A/N: for Ditch Gospel, whose reviews are unfailingly perceptive, and who introduced me to the wonderful Echoes from the West. Thank you!
Trichotomy or Thrice Three
They lie on his ear, three hard, glistening metal clasps.
Thrice three.
Three hard clasps to rein in three emotions.
One to rein in Rage. The fury of a lover, the ice of a fighter. The impetus for a mass murderer, triggered by one ignorant accusation and accelerated by pain. Dissolved by loss. That rage is concealed behind upturned lips, gentle words and pacifying manner; carefully and deliberately revealed on the battlefield, clamped down on quickly, lest others see his shame. He suppresses what disgusts him most about himself – his own lack of control. Inhuman, he thinks, and laughs, because he is truly not human now. One to lock the rage away, to make others think it does not exist.
One to rein in Sorrow. Reveal nothing, he thinks, and one day there may be nothing to reveal. Act as if it does not exist, and maybe he can fool himself. In meticulous organisation he can tuck away time for grief, schedule its coming and going, and the rest of the time it does not trouble him because he is occupied by other things. One to tame that emotion, force himself back to equilibrium.
One to rein in Despair. His oldest acquaintance, best known and least loved of all the emotions that have raged through him; that whispers counsel in his ear: do not hope, do not live, do not dare to be happy; it draws the lightning to you. He cannot despair, cannot afford to, because that way lies the madness, and even metal cannot stop it. He cannot give in, because in that moment his death would become inevitable, and his own stubborn pride, the survivor's badge, the warrior's arrogance, will not permit him to end it. One to fight that lethal edge, to stave off those murderous tides of hopelessness.
Three.
Three glistening clasps to hold in three men.
One for He-Who-Was, name lost in the mists of centuries gone by, who fought and led men in an army without weapons, in wars without killing, in a heavenly hell – or a hellish heaven. Tactician, plotter, wine and books and smoke; labcoats and long hair. One clasp for him, locking away the distant past, may it no longer trouble him, for the past is nothing but pain.
One for He-Who-Must-Not-Be, a name given up with death and rebirth, an identity lost in lengthening ears and sharpening nails and the death of a lover before his eyes, mourned in the rain as he lay dying, killed by the command of higher powers than he. Teacher, brother, lover, glasses and a bloodstained knife. One clasp for him, locking away a self he does not wish to reveal. Does not wish to accept.
One for He-Who-Sleeps-Within, a being never named – does it bear his own name? If not, what is it? Who is it? – shorn of even that single most necessary identification, forced away, locked up, denied – forever, he would have it, but events conspire – but at least as long as he can help it. He is the embodiment of his rage, the expression of his true power. Vines trail over him, a thousand – one for each life he took – raw untamed mindless power that three suppress. One clasp for him to lock away all trace of his changed self, to pretend that that is not a part of who he is.
Three.
Three metal clasps to symbolise three realities.
One to symbolise Loss. The trigger to his transformation. Mourning, for the sweetness and the pleasure and the pain of her love, for his own innocence, for his old self, for the days in which his hands were pale unstained skin. Mourning her lack of trust, her pain as well as his. Wishes are flighty things, and so is a dream-woven present made from some altered choice in the past; but memory lies solid and heavy on his shoulders. One for her; one for Kanan, the one he loved and lost.
One to symbolise Change. For all the things that were that have gone. For the crucible in which this strange new self, this strange new life, took form and was born into a world both softer and harsher than the one he had left behind, where he can tentatively heal and fight to survive. For a stranger's compassion and companionship, for a second chance at life. One for his saviour; one for Sha Gojyo, the taboo child.
One to symbolise Unity. Because through all the parts of himself he has acquired, he manages to remain a whole. Each part of him distinct, but all together. Half human, half not, expressed by the glass that leaves one eye uncovered; caught in partial transformation. For every impulse within him, another part provides a countering impulse: kill/heal, hate/care, fight/save, feel/don't feel. His entire life is spent drawing them into a single blend, a self-contradictory whole. By one he is haunted, by one tormented, by one transformed; nonetheless he is one.
One for him, then; one last limiter for Cho Hakkai, for He-Who-Is-Three-Made-One.
Three for emotion, three for reality, three for existence. Thrice three made three, and three made one. The divisions and aspects of a single soul, displayed for all to see who know his secret language.
Glittering coldly on his ear.