I think I have a thing for angst since all of my one-shots are angst. What comes out in my mind every time I write about Allen is always angst. Poor Allen.
I'm also a bit doubtful of this fic (I don't know why). Anyway, here it is... Please tell me if there's any mistake in my writing, and do review :)
Disclaimer: I don't own D Gray-Man
A doll rendered immobile with loose stitches
Trampled on the procuring end
The doll broke by which hands begets
Aria of a Broken Doll
Quiet days have its own silent agreement amongst the people living within the Order's walls. The recent surge of activity had left them all tired and wary, more so for the exorcists who faced the brunt of it that the silence and lack of activity became a much awaited blessing. No one would bother the exorcists; this was one time where they got their rest. The only ones who would still be found working relentlessly were Jeryy and the science department—only because their jobs are unending.
Everything was the same except for one thing: the golden golem fluttering alone across the halls of the Black Order. It was rare for Timcanpy to be separated from Allen and his ever present shadow, the golem rarely went anywhere by its own lately. Timcanpy had been flying around looking for its white haired master for some time. It had looked at the bedroom, the cafeteria, bathroom and all sort of places, but Allen Walker and the inspector were nowhere to be seen.
A faint melody wafted throughout the desolate hall, piercing the solitude like a silent prayer. The golem recognized the melody almost immediately; it was the same melody as a doll had once sung—the once beautiful doll with the silky voice singing the lullaby over and over again in the ruins of Martel for a dead audience. The harsh downpour outside only served to augment the irony of the situation.
The melody led to a deserted part of the building, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and a thin layer of dust covering the unused floor. Two newly made footprints leading to a small room showed that the place was recently visited. The melody was coming through the crack of the double black doors. Inside the dimly lit room an old gramophone was playing on a small round table in the center of the room, and two high backed wooden chairs occupied by the people Timcanpy had been looking.
In one corner of the room Allen sat resting his head on his hands, stormy gray eyes closed and knees drawn up to his chest on the chair. Seated next to the gramophone was Inspector Howard Link, immersed in his reading. At a glance Allen seemed to be in a peaceful slumber—as though the melody worked as a lullaby to the boy. But the golden golem knew better. His master had been having silent emotional struggles, lately more than ever.
Timcanpy landed softly on Allen's shoulder and fluttered its wings in a futile attempt to be comforting. The gesture elicited a small response from the boy as Allen opened one eye to look at it before closing it again.
Allen's statuesque state resumed with Timcanpy on his shoulder.
Hours passed as the lullaby continued playing from the gramophone over and over. Link would sneak a glance at them during page turning, recording everything in his memory for the daily report he would no doubt be writing at the end of the day. He noted with growing worry that both the boy and the golem had not moved from their position at all. He was starting to seriously consider the seriousness of the situation. Perhaps Walker was discharged from the infirmary too early—Link's memory of the extent of damages the boy received was still fresh, having a huge scar on his stomach was not one to laugh at. Or maybe he just needed to be alone? The boy's life was turned upside down in such way that he wouldn't be surprised if Allen Walker wished for a temporary rest from everything and everyone. It was the only explanation of Walker's earlier odd behavior.
A sudden screech of off-key notes disturbed his thoughts—the stylus misplayed the disc record resulting in a groove lock. The beautiful aria reduced to a repetitive of broken notes.
Link reached over to the gramophone hoping to fix or completely stop it when a soft whisper reached his ears,
"No. Please leave it."
Link's hand froze over the tonearm. It was so soft that he had to strain his ears to hear it. Link threw his gaze across to find Allen's eyes were opened—those stormy gray orbs were staring forlornly at the broken record.
There was no way Link was going to comply without any reason. When it seemed there was no forthcoming explanation he decided to break the status quo, "Haven't you grown tired of listening to the same record?"
Allen blinked slowly. "No."
Link was miffed. As if sensing Link's change in mood Allen added throatily, "Please."
Just one word and Link found himself sighing resignedly. The way the boy had sounded made all the steam fled from his system. "Fine. Although I don't understand how you could stand this cacophony."
Link's hand left the gramophone—still playing the horrible off-key notes. Allen closed his eyes once he was sure the inspector was seated and wouldn't tinker with the instrument. He couldn't grace Link's statement with an answer.
Because the answer was too personal.
Allen hadn't known that the lullaby the beautiful ghost doll sung was recorded, moreover to find the record in this dusty secluded little room. The disc was lying on the floor under the same thin layer of dust covering the whole room when he found it. Link had snorted in disapproval when he entered the room, dusting the dust off the record with his long sleeves and squinting his eyes under the dim light filtering through the glass window with gray clouds blocking the lights and rain obscuring the scenery outside.
From the moment the lullaby was played Allen was bombarded with memories—Guzol and Lala, innocence and akuma. Some were pleasant memories—Timothy joining the order, their safe return from Edo, laughing with the guys from the Asian Branch, meeting with Crowley and Miranda, meeting with everyone of the Black Order, and Mana. Most were abhorrent memories—Crown Clown condemning him, the Order's verdict, his master's revelation and assassination, the separation in the Ark, losing his innocence, traveling hardships under apprenticeship of General Cross Marian, and Mana.
Everything and anything about Allen Walker had always been about Mana Walker—foster father, traveling pierrot and brother to a Noah. The latter was the first to happen but the last he knew. Mana was the whole pivotal point of his current withdrawal. Allen didn't care if he looked a pathetic wreck, he needed this. Or he might go crazy pretending to be fine nonstop in front of his friends.
Just like a doll dangling precariously by a string.
Lala the doll had been but an imitation of life to bring joy and to hide others' pains and sufferings. Mana Walker the pierrot had been a charade to hide from the Earl and Noahs. Lala the doll had no soul. Mana Walker the foster father had no real past his foster son knew of. Lala the doll was a fake being. The Mana Walker Allen knew was just a cover.
But their existence held significance in his short life.
What would be left of Allen Walker if he was suddenly ripped from everything he held dear? The corners of his eyes stung with hot tears he wouldn't allow. Cross' words still ringing fresh in his ears, "Shed that mask of Mana Walker."
Then he would be just a scared child, scarred for and by life. Like Lala when her innocence heart was ripped out, Guzol watching with undaunted loss—able to do nothing but watch his last hope in life disappear. The child him would stumble down the road, no longer able to carve his own path. As Lala had been a lifeless mannequin without her heart.
What a lie, he couldn't even fulfill his master's last order.
Timcanpy twined its tail around his neck and fluttered its wings lightly as if to say he must cheer up. A bitter smile crept to his lips, but Link couldn't see it with his head bowed down. Timcanpy was always there to patch him up. To fix his broken heart and shattered self, trying to piece every salvageable fragment together.
But then the looming shadow would poke out its fingers from the gaping holes, making him bled again. It was his painful reminder of reality.
Allen once spoke about protecting and keep moving forth—now he found himself faltering to an untimely stop. Sooner or later the Fourteenth would replace him.
What a pity, he couldn't even believe in himself anymore.
His limbs were aching from staying still for hours, ears drumming from the horrible off-key notes, and joints stiff. Was he the only one who could see the interconnecting lines running down his body like a poorly made marionette—the way Lala had been when she stopped?
Was he the only who could see the strings bound to his body, jerking his limbs in awkward angles as a lousy semblance of movement—the way Lala had been when she regained her light, the whole in her chest gapingly open?
Was he the only one who could see his body gradually crumbling to dust, consumed by his previously cherished limb, his left arm where Crown Clown resided—the way Lala had been when she sung until she broke?
His lamentation was abruptly interrupted when he felt a shift in the room. Training and experience had left Allen with heightened senses and instinct. Without opening his eyes he knew who the figure standing before him was. Silent gratitude welled up inside him, who knows what would happen if he went farther into his self deprecating thoughts.
"Walker." Link's voice sounded slightly worried. It was unusual for the boy to hear that tone from Link. "We should go back. Your injuries may still require medical attention."
Allen straightened his back and put up a smile. Maybe he would end up really smiling one day, and no one would ever see the horrors he was hiding. He shook his head languidly signaling that he would stay.
"Then at least let me stop that horrible screeching." Link relented to the younger boy.
Allen gave another shake of head, that vacant smile still in place. The broken melodies rather suited him. But he would never tell that to the inspector.
It's because I'm broken…
I'm a broken doll, Link.
Notes:
Gramophone: the British term for "phonograph".
Groove lock: a playing failure resulting in a section of music repeating itself separated by a popping noise. It's the origin of the saying "you sound like a broken record".
Tone arm (tonearm): holds the pickup cartridge and the stylus over the disc record.
Stylus: the gramophone needle functioning to track the groove (metal indentations) on the disc record. It is needed to play back sound.