Title: Journey book

Disclaimer: I do not own D. Gray-man or any of its characters.
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Lavi backstory. How he physically and emotionally becomes part of the Bookmen Clan. Pre-series, WIP that may or may not connect with present events.
Warning: I took much liberty with this! Unbetaed :(. If someone would like to beta for me I would be very very grateful.
Word Count: 3,532 so far.

LJ Version: lf-maggie(dot)livejournal(dot)com/13555(dot)html

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"We are bookmen, we do not interpret, merely record. We are not remembered with the passing of time."

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He awakens slowly with a feeling of hollowness, starting from the extremities of his fingers and toes, and ebbing its way to his core in curling tendrils. There is a void in his chest cavity, forceful as if he'd been abruptly pulled back into a dying body. Don't, it says. This is mine.

But the words don't mean anything and he's forgotten them as soon as something else, in his head this time, is clawing, howling, and threatening to burst. Don't you dare forget! Shouting at him, shrill with fright and anger.

...Forget what?

And even as he's wondering this, with slight agitation in his delicate state of consciousness, the words fade quietly; erased as a retreating echo leaving only raw emotion and the void-nothingness still in his chest. Not separate now, but a fierce confrontation of the two, clashing head-on within him.

'Breathe, exhale,' someone, an external voice, coaxes and he tries but his lungs feel tight with fluid or maybe the air is too warm, too thick.

With each beating of his heart, he could feel the void sensation eating away and winning in its battle against the violent energy, to a point of climactic understanding in this game. He feels a jolt of pain and shudders, arching his back and snapping his head skyward, coughing but at the same time filling his lungs with enough oxygen-rich air for every capillary in his bloodstream—until the battle is over. Hollow void and angry chaos both removed without a trace, and there is nothing but a short-lived moment of peace.

'Wake, Child', commands the same voice from earlier, louder this time as if closer but he knows it's only because he is truly beginning to awake. His external senses are returning, all too fast, fumbling inelegant and conflicted.

But I can't see, can't speak, and can't move voluntarily. His hands grasp at rough fabric unconsciously and he knows he's lying on a bed: tangled sheets and hot, covered in sweat.

'What?' he struggles to question, but it comes out in awkward little gasps and murmurs instead.

Everything is all too real—the sun on his skin is warm, casting little shadows against the hairs on his arm; ticklish. There is wind, gentle and cool, carrying the sweet smell of cedar and forest moss, the cry of sea birds and the scent of ocean waves, wet beach stones, sand, and faint traces of morning tea. Entirely new, entirely more. He realizes the memory loss, or rather, the state of intended no-memory. But no human senses could hold this degree of sensitivity; never mind externally, but internally as well, he was suddenly vastly aware of his body from the precise movement of blood-flow in his circulatory system to each connection of joint and fragile tendon in his musculature.

When his mind returns it is like an explosion of sound and colour, too loud and too many shades, moving too fast: still photography reeling through space like a forced electric current, unleashed.

He screams; these are not his memories—this is the history through time. Stop-motion images, each frame of each scene playing meaningless through his mind. But he could see. Oh yes, he could see every detail all too clearly. Eyes open wide now; the edges are even sharper.

He touches a hand to his forehead, gingerly resting it just above his eyes and testing this first voluntary movement. When he is certain that he was indeed awake, breathing, and seeing, he slowly collects himself into a sitting position and begins to take in the physical sight of his surroundings: the singular bed with orange-coloured sheets, damp and wrinkled from all his thrashing, various fraying carpets and rugs lain over rough cedar floorboards, patterned tapestry hanging off the walls, old and grey with dust; stacks of paintings leaning against an antique bookshelf, cluttered and tilted as if they would topple with the slightest touch; mirror to the left, entirely out of place, too fancy as if from a Queen's bedchamber, and small open windows, mostly facing the seaside with blue-painted shutters thrown wide apart...

Sea cottage—a little abode by the sea.

And there was the man whose voice he must have heard: a little old thing with scroll and ink-pen in hand, sitting on a three-legged stool at the foot of his bed staring at him with not an inch of curiosity, but as if he were a child who'd been caught stealing from his father's house.

"Your reawakening is complete," announced the old man, dark painted eyes unfeeling. "Took longer than anticipated but you're a full apprentice now."

He listens blankly, not knowing where to start.

"Go clean yourself." Terse, as scroll and pen are set aside to toss him a tattered towel.

Hesitantly, he reaches for it and is immediately in awe of the stringy yellow texture grazing his arm, surprisingly soft. "Where—"

"In the back there, to the right," tilting his head in indication, the old man's eyes never leave him. "No door but there's nobody else here besides me. And now you."

He gets up too fast and has to brace himself against the bedpost, movement uncoordinated and legs clumsy as if he's never used them a day in his life. Trying again, he all but collapses back into the mattress, hands clutching at the bedpost for support—why is it so difficult to walk, Old Man?

"One foot at a time. Place it in front, then lift the other one. Don't get ahead of yourself."

He feels silly and wants to say, 'I know how to walk.' But clearly his body has forgotten.

Stumbling and partly feeling his way along the walls, he has to be careful of his footing, mindful of the cluttered objects piled here and there across the floor. He almost steps on a black kitten appearing out of nowhere, darting around his feet like it's some sort of game and he isn't actually physiologically disabled.

Too many questions to ask and he doesn't know where to start. So he doesn't ask any.

"You're doing well, Child. Take it slowly."

He'd like to turn and nod, just to be polite, but his concentration capacity is not yet at the level of multi-tasking. He could hear the rustling of movement, however, and the sound of bed-sheets being stripped.

It takes him a good 15 minutes to reach the bathroom, and it isn't so much as the walking with his legs, but the proper correlating of everything else—aligning the shoulders, the hips, bending the knees, keeping and shifting balance appropriately. Why isn't it coming naturally?

He rests against the sink, tired and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Pale skin rosy with exertion, high forehead and long, pointy nose; he brushes a lock of fiery red hair out of his eyes and freezes, stepping back in shock.

Trembling slightly, he brings his hands to feel around the edges of where his right eye ought to be.

... How is it possible? His vision is perfect through both eyes, but a large, puffy bandage was unmistakably taped over his right eye-socket, completely shielding it from sight. He begins to pick at the tape, lifting the corners of the cotton and tugging carefully but urgently.

Searing pain; tiny fibres of cotton-padding adhered to his flesh.

Breathing heavily, he stops and presses the tape back down, holding it there and waiting for the pain to pass. It's obviously not ready to be removed, yet. He looks around, pauses, and tries to think.

...It's not like, I can't see... he reasons, studying his reflection in the mirror once more, -through- the material...

Very disconcerting but again, too many things requiring an explanation in the last twenty minutes and he simply lacked the energy to dwell on any more of it at the moment. Upset and shaken, yes, but what he needed most right now was a nice, warm bath. Hands on stained porcelain, he runs the tap and crawls into the dirty-looking tub. Think later--leaning back and closing his eyes.

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End part 1.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think? I feel like I'm playing with fire here, and it's burning my hands a little. 1,312 words already written for Part 2, but needs some major tweaking.