her feet under her long skirt.
"It's alright," the Nightray assured, adjusting his position so he stood right beside Ada. "I'll take responsibility, should anything happen. Of course, that shouldn't be a problem, if you're doing your job properly, right?"
The man shook slightly. "Yes. Yes, of course. Please come in."
"Thank you!" Ada added in, bowing as the Nightray escorted her inside. She ignored the slight bitter look the Pandora worker had on his face—she was bothering him, after all, but it did turn out well in the end.
"Um, thank you," Ada said quickly when they were inside, on their way to the courtyard, where her little grave marker was, with the little ribbon, blowing in the wind, full of childish hopes and dreams and wishes. "I'm sorry for bothering you, Sir Nightray, but I'm really thankful."
"It's fine," the man flicked his hair back with a hand, walking at his own pace, to which Ada adjusted to. "You were certainly persistent on getting in. I admire that, Lady Vessalius."
He turned to her, and for the second time she found the breath knocked out of her. "Ah… No, it's just important to me."
His eyes were different. A beautiful gold—
—and intimidating red.
"Vincent."
"I-I'm sorry?"
"Vincent," he repeated, turning those mismatched eyes to the scenery before them. The long hallway, pillar upon pillar upon pillar, trees wracked by a beautiful breeze, memories, stained and torn ap— "You may call me Vincent, Lady Vessalius."
"Ah, yes, Sir Vincent," she blushed, looking towards the ground but smiling all the same. "I'm. I'm Ada. Ada Vessalius."
"Pleased to meet you, Lady Ada," he was charming, and well mannered, even as he took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, and she was blushing even harder.
"L-likewise," she managed to stutter out, not used to those affections from the other gender, even if she had spent the majority of her childhood doted on by males, and loved by males, and even if the one's closest to her heart, were, of course, males. "Um, you really don't need to escort me. It's not necessary! But I appreciate it, really, but um…"
"Please stop that," Vincent tilted his head downward, shutting his eyes as he calmly walked to a place he did not know of, smiling to himself. "I am escorting you. It is an offence towards me, not you, if I ignore this responsibility."
"Yes… Yes, of course," as she was lost for words, again, she looked towards the sky, blue and kind and gentle. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright. Now, let's hurry up, shall we?"
It hadn't occurred to her what Vincent—that brave knight she had stumbled upon out of the blue, who had allowed her to see what, as of now, was the most precious memento of the days when she was carefree—would think of her small little altar. She didn't think it as such. It was precious to her, and absolutely, absolutely would be precious to those who understood, but she hadn't thought what the outside party might think about it.
It was essentially a stick, with a ribbon. It was a seven-year-olds excuse for a prayer. It was… somewhat ridiculous. And didn't hold any meaning to anyone but her, really.
So when it came into sight, in all its tender, childish glory, she did not turn around to see Vincent's reaction to the poorly made gravestone. Instead, she bowed, as she always had, and performed the small little ceremonies that she had been doing for the past eight years.
"Happy birthday, Brother. You are twenty-three, now."
Vincent cocked his head in surprise.
"I've been keeping track for you. I'm not sure if you have, where you are, but… In case you haven't, I can tell you, and that way you know I've been thinking of you.
"It's been a long time, since I last saw you, but. I know that… that you're coming back. And, maybe it won't be soon, but, I've been waiting. I've gotten better at piano, do you know? Latowidge has been a little harder than last year. I'm a prefect, now. It's been a little tough, but I'm trying hard for you, Brother."
She was crying, again. It always ended with tears. She wanted to be strong for Brother, but it was always so hard, and it was never just something that she could do without wet eyes. It just felt wrong if she didn't cry, and it felt wrong if she did, because she knew that He wouldn't want her to.
"Oh. You probably want to hear of Gilbert," she shook her head. "He's fine. But he's been running around a lot, busy as always. It's a lot like him, right? I've been writing letters to him, but his replies are scarce. He really misses you, and he'll probably give you a very big lecture when you come back. It's like old days, right? So, hurry up, because we're getting impatient, you know. It's not like you to be late."
She bowed again, wiping the tears from her eyes and, quite gently, fingering the ribbon tied 'round the plank. "I love you very much, Brother."
When Ada turned to leave after her goodbye and found Vincent there, she almost jumped in surprise. Then it occurred to her that she wasn't alone through that, and felt the blush rising up to her cheeks again. What would Vincent think of that display? It was the first time she'd done it in front of someone else, and certainly he was the first one to even figure out the truths about Him. He wasn't busy, He wasn't material, He didn't leave her shy little messages apologizing about his unable to attend her recitals, but He just wasn't there. That was the truth. And, a stranger she had just met a few moments ago, who allowed her to perform this shy little thing, who was a Nightray of all things, had seen it.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Vincent walked right past her and gave a short little bow to the plank, his arms splayed out on his sides. Then, he said, blankly: "I do wonder what kind of person you were like. Gil has been working incredibly hard for you, as Lady Ada said. My apologies for intruding."
"I…" Ada said when he came up, arms crossed and looking suddenly somber. "You know of Gil?"
"Yes, Lady Ada Vessalius. I knew you did, as well, so that's why I helped you. Apologies for not telling you earlier. He's my brother."
"Oh… Oh! I see. Sorry. I didn't know," she was obviously shocked, "Gil… never really spoke of a brother. I'm sorry."
Vincent gave an ostensible smile. It was the sort of smile that hid things, dangerous things. But few really saw that smile for what it was, and certainly Ada did not. "You really do apologize too much," he shook his head, "It's alright. We don't really need to speak of each other."
To Ada, who loved to speak of her Brother, this was rather strange. "I see. Um, that's all I needed to do here, by the way," she added, "So I don't need to take up anymore of your time…"
"On the contrary," Vincent smiled that smile again, and Ada found it nothing but charming as she looked away from his gaze, feeling courted, shy, and somewhat threatened all at once. "How about lunch?"
Ada felt that turning down the request was rude to Vincent, who had helped her before, and was Gilbert's brother, of all things, so she accepted. It led her to being escorted to Vincent's carriage by, of course, Vincent, and then to the Nightray manor, where a blank-faced girl with such strange clothing had taken her hat, and her coat, and said nothing while she did that.
It was all just very strange. Never did her visits to Brother lead to lunch with mysterious, charming men with mismatched eyes, and never ever did her visits to Brother lead to the doors of the Nightray mansion, dark where Vessalius was bright; tall as Vessalius was wide.
"Master Vincent," the blank-face girl said, carefully putting away all the extra layers of clothing she had removed from the pair. "Echo has done what you requested. Lunch is also in your room, as it always is. Master Gilbert's whereabouts are also unknown, at the moment, though he is most likely with Xerxes Break."
Ada blinked at the robotic tone this was said. Echo, or, rather, Echo was what she assumed that girl's name was, was monotone, frank, precise, and had quite a set of lungs, apparently. She hadn't taken a breath through that entire report.
"And where is the Mad Hatter, Echo?" Vincent asked, stepping further into the mansion. "Also, bring lunch down into the gardens."
"Echo does not know. Echo will also bring extra for your guest, Master Vincent," the girl continued robotically, flapping her oversized sleeves slightly. "And Echo will also figure out the location of Xerxes Break."
"Thank you, Echo. Efficient as always."
The small girl bowed, walking across the large foyer and into one of the rooms at the side, most likely the kitchen, while Vincent led Ada into the back garden. The Nightray mansion wasn't much different than the Vessalius mansion, though the atmosphere seemed somewhat darker, more oppressed, and the maids seemed slightly more… chatty. They turned to each other as Vincent led her past them, whispering things amongst themselves before shuffling off when meeting eye contact with the golden-haired Nightray.
"If I can ask… who was that?"
"That was Echo," Vincent informed, leading Ada out a magnificent door and out the back steps, which then led into the gardens. Lunch was already set out on a large table in front of them, enough for Vincent, and Ada, and perhaps two other people, most likely all done by Echo. "She is a very efficient servant, is she not?"
"She is," Ada agreed, waiting for Vincent to pull up a chair for her and tell her to sit before actually doing so. "She's also very cute," she felt she had to add, blushing just the slightest.
"She is," Vincent picked up his knife and fork carefully, slicing at the food on his plate with almost practiced precision. "Cute little Echo, isn't that right?"
There wasn't much to speak of over lunch.
There was school life, and for Vincent there was work life, and just like that they had run out of topics. Ada would have asked him about Gilbert, but Gilbert tended to be rather rushed in his letters and condense a year's worths of happenings into a page, flustered and quick, as if even writing to her was a difficult, forbidden task. Ada could tell he was ashamed, so she mentioned nothing of it, and sent him a reply while smiling brightly. So there wasn't much Vincent could tell her that she already didn't know.
"Lady Ada," Vincent began, "You wouldn't mind telling me about your Brother, would you?"
She looked up, somewhat shocked, towards Vincent's place at the head of the table. On a regular day, she'd be fine to tell people amazing things about Him, her Brother, but this was today, today was that day, and… no one had ever asked her to talk about him, on that day. "I," she set down her fork, "… What do you want to know?"
"Anything you'd like to say," he offered, his face in his hand, leaning against the table. "You wouldn't mind that, would you?"
"That's a lot to say."
"Hmm," Vincent hummed, "What about your strongest memories?"
Ada looked to the ground.
"Ah, well, if you wouldn't like to that's fine. I would tell you about mine, to be fair, but there isn't much about Gilbert you wouldn't already know, right…?"
She nodded. A pause. "I could… I don't mind. It might just take a while. But not the strongest. I don't… really want to speak of those."
She told him about the simple days. There were moments when she paused and fumbled with her words, but he was patient and listened to her mix-ups with a smiling face. She spoke of running in the hallways, messing with the maids, hiding in the closets, climbing trees, falling in lakes, laughing and laughter and reading by the window. She spoke of the exploiting of Gilbert's weakness—of the way He used to tease Gilbert and she would look on, giggling like the small girl she was. She spoke of the way she thought her Brother an immortal tower, the closest thing to a God a young girl could understand.
Vincent nodded, gave little laughs here and there, that mostly didn't reach his eyes. But Ada seemed too absorbed in her nostalgia to notice.
"But he's not here, anymore, right?" Vincent said carefully.
"Ah, no," Ada stopped, feeling the pricks of tears at the sides of her eyes. She blinked them away. "He's just been away on a trip for a while."
"When did that happen?"
"I… I don't want to say. I'm sorry."
"It's one of those memories, right? I understand."
She left the Nightray mansion that day feeling slightly less heavy and slightly more free than she had on that same day last year. Maybe it was just that fact that Vincent was the one thing that was different from last year. Someone to eat lunch with, as she spoke of Him brightly, as he listened on. He wasn't a stranger, no, she didn't think so—he knew Gil, and Gil knew Him, and he was kind. Surely her Brother would like him, not only because he was related to His best friend, but because he was nice to her.
During the carriage ride, which Vincent had arranged, she thought of her big Brother.
She fell asleep to memories of a room filled with candles, bowed heads, a missing Father, and the scent of oranges.
She stepped in the halls feeling no less lighter than she had before.
Ada had, earlier that morning, bumped into Elliot in the hallway simply by chance. For her meek, polite good morning, she was given nothing but a slight glare and something along the lines of 'Skipping school, huh? Must be nice, being able to do that stuff whenever you want. Stupid Prefect! How is anyone supposed to follow an example, when the one you set is so terrible?', which hadn't helped… at all.
It was a bit strange to have someone like Elliot be… somewhat related to Vincent and Gil, who were both so kind. She knew Elliot could be kind, as well, but he seemed almost ashamed of it, where she was concerned.
She didn't understand.
Would Big Brother like someone like that, she wondered. There were moments when Elliot sometimes reminded her of Him, and she tried to be the nicest she could to him with that in mind.
Though, he didn't like Edgar.
At the end of the day, she was walking home, and had heard her name called by a slightly grown man. Of course, she had turned around to see who had called her, and, of course, there he was.
Vincent Nightray.
She blinked, wondering just why he would come visit her, at school, until he lifted her hat up into the air towards her, and then she understood. She hadn't collected her hat when Miss Echo took it, though she had gotten her coat, and so Vincent had taken the liberty to return it to her.
"I'm sorry, Sir Vincent," she walked towards him, taking the hat off his hands gently.
"That's alright," he said. "Ah… if you do not mind. Would you like to spend the day with me?"
… She agreed, again.
There was something about Vincent that stopped her from denying his requests. Perhaps it was just that he was something of a kind, flawless gentleman—or perhaps because he kept doing her favors unwittingly, doing this and that, which left her with no way to decline when he had done something for her. Perhaps he just was someone you couldn't say no to.
"Will you speak of Oz?"
His name was something Ada hadn't heard in eight years. Just as she hadn't visited His grave (his actual grave, with the empty coffin, and the empty words, dampened with empty tears) in eight years, she had not spoken His name. Gilbert hadn't ever spoken the name either—if there was content of Him in their letters, she referred to Him as Brother, and Gilbert referred to Him as, well, Him. And, in some cases, Master. But never Oz.
"How… How did you…?"
"It was easy enough to figure out," Vincent informed, adjusting the ribbon around his hair. "I asked your Uncle. I hope I wasn't infringing on anything."
"No," Ada shook her head. "No... I was just surprised…"
"I heard he disappeared."
"What?" she whipped around to stare at him, "Uncle told you that, too?"
"Well, not quite. I guessed. And I can see I was right. It's a rather simple conclusion, though, from the way you spoke to him and of him."
Ada looked towards the ground. "Yes, that's right," she said quietly, "Eight years."
Vincent smiled that smile of lie that she couldn't see through, that poor girl. "So patient… Ada, I have a way to get your Brother back. Will you try?"
She glanced up almost immediately into his eyes. There was the chance it was a lie, Ada thought it was a lie, but Vincent was Gilbert's brother and he was so kind, so he wouldn't lie, would he? And it was just so long, and she was sort of sick of waiting, and… and Vincent seemed completely sure. "What?"
"Ah, no, perhaps it was just silly."
"No!" Ada said desperately, her voice quivering, desperate, waiting, because Vincent was so kind, and Vincent sounded so certain, and—
she really did miss Him.
"Ah, I mean…" she looked down at her hands, where perhaps her voice had jumped to, her throat wasn't saying much, and her mind was all in disarray. There were moments when she thought that no, this was slightly silly, and she hardly knew Vincent, though he was Gilbert's brother, and he was so kind, and so certain, and seemed so much wiser than… "I mean. I—I would like to know. Please."
"Of course you would," Vincent grinned, "So determined, Ada. I'm sure Oz would be proud of his little sister still thinking so hard of him, right?"
She was silent, waiting, and really, he had to suppress giggles at her obvious anxiety.
"Why don't you try just wishing to change the past? There's certainly someone out there who'd like to receive your call. Especially someone who's been wishing so long."
"I'm sure God will drop down a chain in which you can follow," Vincent explained, "And there you can see your Brother."
Ada felt slightly disappointed. She'd been doing that for so long. Praying, and praying, but not quite to change the past—just for her Brother, to see her Brother again, because that was all she wanted, really.
"… Thank you. I will try. I'm sorry, but I just remembered I had to do something," she said, bowed, and left towards the path back to the school.
As he watched her back, the red of Vincent's eyes seemed just that much more intimidating.
they say he brought tragedy.
There were times when Ada had gone to bed but not slept, but just stared at the canopy, and the ceiling, then sat up, looked out the window, walked to the window, and watched the stars. She would point out the brightest stars. She would connect the points, the ones her Brother had taught her to connect. He used to say 'See, Ada? There's a cat'. Gil would shake beside them, following the Master's finger and wondering just where the cat was. Later, when she was older and He was gone, she had opened up one of the star books in the Latowidge diary to find that He had lied.
It was really just a bear, and she had laughed over her tears.
That night, Ada had gone to bed but not slept, stared at the canopy, then the ceiling. She sat up, looked out the window, walking to the window, and watched the stars.
She opened the panes.
Lifted a finger up to the sky.
Pointed at the brightest stars she saw.
And breathed.
"I wish I could change it."
"I wish I could change it," she said again. When nothing came, she shut the windows, feeling disappointed and cheated on and lied to. It wasn't really something that she had expected to work, as she had always prayed, and always hoped, and hope was something that was so hard to do, sometimes.
But she had tried, and in trying, there was the fiber of something in her heart that tugged, and tugged, and tugged, because there was the chance it could work, and that was why she was trying in the first place.
But nothing came.
That night, Ada had dreamed again of Him; there was a room of candles and solemn faces, and she was crying while everyone else had their heads bowed. She hadn't understood anything—why the box in the middle of the room was closed, why everyone seemed to stare at her with the face that Gil used to make to Him on the days when He felt sad, rejected, by something she wasn't sure about. And where was He, anyway? Where was He?
The scenario around her melted with the wisps of candles, and the scent of oranges, and the tears of nobles—and she was left with just she, and He, but a picture on top a coffin, still young and blond and as youthful as she remembered Him.
Then there was a voice. An echo of something, that brought her to her feet, that told her to close her eyes, that told her to look up, and there was the sky.
"Will you trust me?"
The girl jumped. "E-excuse me?"
"Oh, there's no time, no time to explain, but trust me. Trust me, and we'll get Him back. Don't you want to get Him back? She'll surely help you, yes she will, and she will help you, happily, and so quickly that you'll barely have any time to blink, and He will be there, and you will be happily as well. Oh, no, that's not right…"
"Is this—" Ada wanted to say God, God because that was who Vincent said would help her—but it didn't seem like God, though it did, at the same time, but it didn't— but it did.
"Oh no no no, nothing like that, child, nothing like that. Hurry, hurry, enter a contract with me, there's no time, because unlike God we don't have all the time in the world, you know, you know?" the voice beckoned, and soon the sky turned just the slightest tinge darker, more sinister. "Ah, ah, so little time… How about it? A contract, a contract, and we'll get him back? You were wishing for something like that, right?"
"Ah—Yes!" Ada said quickly, as quickly as she could. The chance felt like it might slip between her fingers if she were the slightest second slow, and she replied as fast as she could. As sure as she could. "Yes! Yes I will! Anything—if it will get Brother back!"
"Good response, good response! Quick, as well, quite quick… Now, now, look down, please…"
She met the eyes of a small white rabbit. It stared at her, carefully, and she kneeled down to pet it.
"No, no touching now, nono," the voice muttered, "But keep your hand there. Yes, like that. No, no, you're taking it away. A little closer."
"Like…. Like this?"
"Yes, yes," the voice told her, and then the rabbit bit down on her finger, drawing blood. She recoiled almost immediately, the prick of pain surprising her. Wasn't this a dream? Wasn't it? "There we go, there we go. Now, now you have to say it, okay? Say 'I will enter into a contract with you, White Rabbit'. Say it, Say it. And quickly."
"I—" Ada looked down at her bleeding finger, then into the eyes of the rabbit.
"Now hurry up, girl! There's no time, you know. He's probably walking away at this moment, look at that, there He is right now. Well, no, but He might as well have been there, and you would've missed your chance to see Him!"
"I—" she breathed, sighed, and took the jump. This was simply a dream, right? A dream. And she wanted the chance. She wanted to see him. "I will enter into a contract with you."
"Well, isn't that a good girl?" the voice snickered, laughed, and then everything fell to black.
"they are silly little things, aren't they, Cheshire?" Ada heard this snippet in the darkness, her mind inquiring what? What is so silly?, and there was nothing but that question and the pain in her chest.
The next morning, Ada felt no different than she had the night before. The dream was in her head and the voice in her ears—but there was no Brother, no sign, and no Chain to lead her to the place she wanted to be.
There was a soft knock on her door from the maid who had been sent to wake her, and dress her, and Ada simply sent her down and told her, meekly and politely, that she could do it herself.
"If you wish it, Lady Ada," the maid replied, and her footsteps echoed down the hallway.
It was black, and it was round, and it was there, on her chest. She dropped the dress she had unbuttoned, letting it drop to the floor, and realized this was her sign.
Ada went through her day feeling normal, and nothing but ordinary, though there were odd pangs of something when people walked by. These pangs she couldn't explain—they were sort of like longing and something like hunger, and then things like rage, or envy, emotions she wasn't too familiar with, which would echo in the back of her head and heart. There were sometimes odd tendencies to do something, but she fought back the urge and wondered just what, exactly, was wrong with her.
"Are you alright, Ada?" her friend asked, and she shook her head.
"Ah… Maybe I'm just tired," she said, "Class was sort of hard today, wasn't it?"
When she left class that day, Vincent was there at the entrance, looking mysterious and proper, as always. She thought perhaps he was waiting for someone else, and did not go up to greet him, but he soon after caught up with her. Upon his greeting she realized that, yes, he had been waiting for her.
"Lady Ada Vessalius," he smiled, "Did you try it?"
"… I did," she said, and shook her head. It seemed ridiculous to say it worked, because there was no chain, and there was no Brother, and there was certainly no God. Though there was the voice. "… But it didn't work. I'm sorry."
"Oh? Is that so…" Vincent looked at her carefully and smiled, again. "Isn't that a shame? I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's okay. Thank you, though. For trying, I mean. I, um, really appreciate it."
"I wish you the best of luck with Oz," he muttered, breaking the rules once more. Of course he would say his name, but Ada really felt no need to tell him otherwise. "I must be going though. I apologize, but I have work to do, and I wanted to drop by to see if my suggestion had worked."
"I'm sorry it didn't. I really tried."
"I know you did, Ada, and I am quite grateful for your belief," his expression morphed into something so much more cold, something more calculating, "But sometimes God doesn't pull through, right?"
Somehow, she found herself nodding, though she thought otherwise.
That night, she went to bed with dreams of bloodshed. She screamed, silently, in her dreams—but no one came, and no one heard, and when she woke up there was the blood on her fingertips, on the floor, and she wasn't in a bed.
She wanted to say it was just a dream.
But she remembered it somewhat clearly. It was a young girl, she remembered. Her age, she remembered. Tall, blonde, and pretty, she remembered. Walking around with her brother, she presumed, and it was dark, and they were happily laughing without a care in the world.
They weren't rich, but they seemed too happy to be desperately poor, and too well dressed. But she hardly cared about that. They were happy, and the girl wasn't alone, and she was laughing.
They both passed by her, without a glance, and something within her just spoke to her, and perhaps it was her loneliness.
"Oh, yes, this is the contract," there was an echo in her voice—from that dream, which she knew from the start was real. "Ah… Brother, was it? Yes, Brother, see, we need to get Brother, but it isn't free, you know? No, no, we don't have that kind of liberty."
"What's the price?" she asked desperately, clutching at her chest and the two happy people who had walked past her turned to look at her, on the floor, on her knees, scratching and crying and listening to the voices she thought were from Heaven.
"Um… Um… Let's see, how about them, how about them?"
The two looked at her with eyes of green and gold.
The long tendrils of darkness. The long ears of a rabbit.
It was like that. She never went home. She stayed outside, and she killed, and she searched, because that was simply what It told her to do. White Rabbit would laugh, as it devoured, as if it had no time, which it didn't, and she would look on, desperate, because she had none as well.
There was a hand, and it moved, it moved, and she cried, and she wandered, the pain in her chest becoming sharper, and duller, until she could feel nothing but those echoes in the back of her head. There was anger, and rage, and hunger, and yearning.
And then there was the sky, full of blues, and blacks, and red, and hope.
She remembered at least fifteen bodies. She hadn't gone to school since that first night—it was too surreal, too open, and it felt like nothing around her seemed real. She had, however, visited a certain place—and, looking up at the sky of the courtyard, the grass was still green, and the sky was still open, and free, and the ribbon was still there.
"What's that silly thing?"
"I don't know. No… You're coming home. I think?" she questioned, and yanked the foolish little thing full of hopes and dreams out of the ground. "But who? Brother, I think."
Ada had never once thought about her family, aside from her Brother. If she had, she might've imagined the look on Gilbert's face upon realizing that she had made the list of dangerous contractors that must be eradicated, straight from the mouth of his beloved brother. If she had, she might've imagined the screaming and shaking of Uncle Oscar, and the sad, mocking laugh of Vincent, as he spoke:
"Well, how could this have happened? Such a one-sided tragedy… She's so gentle, though, don't you think? Searching for that brother?"
And perhaps she would've imagined Gilbert, a hand clasped around Vincent's neck, as he laughed, and laughed, and laughed, playing innocent while all the strings on her little puppet neck led to him.
Maybe she would've heard Gilbert's voice whisper a harsh "Where the hell did you hear this from?"
And of course he'd go, "Well, from the Father himself, who else?"
Perhaps she would have realized that Vincent was a liar, through and through, and the Father could really care less about the little tragedy that played out in his home.
She followed the chain loyally, and it led her to Brother, in the form of a moving clock and heaps of corpses.
The end came quickly. It didn't end with Brother—no, rather, it ended with a ticking, and a click, and a laugh as dark consumed her, lonely, and desperate, but she went calmly. Her memory of that day, though she was reliant on it, turned up nothing, other than the faces of a few people she can't remember and the sight of weapons that had never been aimed at her.
However, there was a sight that clearly came in her mind—red and yellow, though she wasn't sure if it was from the shy, setting sky, or the man who watched, quietly, as his brother set his gun's view on the last remaining strings of his childhood.
"Cheshire, look, it's her."
Ada opened her eyes, to the sight of dolls, clicking. A strange human, almost cat-like, floating. And a girl, all white, dancing, and laughing, and looking at her with the kindest eyes Ada had ever seen. Aside from—Aside from who? Green. She remembered green.
"You came here for a wish," The girl stated, hugging the white rabbit around her arms, a companion she remembered as her own. "Ah, right… Yes, what was it…?"
"To change it, for Brother," the rabbit squeaked, and, certainly, Ada remembered that—but she said nothing. "But there's hardly any time to do that, isn't there…?"
"Oh… That's right…" she looked at Ada, curiously, and smiled. "I will, of course, change it, for Brother."
Somehow, Ada felt nothing when those violet eyes seemed to hold no promise for her.
He had always sat there, reading. And he was always laughing, and making mischief, and climbing trees. He sometimes liked to look out at the night sky and make inaccurate readings of the constellations, called them all cats, he did, simply to look at his servant's reaction, whom was also his best friend.
"And, after, Ada—" he paused, blinked.
"… Ada, Young Master?"
"No," He blinked, somewhat confused, and looked toward his servant. He put his book down, carefully. "I meant Gil."
"Are you alright?" Gil asked, looking over the Master's shoulder to the book. "Maybe you should rest?"
"I think I'll decide when I want to do that, Gil," he laughed, and from his tone Gilbert figured that he was fine.
When Gilbert had left the room to get more sweets, Oz had looked out the window in fascination. It seemed strange, almost. The name seemed familiar, yet so foreign, and yet when he tried to recall just where it came from he found nothing.
"Ada," he said, and looked out the window. "How strange."