Oh Stop Crying
SUMMARY: Following Gaignun's death, Jr. receives solace from a very unlikely source.
GENRE: Angst/Hurt/Comfort
RATED: PG-13 / T
NOTABLE CONTENT: Strong Language & Mature References
COPYRIGHT NOTE: I don't own Xenosaga, or its quoted song, "Maybe Tomorrow," or The Wizard of Oz.
STORY TAKES PLACE IN: After Xenosaga: Episode III – Also sprach Zarathustra
POV NOTE: Tale told entirely through Jr.'s first-person narrative
COMMENTS: Welcome! This is a stand-alone fanfic, but it could also serve as a "spiritual successor" to two of my older U.R.T.V. tales: Unspoken, and You Count Sheep, I'll Count To Ten, this story sharing concepts/thematic elements of both fics. Rest assured, you can enjoy this one-shot with or without prior knowledge of any of my previous Xenosaga tales. :)
Title inspired by one of Albedo's lines in Episode III, in case you didn't notice. ;) Enjoy!
I've come through some betrayal, some old pains,
some addiction to the love and some goodbyes.
I will cry a little while and wait for tomorrow.
– Maybe Tomorrow, ending theme of Xenosaga: Episode III
Oh Stop Crying
Aiselne Nocturnus
The funny thing about killing is it's easy…so easy a human can do it, too easy when you're a genetically-enhanced human.
And you wanna' know something else? It's anything but funny.
First time I killed I was, hell, ten years old? Maybe a little younger. U.R.T.V.s were no strangers to weaponry since birth, but the Federation placed (limited) restrictions on when us kids could "officially" begin firing weapons against live targets. Before, it was always simulations, our early "training" no different than children playing good ol' fashioned Lost Jerusalem video games.
Point. Shoot. Point. Shoot. No sweat, right? By the time U.R.T.V.s graduated to fighting live targets, we were completely desensitized, obedient little soldiers who didn't bat an eye to the so-called holographic horrors of war.
Needless to say, the day I first killed an actual living target, I was rewarded with one helluva wake-up call.
Cause' I was the link master; the ace marksman, whose shots were fast, clean, and efficient, just the way Dad and the Federation liked to see their multi-zillion-dollar army. And I was cocky enough to be proud of myself—and yeah, I am proud of my marksmanship, but not when I'm accumulating piles of bloody, bloated bodies! And I'd been so consumed with the entertainment of our "game" that I never realized what the hell I was really doing until it was way past the point of undoing what I'd done.
Sound familiar? Yeah, I know. I'm a brash bastard, always acting before thinking, even twenty-seven years later. But when you're ten friggen years old and this shit happens, the magnitude is even harder to handle.
In the event a U.R.T.V. allowed his emotions prevent him from pulling the trigger, our dear, loving father by the name of Dr. Dmitri Yuriev would immediately come to our side. He'd place a strong hand on my shoulder, kneel down to my level, and gently whisper the words of comfort his traumatized son so desperately needed to hear:
"You'll get used to it."
Yup. And I've got some words of wisdom for you, too, Dad: fuck you!
Almost twenty years have gone by since that day. I've seen more than my share of death, and—surprise, surprise!—I never "got used to it." At best, I could only "get past it," though that was questionable after I killed half of myself one year ago. Even with everybody's support, there are days I still wonder how in U-DO's name I recovered from that heartbreak. But somehow I did move on.
And just when I thought my life was finally progressing, everything came full-circle inside Abel's Ark. I should've been rewarded for confronting and defeating my crazy father, but no! My consolation prize for defeating one lunatic was being mentally saddled with another, even crazier lunatic! I don't care if he's supposedly "free" of U-DO's madness; Albedo never was, and never will be the pinnacle of psychological health. And I don't even wanna' imagine what his current residency could do, or is doing, to my brain! Dammit, why me?!
But…I guess I shouldn't bitch too much. This time last year I was convinced I'd spend the rest of my life, waking up every morning, and going to sleep every night, with that awful hollowness in the right of my chest. That was something worth losing my sanity over. Now that the hole is filled, now that I've got Albedo back, I…I feel…
…I won't say I'm happy, because that son of a bitch'll take too much satisfaction out of it. Let's just say I feel…complete. I haven't felt this physically and emotionally content in a long time, perhaps not since Albedo and I were conjoined babies.
So again, I know shouldn't bitch. But…I shouldn't lie, either. I can't pretend that I'm 100% satisfied with myself for returning from Abel's Ark with only one of my brothers.
Does that make me greedy?
Time passed again. The whirlwind of events on Michtam ended before any of us could absorb the tragic realities. And now the Elsa's stranded in an endless sea of an unknown, primitive galaxy. Things just keep getting better and better for us, huh?
Of course, a negative attitude is the last thing a leader needs. I've taken it upon myself to ensure my crew's morale remains up, but there's only so much one guy can do. The longer it takes to find Lost Jerusalem the more frequently our calendar alternates between "good days" and "bad days." After spending so much time crowded in the cargo ship, finding zero leads to Earth and having waaay too much free time to think…
Call me brash, but sometimes I prefer not to think very much. Overanalyze things to death and it'll drive you nuts (Albedo's a prefect example). I find it's better to keep myself busy, even with the most mundane of jobs like laundry. Besides, laundry's not so bad, especially when you're in the company of two lovely ladies. Mary and Shelley laugh at my dumb jokes, and I can always sense when the girls need a chuckle to lighten the mood. My fail-safe (and favorite) laundry gag? Ha! I'll give ya a hint: picture the girls' lacy undergarments, and Gaignun—
But on that particular day in the laundry room, I realized my sense of humor, though well-intended, had the suckiest sense of timing.
I almost wished Mary and Shelley slapped me. Physical punishment wouldn't have hurt nearly as much as watching Mary's beautiful blue eyes swell with fluids. She did laugh, surprisingly, opting to savor the fond memories my dirty joke inadvertently triggered. Mary likes remembering the happy times. But it wasn't long before her giggles broke into sobs, and Shelley held her heartbroken little sister.
Shit. Right then and there I crowned myself The World's Greatest Idiot. How brainless can one guy possibly be?! I just cracked a joke about the girls' dead lover! Why the hell couldn't my brain be as big as my damn mouth?!
No amount of apologizing could fix what I'd done. Shelley reassured me not to blame myself, and maybe I wouldn't have if she hadn't been restraining her own tears. And trust me, seeing calm, cool, and collected Shelley Godwin's lips quiver was enough to make me bite my own.
I may be an idiot, but I would never begrudge the girls' rights to mourn their loss. But what really got my goat was when Shelley stared at me with those glassy, inviting eyes. The Godwins weren't conceited enough to think they were the only people devastated by Gaignun's death. They—we needed each other's support to move on.
But… Now, don't get me wrong: I love Mary and Shelley like sisters—or sisters-in-law, which I'd always hoped might happen someday. I'm no romantic, but even I've fantasized about the day when I'd be the best man at my kid brother's wedding. Not that it'd ever happen: Gaignun couldn't choose between Mary and Shelley to save his life! And even if he did eventually make up his mind…it's too late now. Dammit.
Marriage or not, the Godwins will always be family. I'll do anything for them and I know they'd do the same for me. But there in the laundry room…what can I say? I was too proud to let the girls see me cry. With whatever dignity I had left, I excused myself to give the women their privacy. I needed some privacy of my own at the moment.
If anything went my way that day, it was that the men's cabin was empty upon my arrival. The Elsa is a busy place, after all. Matthews and company managed the bridge and the Professor and Scott were down in the lab. Allen spent most of his time with Shion, cooking their famed curry in the kitchen. Crew's gotta' eat, after all. Plus, Shion's curry reminded us of days when everybody gathered in the Elsa's diner, ate together, drank together, played HaKox together, and so on—Shion's way of renewing our hope that those days would come again. Someday.
But that "someday" was not today. "Someday" existed somewhere in the endless future. And even when someday finally arrived, I wasn't naïve enough to assume our lives would perfectly return to the way they had been before Michtam, before Abel's Ark. There would always be something—someone—missing.
How could a big brother ever "get used to it"?
After my cabin's door slid shut, I sat myself down upon my bed, taking little comfort in familiar surroundings and belongings. Not that I had much stuff anymore; most had been destroyed on the Durandal when that asshole father of mine pierced her into Abel's Ark. Losing my vintage book collection was especially disappointing—all their history just, poof: gone! That's why I'm keeping a journal to jot down our new adventure for posterity, since there's no more U.M.N. to automatically log the world's goings-on. This notebook isn't supposed to be some dumb diary for me to write my tales of woe, but after all the pain my friends and I underwent, I feel our story shouldn't be sugarcoated, either.
I guess the saying's true: less is more. Not that I took for granted my wealthy life back home on the Kukai Foundation. But now, the few belongings that remain are even more precious to me: this book, plus a handful of salvaged texts like The Wizard of Oz, some clothes, a bag of coins and ammo, and my dual Makarovs—the ones Gaignun gave me.
And immediately, material loses became pointless compared to what was truly breaking my heart.
The room's silence was comforting, but I'd forgotten that whenever matters grew quiet and I had nothing else to do, my mind wandered. Like a magnet, my stupid train of thought reverted back on my dead baby brother. Because Mary and Shelley's wallow had already chipped my composure, it was harder for me to prevent my anguish from spilling out. Only this time I was alone. And thankful for it.
I am a U.R.T.V., the link master, and allegedly the strongest of all my six-hundred and sixty-eight bioweapon siblings. I endured over two decades, going on three, of witnessing death. You'd think by now my heart would've hardened, but I never got used to it. Never!
It was precisely as Albedo noted on Abel's Ark: I was soft—a poor excuse for a weapon, and an even poorer excuse for an older brother.
("'Poor excuse' indeed. Shameful to believe it took you this long to realize it, Rubedo.")
My watery eyes flew open when it dawned on me that I wasn't quite as alone as I'd thought (or hoped). Speak of the damn devil. As if there weren't enough things I was attempting to "get used to," let's add in an obnoxious twin brother's voice in my head for good measure! And of all times Albedo had to awaken, it just had to be when I wanted my privacy!
("But it's when you're alone that your mind sinks into these unpleasant waters"), Albedo added, overanalyzing my very thoughts. Technically, U.R.T.V.s always had the ability to read each other's minds, but our separated bodies allowed for mental barriers to be built. Now that Albedo and I were bound physically and mentally, there was no way—or none I was aware of—for me to shut out my nosy other half. Albedo enjoys it, too. Bastard. ("And yet, when you are around people, you're afraid of them seeing your vulnerabilities, childlike physique or not. Frankly, age twelve is a bit old to be a crybaby, never mind age twenty-seven.")
"You are hardly one to throw stones, you pain in the ass," I snarled, feeling my grief momentarily fade amid my bubbling annoyance. Dunno' if that was Albedo's intent, and at the moment I didn't care. He was mocking my grief?! Albedo's personality may have changed dramatically over the past fifteen years, but nothing erased the past. "Talk about the pot callin' the kettle black, younger brother."
Albedo's voice made no inclination of being offended. Just the opposite, he slingshot my comment whence it came. ("Yet you are the one currently weeping over Nigredo, older brother, not me.")
I would've cussed again had my hands not been busier wiping away Albedo's observation. Dammit, I was not crying! Well…not excessively, that is. One or two little tears don't classify as full-fledged "weeping," but Albedo's got knack for exaggerations. More specifically, I think he enjoys proving I never matured past that little brat who abandoned him on Old Miltia. Like hell I'd prove Albedo right!
Sucking in leftover tears, I cleared my throat before countering. Albedo perpetually embarrassed me, but…think about it: was I necessarily in a position worth being embarrassed about?
Pretty sure I surprised both of us by my not lashing out irrationally, but rather, "And why the hell shouldn't I mourn Gaignun?" I replied, practically challenged. "This just in, Albedo: you're not my only brother." As in, Albedo wasn't my only brother to perish, though I couldn't bring myself to say those words. Sometimes I have to remind myself that, despite our spiritual reconnection, my other half is physically dead.
Knowing Albedo, he read my mind and understood my point: of course I'd mourn Gaignun, whom I believed to be ten times a better person than the vicious madman of a twin I grieved last year. Delusions and Albedo went hand in hand, but even he wasn't stupid enough to deny who, what he really was in life. I…I don't think he ever once expected tears at his deathbed.
"What's with that face? You look like you just lost your best friend, Rubedo."
I had lost a helluva lot more than that.
("Your heart is too big for your own good, my twin.")
Was that an insult, or a compliment? Knowing Albedo, it was probably a little bit of both.
But this wasn't about Albedo. I'd already paid my dues when he died in Omega's space-time anomaly last year. Now it was all over…everything from a conflict between two dysfunctional brothers, to the cataclysmic demise of the U.M.N. Everyone lost something. The irony of it all was how Albedo Piazzolla—the nutcase who nearly obliterated Second Miltia with Proto Merkabah, hacked the Y-Data that almost ruined MOMO's body and mind, and eventually unleashed U-DO—got his happy ending. Albedo got everything he wanted, even freedom from his immortal curse and eternally reunited with the object of his obsession! Trust me, there were far better people who ended up with far too less.
Gaignun was one such person.
"Grieving is the least I can do for Gaignun. I don't care what he did," I spoke like the natural-born authority figure I was supposed to be. "And I don't care what you think Gaignun did, or tried to do, either, Albedo."
My younger brother chuckled, sounding as amused as somebody watching a dog chase its tail. ("You make it sound as though I fabricated the Executioner's reason for being, Rubedo. And that very ignorance of yours almost allowed Nigredo and Citrine to carry out their fratricidal mission, not to mention our father's asinine ascension into omnipotence. Fortunately for you, I arrived just in time…")
Was he seriously tooting his friggen horn over all this?! Fat chance! "Oh yeeeah, you're some hero, Albedo," I deadpanned. For the record: I'm not thankless for Albedo's return—who knows how Abel's Ark might have transpired had the White Testament not helped defeat Yuriev? But, "If anyone deserves to be coined the hero of Abel's Ark it's the U.R.T.V. who selflessly sacrificed himself!"
("I'm not dismissing Nigredo's martyrdom.") Could've fooled me. ("But Rubedo, you seem to have forgotten that I was the one who intended to do away with Daddy Dearest's soul in the first place. But then out of the blue Nigredo selfishly stole the show in order to play the hero.")
Albedo certainly had a talent for twisting words to suit his needs. "What do you want, a medal?" Though come to think of it, I never did thank him for helping us defeat Dad, but at that particular moment I didn't want to inflate my twin's ego. "Get off your high horse already, Albedo. Nobody's gonna' kill themselves just to upstage a pain in the ass like you! Gaignun did what he thought was right, not just for us but for himself. He wanted to atone for the whole 'executioner' thing…which wasn't even Gaignun's fault in the first place! You wanna' blame somebody? Blame Dad! He's the one who burdened us with these damn 'destinies'! 'Executioner,' 'Red Dragon'…none of us signed up for this shit!"
Then my blood was really boiling. My fists smashed into the mattress, but better than a mattress was how I wanted to beat my frustrations into my father's skull. If I took any comfort from the tragedies in Abel's Ark, it was the knowledge that Dmitri Yuriev could no longer wreak havoc across the galaxy. But sometimes I thought my old man got off too easy.
Occasionally I had these dreams; rewritten memories of Abel's Ark, where Yuriev would be at the mercy of his Red Dragon. No doubt, he would suffer—and no doubt, I would enjoy every gruesome minute of it. I don't like to cater to that dark side of myself, but…you can't tell me Dad wouldn't deserve it. And by the end, I'd return to normal and flee the Ark with Albedo and Gaignun in tow. All three of us would be alive, inhabiting our own bodies, and be free at last. We'd live happily ever after.
If only.
("I blame our father as much as you do, Rubedo"), replied Albedo matter-of-factly. ("He cursed me with that immortal body, if you recall. I'm sure Dad will burn in hell, or some equivalent, for all eternity as punishment for the sins he accumulated throughout his metempsychotic lifetime.") I could only hope.
("Still…the mistakes of the father don't necessarily absolve the mistakes of his children, especially when they were mistakes we willing made, Rubedo.")
Good point. Apparently Albedo's U-DO-freed mind had become more sensible than I'd credited. Then again, even a mad Albedo had spoken the truth to some degree, even if the truth were shrouded within the lunatic's gaudy sermonizing. Like it or not, only children blamed others for their mistakes, and us Variants hadn't been children for quite some time. And at least Albedo had the decency to say, "the mistakes we willingly made," not exempting himself from blame. Sometimes I actually liked Albedo's way with words.
("Do not misunderstand me, Rubedo. I won't pretend to like Nigredo, but I am eternally thankful to him for reuniting us as we were intended all along. All I ever wanted was for you and I to be one, uninhibited by the boundaries and temptations of the flesh.")
Uuh…was it just me, or did that sound totally…wrong?! Oh God. Ever heard that saying, "I need this like I need a hole in my head"? Albedo brings a whole new dynamic to that adage! After one long, awkward-as-hell moment, my eyes bugged out and I almost barfed. Profusely. I was already swamped by Gaignun's death; the last thing I needed was for my certifiable twin to come out of the closet and stay forever in my brain! "Albedo, do I even want to know what that's supposed to mean?!"
("You tell me. You're the one who insists upon calling me a pain in your ass.")
I take it all back: I HATE Albedo's way with words!
I choked, gagged, and swore up a nonsensical storm, but my allegedly sane bastard brother only laughed devilishly at my predictable reaction. ("You know exactly what I mean, Rubedo. All those times you let us drift apart simply because you fell for the wiles of pubescent love with Sakura. You always found an excuse to leave me behind. I thank Nigredo everyday for making sure you could never run away from me AGAIN.")
Not the most comforting of words, were they? Albedo made it sound as though he and Gaignun conspired against me, all again in the middle brother's favor. Once composed, I scoffed, "I'm getting pretty tired of your self-centeredness, Albedo. Not everything is about you. And right now, our youngest brother is dead. Would it kill you to think about Gaignun for once?"
("I already told you I'm grateful to him. What more do you expect?")
"How about some damn sympathy?!" I blasted, this time punching my lap, absentmindedly punishing myself as usual. Maybe it's because I was raised to be the leader, but I always took responsibility for the loss of my siblings. Granted, the loss of the U.R.T.V.s had been my fault, but… Was it odd for me to feel worse because Gaignun's sacrifice had been entirely out of my control?
On Miltia fifteen years ago, I chose to break the spiritual link and doomed my comrades. One year ago, I chose to kill Albedo. Similarly I murdered Citrine. But the guilt I felt over Gaignun's death differed from previous losses. In the aforementioned circumstances, I killed my family only because saving them was nonnegotiable. Still, at least there had been an option. I could have chosen to die on Old Miltia with everyone else, and I could have chosen to spare Albedo and Citrine. Nobody put a gun to my head and made those decisions for me. I was the one with the gun. I was the one who fired. Point. Shoot.
But on Abel's Ark, Gaignun was the U.R.T.V. with choices and he chose sacrifice. Albedo called him selfish, and in a way, he was right; Gaignun took away any choice I had in the matter concerning his death. Or was that the very reason why Gaignun took away my choices? Already I carried the weight of six-hundred and sixty-seven deaths on my shoulders. Number 669 chose to be one less.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense, and it drove a bittersweet smile to tug the corner of my shaky lips. Yeah. That sounds like Gaignun all right. It reminded me of another situation when Nigredo took the reigns away from his link master.
To dub the first few years after the Miltian Conflict as "challenging" would be a gross understatement for the surviving U.R.T.V.s, sans Albedo whom we'd assumed was lost in the Abyss. Few people really understood what happened on Miltia, after all, though everyone was quick to point fingers at Joachim Mizrahi. U-TIC suffered the same sentiments, but they weren't the only ones to lose credibility in the public eye. There was a time when people acted wary of Realians after witnessing their berserk, cannibalistic behavior during the conflict.
The media boomed with "eye-witness testimonies" of Old Miltia, many taken with a grain of salt, except for the buzz surrounding one new, anonymous report:
HORRORS OF MILTIA: Realians killing Realians, children killing children!
To this day, Helmer's convinced that someone inside U-TIC tipped the media about the Federation's clandestine bioweapons, probably to take some heat off the conflict's true masterminds. Nobody was overly surprised to learn about the Federation secretly cloning super-soldiers, certainly no stranger than other creations of the Life Recycling Act. However, the public wasn't quite as accepting upon discovering the Federation's übermenschen were children. Child soldiers hadn't been utilized since Lost Jerusalem.
Controversies exploded: children's rights, child labor, child abuse…anything to tarnish the Federation's image. The public was none too pleased when Lieutenant General Helmer admitted to being aware of, never mind supporting, the U.R.T.V. project, either. Helmer reassured the public that he cared for the U.R.T.V.s like his own children, but his heartfelt proclamation only increased people's ire. What kind of father sends his preteen kids into the heat of war?! The press never met Dmitri Yuriev.
Me being, well, me, I took the mudslinging harder than I'd like to admit. I absolutely hated listening to the public trash Helmer, my and Gaignun's one true father figure. Already, I blamed myself for killing my siblings in Labyrinthos. The media was bound to have a field day if they ever unearthed the truth about Number 666.
I could just imagine waking up one morning and reading the latest headlines:
THE CHILD FRATRICIDE!
U.R.T.V. #666: THE LIEUTENANT GENERAL'S DEVIL!
FEDERATION'S EVIL BIOWEAPONS: Monsters who kill their own kind, then run away to save their own cowardly asses!
…Most sickening of all was that those headlines would be the cold hard truth.
Rarely a day went by when I didn't apologize like some pathetic kid who wet his bed, blubbering how sorry I was for dragging Helmer and Nigredo down into the mess I made. I was a paranoid basket case, fearing any day we'd be arrested, separated, tortured…all because of me! I could, and would, handle my own punishment, but Nigredo was the youngest and he didn't do anything wrong. He didn't deserve to suffer because of his dumbass leader. The guilt drove me insane…not insane like Albedo, but insane enough for me to actually consider coming out of hiding and confessing my sins to the public once and for all. If it meant prison, or death, so be it. I didn't care anymore.
Nigredo was the one who put an end to my nonsense:
"Stop thinking like that, Rubedo! You'll only be telling the media what they want to hear, and then they'll destroy everything we've been working for since the conflict!
"You want to tell the public something?! Why don't you tell them how we're working to unlock what really happened that night on Miltia? Tell them that Helmer's scrimping and scraping to fund an entire foundation dedicated to unearthing Old Miltia's secrets! But none of that's ever going to happen if you let the world think U.R.T.V.s are nothing but monsters! Give yourself a chance to atone, Rubedo. Give us all a chance!"
Gaignun never blamed me for what happened on Miltia, and he made damn sure that I knew that. Such never stopped me from pigheadedly loathing myself, but at the very least, I grew up knowing someone was always on my side. When times got rough, little Nigredo was there to talk sense into his big brother. Undeniably, without Gaignun, I would not have survived the last fifteen years by myself. Or, I would've gone madder than Albedo, or swallowed a bullet. In every sense of the word, and in so many more ways, I am alive today because of Gaignun.
And frighteningly, it made me wonder if I could continue living now that Gaignun was dead. I came desperately close to giving up when Albedo died…
("You want to know something, Rubedo?") Albedo rhetorically asked, once again jarring me from my melancholic muses. ("I feel sorry for Nigredo right now. Not because he died, of course—even now, I believe death to be the greatest release—but because Nigredo's death has only served to inflate your self-indulgent drama.")
Albedo's comment struck more cords than I anticipated. My voice adopted a sharp, almost dark tone when I demanded to know, "What the hell do you mean, Albedo?"
My twin huffed, but I could tell Albedo enjoyed spelling things out for me, not as a favor but as further evidence of how "limited" I was compared to his majesty. ("To put it simply, my half-witted other half, you're not so much 'mourning' Nigredo as you are feeling sorry for yourself.")
That set me off. "What did you say—?!"
But Albedo didn't let my rant get very far. ("You heard what I said, and you know it's true. You did the same thing when you killed me, Rubedo. 'It's all my fault,' 'I wish I could redo it,' 'I don't want to be alone,' and so on, and so on, and so on. Honestly, Rubedo! You have no idea how EXHAUSTING it is for me to listen to your self-centered variation of 'grief.' I've heard the word 'I' more times than I've heard 'Nigredo' within your streams of thought.")
"…But…I-I…"
("See what I mean?")
"Oh shut up! You think I'm exhausting? How do you think my friends and I felt every time you dragged us through your soap opera last year? 'I was left behind!' 'Woe is me!' 'I'm all alone!' 'Look at me, Rubedo! I'm sooo needy!'"
Now I was the one going overboard, but I wasn't lying and Albedo didn't argue. In fact, my counterattack actually proved my brother's point. ("So it be proven how alike we truly are, Rubedo. The only reason you were so quick to call me selfish earlier is because 'it takes one to know one.' If you really want to prove to me, or to yourself, that you have changed during these fifteen years, I highly suggest you start with our baby brother's passing.")
Worse than realizing Albedo wasn't wrong, I was disturbed by how spot-on he'd diagnosed my grief, tapping into God-knows-what inside my psyche. Had I really been that self-absorbed? It's not like I intended to be.
("How easily you've forgotten that death was something both I and Nigredo wanted"), recalled Albedo, his reminder causing my eyes to widen upon the realization. ("I suffered in my immortal body. Nigredo suffered in his body, too—anyone would if they had to share a vessel with that odious father of ours.") I could tell that, despite Albedo's intolerance of an undying body, he obviously considered himself fortunate not to share that damned body with our damned father. Gaignun and Citrine shared a better relationship with Dad, though "better" didn't guarantee "great."
("You gave us what we wanted, Rubedo.") And though Albedo's voice never missed a beat, there was—I think—a subtle yet surprising hint of appreciation hidden within his silky voice. Or maybe that was my wishful thinking. ("Think of it this way: big brother gave his little brothers the gifts they most wanted. What is there to be upset about?")
He made it almost sound like death was a good thing. Yeah, maybe death is fine to the person who dies, but not so much for the person who survives. "I get what you're saying, Albedo. But…but it…" I chewed my lower lip.
("'But it hurts.'") Albedo filled in the blanks for me. ("Yes, I know. Perhaps it would not hurt so much if you spent less time compounding that pain with your guilt, Rubedo.")
No argument there. I hated feeling so blameful, but old habits die hard. "But I…" I paused again, hating to overuse the word "I" anymore than necessary, especially with Albedo keeping score. "I don't know what else to do, Albedo."
("Yes you do. You can start by taking the advice Nigredo gave you in that handy flashback of yours.") That, and I desperately needed to find a way to prevent my mind from being entirely at Albedo's disposal. Nosy jerk! ("Instead of wallowing in sorrow and self-pity, move on. You seemed to manage when it came to starting that idyllic foundation of yours. Rummaging through your memories, I noticed Sakura's spirit gave you a similar pep talk after I died. Do you think Nigredo feels any differently now?")
Albedo only asked questions to which he already knew the answers. I knew them too, which was why I didn't bother to argue further. Nigredo's younger self came to mind, grabbing my arms and shaking some sense into my disillusioned self:
"Give yourself a chance to atone, Rubedo."
And there was no time like the present. Everybody onboard the Elsa was "moving on," undertaking a new mission within a new galaxy, atoning to some extent. Our promise to chaos was a chance to better our lives, and that of all living consciousness as Nephilim prophesized. Finding Lost Jerusalem won't change the past, it won't bring Gaignun back, but it will change the future. I hope.
("Nobody knows what awaits on Lost Jerusalem, Rubedo.") voiced Albedo, his tone surprisingly neutral for once. ("I'll admit, when I was younger, I wished Father had imbued U.R.T.V.s with clairvoyance, so I wouldn't be incessantly tormented by the future's uncertainties.")
That was Albedo's fancy-talk for, "so I'd know—and be prepared for—when you and Nigredo died." But Albedo wasn't the first U.R.T.V. to think future-sight could come in handy. If I knew the mistakes I'd make in the future, perhaps I could've prevented them. Perhaps Gaignun would still be alive.
But there was no point in could've-would've-should've anymore. ("However, now I don't fear the future. Now…I feel I have a new purpose in life!")
I couldn't help it; I snorted sarcastically. "To drive me crazy?"
("That,") the bastard didn't deny, ("and my purpose is your purpose, Rubedo. As we are one in body, mind, and soul, we share the same destiny.")
I never thought about it that way before. Albedo was coming along for the ride to Lost Jerusalem, too. Like everybody else onboard the Elsa, Albedo was being given a chance to atone, but unlike everybody else, the madman shouldered a heftier penance. Maybe…that so-called soap opera of last year was finally catching up with him?
And by denying myself the chance to atone, I was also denying Albedo's chance. No wonder he wanted me to quit my pity-party already. I wanted to end it, myself.
"Give yourself a chance to atone, Rubedo. Give us all a chance!"
That's what Gaignun wanted all along. He was dead, but I was still alive. It was what my brother—brothers—wanted. Even at his youngest, most innocent of age, Albedo never wanted me to die. Death will claim the final U.R.T.V. someday, and the three of us will be reunited once and for all, happily playing together for eternity. Nigredo promised.
"I'm not saying goodbye. Let's play together again sometime."
But until then, there was work to be done.
My fists balled tightly as determination surged throughout my small, resolute body. "Sounds like we've both got a new purpose, and I'm not wasting it. Not again." The same fists then unwound, and my left hand's fingers gingerly rose to stroke the right of my chest. That heart belonged to Albedo, but the only reason it was whole again was because of Gaignun. "You guys saved me before. This is more than a chance for me to atone. You said death was a gift, Albedo, but so is life."
It was the closest I'd gotten to saying "thank you" for him coming to my rescue in Abel's Ark. Surprisingly, my chatty twin stayed silent. Either Albedo didn't have a comeback, or he saw no reason to counterattack.
Whatever the case, I could feel my wavelength pulsate, imagining it shine a warm, vivid, confident redness. Without a physical body and eyes, I'm not totally certain how Albedo "perceives" the inner workings of my subconscious, but I suspected he noticed a change in my wellbeing. There came subtle pride in my right heart, but not pure arrogance. It felt more like I'm proud of you. And I'm proud to have contributed to rekindling your fire. Not that Albedo voiced it, and not that I expected him to, either.
My pain in the ass twin preferred to default on jealousy over "You guys saved my life," because God forbid Albedo share a victory with anyone, let alone Gaignun. ("Hmph, I'll thank you for not lumping me in the same category as Nigredo, Rubedo.")
For the first time all night I laughed, my giggles evaporating the last of my sorrow. Typical, envious Albedo. At least some things never changed, and I wondered if I ever wanted them to. It was a rhetorical way of thinking, naturally; again, nothing would ever be the same after Michtam, but there's nothing wrong with savoring some pieces of the past—the pieces that didn't completely suck.
"Heh. You know something, Albedo?" My trademark smirk reached for my ears. It dawned on me that Albedo didn't even need to tap into my brain—or vice versa—cause' we're both pretty easy to read, one of the few benefits to being formerly-conjoined twins. Better than anyone, I knew Albedo. That, and I also knew, "you're full of shit."
An amused ripple reverberated across our link, sorta' like a chuckle. ("Thus speaks the voice of experience, dear brother.")
As another laugh made its way up my throat, I perked when a soft knocking echoed from outside the cabin door. An even softer, feminine voice followed. "Little Master? May we come in?" Judging by the inclusion of the word "we" in Shelley's request, Mary was by her side. After the laundry room incident, my meeting with the Godwins was inevitable. I just never expected it to happen so soon. Though I felt better by now, I was still a bit embarrassed after making such a scene, however unintentional it had been. Would the girls scold me? Or worse…?
("Oh please, Rubedo. You know those women are here to help you mourn Nigredo. The question is are you going to make another spectacle of yourself by running away, or make a new spectacle by giving in to their grief?")
Neither option sounded appealing, especially when I was bound to be mentally-teased for my behavior thereafter. But as my illustrious twin noted, I could no longer be selfish, worried about my own pain and nobody else's. The true question Albedo should've asked was not how I'd react to Mary and Shelley's grief, but what I'd do to help them—and myself—to move forward. But how?
"Any suggestions, bro?" I opted to chuck the ball back into Mr. Know-It-All's court. But not even Albedo could have all the answers yet; nobody ever did after experiencing a heartbreaking loss.
But first things first. ("For starters, quit moping around. Doing nothing is no different than being dead, and we can't have that, now can we?")
Since I had asked for Albedo's input, I knew I shouldn't poke fun, especially at a formerly sensitive issue. Still, the hypocrisy was too good to ignore. "Heh, thus speaks the voice of inexperience. Who'dve thought the once-undying Albedo Piazzolla would one day give advice about mortality?"
I'm glad he wasn't offended by the memories my joke regurgitated. There was a time when Albedo's curse was anything but a laughing matter, for the both of us. But now, things had changed. We both changed. Need any more proof? Albedo actually agreed with me.
("True enough,") he acknowledged, and I could tell Albedo was prepping for another one of his orations. Just what I needed. ("It was only after my release from immortality through U-DO that I finally understood fate's poetic irony. And ah, what a cruel joke it is!
("Death and life, life and death—two complimentary halves of a whole not unlike you and I, my heart. And though there is no escaping death's finality, there is one way to overcome its crippling grief: live. So stand up, Rubedo, and go on.")
The End
The moon is gone, and the night is still so dark
I'm a little bit afraid of tomorrow.
But I will go. I will go on.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading this! Reviews make my day, and I hope this story made yours. :)