This story… is apparently some kind of sequel to The Destroyer of Time, depicting what took place sometime after we left off in the aforementioned story. As for the length, it will either be three chapters or more, if there is a demand for it.
Disclaimer: I obviously don't own D. Gray – Man (which might be a pity to some and a relief to others…)
Cheers.
- o0o -
I – Abaddon – I
- o0o -
"…Time is out of joint:
O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right…"
- o0o -
They were familiar, the words of a troubled young man, conveyed by a renowned playwright…
He has never been much of an avid reader – not much of a reader at all for that matter, and especially not of Shakespeare – but for some reason, certain bits and pieces of it – fragments of a play witnessed at some point in time – still lingers in his mind.
- o0o -
"To be, or not to be: that is the question…"
- o0o -
"To be, or not to be…"
- o0o -
"Such is the question…" He looks up, seemingly addressing the crescent where it hangs in the clear night sky. His breath is like a white cloud when it comes into contact with the chilly night air. "…But what is the answer?"
He receives no answer, but the wind – previously gone still and silent – suddenly blows strongly again, carrying snowflakes with it and scattering them across the landscape.
Silver-grey eyes watch them fall, and soon, a small but evident smile spreads across the face of the boy – no, he is already a teenager, albeit a short and skinny one at that.
"Hey! Fool! Get your arse down from there!"
The slight smile vanishes. Fool narrows his eyes slightly and peers down at the noisy person standing there at the foot of the tree. They are looking up at him in obvious disapproval.
"We're breaking camp and moving on, so hurry the Hell up and get down from there!"
The narrowed eyes widen momentarily. Then, the look of mild disapproval morphs into something akin to a smirk. Fool jumps from the high branch that has served as his vantage point, seemingly slowing his descent right before touching the ground.
"Hey, Fool, give it a rest, would you? You're not on stage…"
The proclaimed Fool decidedly ignores him, bowing low in acknowledgement of the implied compliment.
"Hey, Fool…"
Fool looks up, though the domino mask placed over the upper half of his face partially conceals it.
"Who are you really, beneath it all?"
Fool shrugs mildly in return before adjusting his attire.
- o0o -
"This above all, to thine own self be true…"
- o0o -
"Yet…"
- o0o -
"To be, or not to be: that is the question…"
- o0o -
"To be, or not to be…"
- o0o -
A haunted face, carrying a distinct red scar, shows up within the frame of a broken mirror.
Wide eyes are reflected in it. Normally, they are silver-grey, but now, they seemingly take on an amber tinge from the flame of a lit candle nearby.
Amber is bad; amber is dangerous.
He knows as much, but still, while it is a much dreaded colour, it is still one of longing.
Amber is good; amber is protective.
Amber is strange; strange yet familiar.
"Who are you?"
He addresses the reflection in the mirror.
For a brief moment, it seems to flicker.
It distorts, and for a brief moment, there is someone else standing there in his place.
Hair; a beautiful dishevelled mop of dark red partially obscures a mask which is both familiar and unfamiliar.
The mask is white and seemingly soulless, covered in strange intricate patterns. It is soon removed though, revealing greyish skin and familiar amber-coloured eyes and the very same scar, only mirrored.
- o0o -
"Bastard‒"
There is a hoarse voice echoing in his head from time to time, weak yet so full of experienced betrayal.
"You lied to me‒ all this time, you‒"
The one reflected in the mirror reaches out. They place a hand flat against the looking glass, voicing an unheard apology to the echoing voice.
"I thought‒ I thought you said we were in this together‒ that you'd help me through all of this‒ but you‒ all along‒ all along you‒"
The other's image flickers once-twice-thrice and then distorts completely. Once the image clears, it is his own image that greets him.
There is another voice echoing inside of him, calm yet seemingly steeped in sadness.
"Don't worry, Allen. You've still got chances to set things right."
- o0o -
"For you, there's still time‒"
- o0o -
Time…
The comings and goings of the sun…
The waxing and waning of the moon…
The passing of seasons…
The ageing of man…
Time…
Distorted…
Disjointed…
Time…
- o0o -
"Interfering with the course of time is forbidden‒"
- o0o -
"Yet, in this world‒"
- o0o -
A shadow or a mirage is reflected beneath the cool glass surface…
It is proof; a piece of evidence of the distorted world, of disjointed time…
It is a face in the mirror; the reflection of another self from another time…
It is a memory of a future yet to come, one which had to be avoided at all costs…
Again, there is a hand resting against the other side of the looking glass, black as the night in comparison to his own which is still a dark red…
- o0o -
"Don't worry. You've still got chances to set things right."
- o0o -
"For you, there's still time‒"
- o0o -
Time…
Distorted…
Disjointed…
Time…
Broken once, yet mended; broken links fused back together, enforcing it…
His first memory – the first one he could not openly dismiss as one of countless nightmares – is of cold air and snow. It is of pain and it is of a warm sticky liquid on his face. Half-blinded and crying, he lies crumbled.
Before him are the blackened remains of something vaguely humanoid; the prison of human soul belonging to someone very dear to him. Mana Walker had been his name; Mana the Madman, a man broken by sorrow, on a seemingly endless quest to find a brother since many years deceased, likely without knowing that said brother's memories had been sealed into his most recent companion.
In hindsight, said companion – the one who had taken the name Allen – wishes he could have told him about that. However, said knowledge had only become available to him after the man had already departed, both cursing and thanking him as he went.
As for the curse, he had certainly deserved that one.
As for the gratitude, he is still undecided.
- o0o -
Time – broken once but mended – means little to him.
The sun rises and sets and the moon waxes and wanes, both of them occurring and reoccurring at regular intervals, just like the seasons come and go and people come and go with them.
Life at the circus – with the circus – is one spent in motion. He is always moving, in one way or the other – if not in a physical sense, then in a mental one. He often does so without a clear motive though, allowing himself to be dragged along with someone else's flow or simply allowing the direction of the wind determine his next destination, much to the frustration of those around him.
Had he not been such an excellent performer, then the esteemed Ringmaster would no doubt have thrown him out a long time ago. However, seeing that he is just that and had at some point made himself virtually indispensable, he remains for as long as he wishes, up until the point when he does not.
As swiftly as a change in direction of the wind, he will disappear and move along, leaving as swiftly as he has come and seemingly indifferent to the damage he usually causes whenever he suddenly changes direction and location, taking up on an offer from a rivalling circus or disappearing for some period of time before turning up once more, with a new name, a new look, new tricks and new manners to match them.
Few ever bother trying to get to know the person hiding beneath the many masks of Allen Walker; even fewer know that the white-haired teenager with the peculiar habits even has a name other than the ones belonging to his many stage incarnations. No one hesitates to call him eccentric; many even venture into the territory of calling him outright mad. Many think of him as a genius, albeit a rather unstable one at that. Somewhat of a madman or not however, the one known as Allen Walker does not seem to be bothered in the slightest.
If there is method to his madness, then it is one known by him and him alone.
Time – broken once but mended – means little to him, yet at the same time, it means everything to him.
The course of time has changed, with its flow having been distorted; disrupted. He is a being that exists both as a part of it and as an anomaly. He is a familiar existence. At the same time, he remains alien to it. The memories of another time forcefully imposed upon a younger mind have left him partially broken.
The flow of time is one never meant to be crossed, and the world as it is strives to remain in balance and to regain said balance if it has been lost, no matter what it takes.
Time had become disjointed, distorted, and he – an anomaly who is a product of that same world – had been sent back; sent back to set things right, like he had originally been born to do, as the Destroyer of Time.
- o0o -
Another place, another day, another time, filled with vaguely familiar faces of people never met, some more vivid than others…
"You there, what's your name?"
He looks up, finally acknowledging the pigtailed girl he had already been watching out of the corner of his eye. As he had first laid eyes upon her, there had been an influx of foreign memories, beating softly against the frames of his mind like butterfly wings before scattering. He looks down once more at his hands; they continue polishing his throwing knives with a great deal of care, and he hums somewhat thoughtfully. "That's a good question‒"
Then, he jumps up and startles her, doing a brief somersault in the air before landing on the other side of her. She turns hastily, her vivid dark eyes still wide in surprise but not frightened. He bows theatrically, stepping fully into the latest role he has assigned for himself; a partially airborne acrobat with a keen interest in sharp objects and in piercing other things with them.
"You don't have a name?" She sounds both surprised and vaguely amused, already caught up in his pace without even knowing it.
He straightens back up, lifting a hand to his face to make sure his nearly ever-present domino mask is still securely in place, even though he knows she does not know his face even though he certainly knows hers. "I have plenty of names, but none of them really seems to stick for long."
"Then what do I call you?" she asks him, and he lets out a longsuffering sigh.
"Unless you wish to be creative and put a name on this humble performer, then you may call me the Flying Fool if you wish, as it is the name I am currently known by," he responds, earning himself a slight giggle although it is soon stifled.
"I can't call you that," she says, looking slightly guilty.
"Why not?" he responds, finding it all rather amusing. "It's just a name."
"Still‒ I can't." Truly, as considerate as ever.
"How remarkably considerate of you; I have trouble getting attached to the name myself‒ so let's try again, shall we? I'm Joker, and I'm very pleased to meet you, Miss…?"
Her name is still a mystery to him, but even without knowing it, he knows her past and possibly even her future.
"Lenalee, Lenalee Lee. And I'm pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Joker."
Lenalee. Ah, her. Lee. She has a brother, he thinks, a brother with a name starting with the letter K. "Aw, would you lay off the 'Mr.'? It makes me feel way older than I really am."
She looks up at him then, curiously. "How old are you?" she asks before catching herself. "Um… Sorry, I hope I'm not intruding or anythi‒"
"How old am I indeed?" he responds with a smile. "That's a splendid question, I dare say. Let's see here now…"
He uses his fingers to count, an old habit stemming from the days when things were less complicated. "Yes, yes… If memory serves me right, then I am either fifteen or sixteen or thereabouts…"
"You're sixteen?!"
"Actually, now that I think about it‒ I'm probably still fifteen. But you know, age is a relative thing." Age is related to time, and time is a relative thing as he feels older than he is physically, marked by the experiences of another self.
"I'm sixteen," she reveals, oblivious to the fact that he is already very much aware.
So young, he thinks. Too young, he thinks.
"Still," she suddenly says, and he tilts his head slightly to the side in question. "Why are you in a place like this? Don't you have any family to go back to?"
He just shrugs mildly in response. Then he spreads his arms to his sides, gesturing to his surroundings. "My family is right here‒ these people are the only family I'll ever need," he says before leaning in somewhat conspiringly, lowering his voice. "Still, that is not the question you ought to ask now, is it?"
Truthfully, he already knows why she is there, but formalities are formalities. Yet, instead of asking the questions she wants to ask, she apologises. "I'm sorry‒ I'm keeping you from something, am I not?"
He tilts his head mildly to the side, feigning surprise. "No, not really. I just thought you wouldn't wish to waste any more time seeing that it'll be pitch black outside in less than half an hour‒"
At the seeming realisation and at the prospect of going back to whence she came – through a thick dark forest, that is – she actually pales slightly.
He touches her shoulder lightly, stopping her from making a speedy departure. "Oh, don't worry; we may talk yet," he says, snatching a nearby lantern. "I'll escort you out."
She appears both comforted and mildly alarmed as he herds her outside and down the path leading towards the thick woods separating the circus' temporary location from the town at the other side of it. "But is this really alri‒"
"Of course it's alright," he scoffs at her. "Who would I be if I allowed a young lady to travel alone through the woods after dark? Besides, I haven't admired the night sky in quite a while, so why not?"
Once again, she apologises, and he dismisses her. "Why are you sorry?" he asks, wondering when and how she became so insistent on apologies, recalling memories of events not yet having taken place. "I would probably have ended up going on a stroll anyhow, so this time is as good as any…"
He pauses briefly, and they continue their way down the path and enter the woods before he brings his hands together with a slight clapping sound, jostling the small lantern. "Now, questions. You had questions to ask, did you not? Ask away."
Even with the lantern spreading some light on their surroundings, he does not actually see the hesitant look sent his way, but he certainly feels it. "This is about the disappearances as of late, is it not?" he finally asks, his voice calm and serious and largely devoid of amusement. She looks up in alarm, actually frozen on the spot, looking at him with wide eyes that are more frightened and wary than curious.
"How did you know?" she questions, and he can tell how their dark and seemingly desolate surroundings unnerve her greatly. By now, she has realised that she has stepped out into the woods with a virtual stranger and an armed one at that, given that the performer is still very much in possession of his throwing knives.
Knowing all that, he smiles disarmingly. She unconsciously relaxes a bit, as though unaware of the fact that even coldblooded killers are perfectly capable of smiling sweetly if they only put their minds to it. Then, he turns slightly, looking out into the darkness in-between the trees a bit further off, his face once again serious. "This business is one where people are prone to leave and never be seen again," he says, glancing at her briefly before once again focusing his attention on what lies further down the path and beyond it. "And as such, I didn't think much of it until recently, since these latest disappearances do not fit into the general pattern‒"
"There is a pattern?" she echoes, and steps closer to him again, following along as he continues walking.
"Obviously‒" he responds, without spite. "The thing which holds true for all people who're involved with the circus is that we're all drifters in one way or the other‒ We don't remain in the same place for long and if we do, we have a tendency to get restless, and some of us are more restless than others," he continues, shrugging mildly. "I am one of the more restless ones; I feel like I'm going to suffocate if I stay in the same place for too long‒"
"Like you're going to suffocate?" she echoes again, and he nods.
"Yes, I think one of my previous companions may have rubbed off on me, but not necessarily in a bad way. You see, in his world, one needed to keep on walking, to keep moving forward; to him, stopping was the same as dying. He was a funny guy and he had some really funny ideas, but I'm sure he had his reasons."
Yes, because he was a broken man looking for someone who had been by his side ever since a cold winter's day…
"Still," he goes on. "About that pattern… yes‒"
"What is it?" she asks, staying close to him as they venture deeper into the woods.
He lets out another thoughtful hum. "The thing is… when people decide to 'disappear', they normally take most of their stuff with them, or at least the stuff you can carry," he says. "Lately, people have 'disappeared' without taking any of their immediate possessions with them, which is kind of strange…"
It isn't strange – not to him, at any rate. Still, her eyes widen in realisation. For some reason, it makes him chuckle. "The look on your face tells me that you probably know more about this matter than I do, but I will not press you for answers," he says, pausing briefly in his stride, hearing her yelp slightly in surprise as he snatches her hand, bowing down slightly before raising it to his lips. "Instead, allow me to wish you good luck. I hope you'll find what you're looking for eventually."
Reclaiming her hand, though visibly unnerved, she thanks him.
He smirks in response. "Ah, but Miss Lee… I did little worth mentioning and even less worth thanks," he says, holding out the lantern for her to take, and as she accepts it from him, he bows anew. "Even so, I bid you goodnight."
He is once again in motion, though a slight tug on his cape makes him pause and look back at the female exorcist where she stands, having grasped the edge of it. "Yes, milady?"
She hesitates again, seemingly conflicted in regards to what to make of him. Friend or foe, no one knows, and that is the way things should be, for now.
"Could I possibly come by tomorrow as well?" she finally asks, seemingly having deemed him more of a potential ally than a potential foe. "In case I‒"
Briefly, he wonders whether she feels it too, the way he does, a strange feeling of déjà vu.
"I'm sorry." She mistakes his silence for disapproval. "Forget about it."
She knows nothing of the future, but he knows that she has glimpsed it. He knows that she dreams, constantly, of a world which stands on the brink of ruin. He knows, because he too has seen it; he knows, because he too has seen her. He knows, but she does not; things are as they should be, because knowledge of a world to come is heavy indeed and the girl he knows is strong but also fragile and easily broken. He knows that her world is made out of her precious people; he knows, because he used to be one of them, just as he knows just how easily it will start breaking apart any day now unless‒
"If you wish to drop by, make sure you're careful on your way," he says, saluting her with a smile. "Since there's really no telling what might be lurking in these woods in times like these."
He knows himself to be playing with fire; that he is treading dangerously close to what seems to be the edge of oblivion. Still, partially fragmented or not, some part of him is still human, a teenage boy who wants little more than to finally set things right‒
He leaves her to her fate and returns to camp. However, the imprint the meeting leaves is undeniable, and he reminds himself that it is about time for him to move on anyways. He should really know better than to get attached by now, but old habits die hard. Still, even so, he must learn to outlive them.
- o0o -
Another place, another day, another time…
He doesn't know how much time has passed since their last meeting. It could have been days, it could have been weeks or even months, but in the end, it does not matter. The situation is very much familiar too, and even though the setting is definitely different from the one in his memories, the participants are largely the same. Somehow, he can't help but think that some divine force out there is messing with him.
"Lower your weapon."
There is the tip of a sword – of a katana – nearly pressing against his throat. In return, he holds one of his own knives to the other's throat, smiling dangerously. "Only if you do the same."
The sword's name is Mugen and is not only sturdy and sharp but also carries the power of illusion. He knows that, just as vividly as he remembers having been cut by it when first coming to face it. It would suffice to say that it had not been a very pleasant experience, and with the tip of that very sword resting a bit too close to his jugular, he knows better than to attempt anything more than to keep the tip of his own knife right where it is.
"Kanda." One of the swordsman's companions – an equally familiar eye-patch-and-bandana-wearing redhead – speaks up as a warning. After a few tense moments, the raven-haired swordsman finally yields, withdrawing the sword before finally sheathing it in a fluid motion.
Allen – wearing the guise of his latest stage persona, the Red Joker – responds by swiftly sliding his own weapons back into their hiding places in his wide silken sleeves. Then he bows before the exorcists in a flurry of moving fabric, ribbons and feathers attached to his costume as well as to his mask. Both had been crafted with the image of a firebird – a phoenix in red, yellow and gold – in mind, with the long sleeves becoming reminiscent of wings and with the mask and its accompanying long-haired wig carrying distinct birdlike appearance. However, it is also a way of paying tribute to the familiar face in the mirror; the vivid imprint of someone long gone but never forgotten, someone he had met once, yet would never meet.
"I am a bit high-strung at the moment, so pardon my lack of manners," he finally says, folding his arms across his chest all while hiding them up his sleeves at the same time, overlooking the exorcists with a slight smile adorning his features. "I was not expecting guests."
Hearing his voice – albeit sounding slightly different compared to the last time around – the third member of the exorcist party looks up in surprise, her eyes widening in clear recognition. "You're‒ it's you."
He cannot seem to decide on whether he ought to be bothered or simply overjoyed by this, given that she is somehow standing before him once again and that she has brought friends along this time around. "Ah, Miss Lee, isn't it?" He is still undecided, but he smiles. "With a companion and‒ is it a fiancé?"
He shoots the raven-haired swordsman a look, taking a great deal of amusement not only in how said swordsman stiffens but also in how the redhead covers his mouth looking like he is going to explode into laughter at any second and in how the girl holds up her hands, waving slightly as if desperate to dispel this notion. "No, no, no, it's nothing like that. He's just a friend."
He looks to his surroundings, discreetly checking for the presence of golems. Finding none in the air, he chuckles. "Pardon my awful sense of humour," he then says. "I got it from one of my previous companions; it is highly contagious."
His playful response earns him another snort from the familiar swordsman. "Idiot."
His smile widens momentarily, before diminishing ever so slightly as the girl steps forward with a solemn look on her face and a question evident in her eyes. "Why did you leave?"
Ah, so she had come looking for him after all then?
"I'll spare you the boring details." He smiles bleakly. "Simply put, I had a bit of a falling out with another performer‒"
"A bit of a falling out?" she echoes, and he recalls the events leading up to his most recent departure.
Yes, that other performer – the one with foul tricks and the sharp tongue. "He tried to kill me, so I took my stuff and left before he got back up again."
"He what?!" The shock is evident in the faces of the exorcists – barring one, that is. "He tried to kill you?! Why?!"
He shrugs mildly in response. "You sound awfully surprised, but these sorts of things happen way more often than you think," he says. "All in all, I believe he is the fourth person who has tried to kill me within the last year or so, which is part of the reason as to why I tend to move around a lot‒"
"What about the other parts?" the redhead asks, and he tilts his head slightly in response, thoughtful.
"Well, for one thing, I do not like being restrained. As such, I would like to retain my drifting lifestyle," he finally responds. "Staying in the same place for too long makes me nauseous; I feel trapped and I was never a beast bred for a life in captivity. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I have never known the comforts of a stable home, seeing that I am unlikely to miss what I have never known and we all fear that which we do not know‒"
"I'm sorry." She did not even ask the question, but she still apologises.
"Why are you sorry?" he asks, honestly curious. "This lifestyle is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I wouldn't trade it for anything, seeing that I actually like being what I am."
"Still, don't you miss having a family?" Questions, all these questions, why all these questions?
"Ah, family," he laughs anew. "No, not really‒What I miss is not a concept, but an individual who left this world a long time ago," he explains, a hint of nostalgia entering his voice. "He was by far more of a family to me than my actual parents were, seeing that the only thing they really did was to bring me into this world for their own selfish reasons before abandoning me to its cruelties simply because I didn't turn out the way they had expected‒"
"They abandoned you?" she echoes, and her redheaded companion looks up at him with keen interest.
"Something like that." He retains his smile. "They sold me to a circus, but it's basically the same thing," he quips somewhat cheerfully in return, taking a fair amount of delight in the looks of shock that are sent his way, with even the stone-faced swordsman's posture changing ever so slightly in reaction to his statement while the others are a bit more vocal in their reactions.
"They what?!"
"They sold you?! What kind of‒ I'm so sorry." Apologies, yet again. Why all these apologies?
"Don't be," he goes on, retaining his seeming cheerfulness. "Rather, be happy for me, because although they were certainly far from ideal, my parents unwittingly put me right where I belonged‒ as a freak amongst freaks."
In every sense of the word‒
"A freak?" The redhead seems positively intrigued. "Why would you call yourself a freak?"
He shrugs mildly in response. "But that is what I am, so why wouldn't I?" he says, removing his hands from his sleeves and pushing one of them slightly aside, baring a small patch of blackened skin showing between his sleeve and his glove, also black. "I was born this way. My entire arm is like this, from my fingertips to my shoulder. It has always been this way."
It is a half-truth, but still a dangerous one. He is by no means oblivious to the implications – to the danger – of him doing just that, but finds himself driven to do it all the same.
"Cool." The redhead leans closer. "Can I have a closer look?"
"Some other time, perhaps." He withdraws the hand and returns it to its earlier state of concealment, bowing slightly to signal his imminent departure. "Now, if you would excuse me‒"
They let him go – for the moment, at any rate – though he can tell that they are still watching.
Yet again, it seems as though it is time for him to move on.
He exits the tent. Stepping out into the fresh air, an autumn wind blows past him, continuing eastward. He turns his head slightly, making sure that there is no one watching him. Having confirmed this, he heads towards the outskirts of the camp.
Once he finds a location he deems private enough and after he scanning the area to make sure he is alone, he tears the abominable mask from his face and pulls away the accompanying wig at the same time, discarding them next to him onto the ground. Then, before continuing, he takes a deep breath, reaching into his costume and pulling out a new mask which is all black and much simpler in its design, putting it on. Then, having done that, he undoes the colourful sash holding the upper part of his costume together, turning it inside out to reveal an exact mirror image of his other costume, only black, and thus proving to be a fair bit of contrast to his otherwise gaudy appearance as the Red Joker.
After combing a hand through his hair a couple of times while taking a few deep breaths, he opens his eyes again, already halfway settled into his other much less seen stage persona of the Black Joker.
To return or not return, that is the question‒
- o0o -
Another place, another day, another time…
He does not know how long the monocle-wearing gentleman in the fancy coat has been standing there, but the other has probably been standing there for quite some time, watching him in eerie silence. He greets him calmly, without hesitation. "Good morning."
"Good morning," the other greets him back, though there is a mild hint of surprise evident in his tone.
Allen says nothing, his eyes regarding the other for a few more moments before he looks back down at the black and white keys he has absentmindedly been running his fingers over. For once, he is out of costume, and this makes him uneasy somehow.
"You seem a bit familiar." The well-known stranger speaks to him. "Have we met before?"
Allen looks back up from the blindingly white keys, turning his head slightly so that he can look at the other through the corner of his eye. "It's entirely possible," he says, keeping his voice perfectly level. "It's a small world after all."
The stranger regards him in silence. He averts his eyes, highly unused to such scrutiny while not hiding behind one of his many masks. He feels almost vulnerable for a brief moment, and while distancing himself mentally from it all, he becomes increasingly aware of the sound of feet stepping on dirt, drawing closer to him. Even so, while aware of the other's approach, he nearly startles when the other is suddenly standing right beside him, looking down at the instrument with keen interest for a while before his eyes – both of them an eerily familiar shade of amber – come to rest upon Allen where he stands. "Do you play?" the gentleman asks.
Allen takes a small step aside, feeling somewhat cornered as the stranger's eyes bear down upon him. Still, he looks straight up into the other's eyes. "I do, occasionally," he responds, unwavering. "I can't say I'm very good at it though."
"Will you play something for me?" the gentleman requests.
"It depends," Allen responds, taking another step away from the man all while retaining eye contact. "I might not know it."
"Then‒" The gentleman steps even closer to the instrument, positioning his hands onto the keys.
Soon, a melody – familiar yet unfamiliar – rises from the instrument, and he actually cringes when it assaults his ears, tickling memories lying hidden beneath. It triggers something within him, and he feels dizzy; like he is going to be sick. Then, the music comes to a sudden stop, and he opens his eyes – unaware as to when he had closed them, just as he is unaware as to when he had sunk down into a crouch with his hands pressed tightly against his ears. He removes his hands from his ears and looks up, finding the gentleman standing there, looking down at him with a mixture of something which might have been concern intermingling with something predatory and almost hungry.
"This melody‒" the amber-eyed man says, crouching down before him. "Do you recognise it?"
He remains frozen in place even as the man reaches out towards him, gloved fingertips brushing against his cheek, wiping away tears he is not even aware of having shed. Then, the amber-eyed stranger withdraws, straightening up as Allen does the same before putting a few more steps worth of distance between them.
He closes his eyes and brings his arm up, dragging his sleeve against them to wipe away the remnants of the tears that had apparently sprung from them. "I'm sorry," he finally says, averting his eyes once more. "I'm not feeling very well."
The amber-eyed gentleman just hums thoughtfully in response.
- o0o -
He is decidedly relieved when the gentleman finally leaves, even while knowing it is by no means the last he will see of him. Still, with the man seemingly out of sight, he swiftly springs into action. He swiftly dons another mask and another name, and is gone before dawn, already headed towards another place.
- o0o -
He moves on, but he is followed.
There are eyes out there in the shadows, watching him now on a nearly constant basis.
At times, he can see them too – the writhing souls of the myriad of akuma – watching him as he passes along, seeing that his curse – the one given to him by Mana the Madman – is still very much active.
At times – when the scrutiny becomes too much – he goes after them, slicing them cleanly through with his Innocence. When he lashes out at them, they keep their distance. Only a few ever attack, and the ones that do are swiftly sent to the afterlife, their souls liberated from imprisonment. Still, even so, they keep on coming, like a never-ending swarm of locusts.
When he feels the needs to do so, he deals with them. Other times, he merely pushes on. Steadily, he moves eastward, and he mostly does so by foot, travelling by roads and through forests. At times, when he feels like it, he seeks out humans and – one way or the other – gains the means to get food and other necessities, sometimes through occasional street performances and sometimes through stealing. Other times, he avoids civilisation altogether for days at the time, sleeping in trees and hunting his own food.
He walks until the soles of his feet are arrays of blisters, and then he sits under a tree up on a hill next to a road of what could possibly be a rural part of France, considering his options. He sits there for what could possibly have been hours, watching the occasional carriage pass by up until the point when one actually stops.
The peasant holding the reins looks at him with a mixture of suspicion and ill-concealed curiosity. Then the man opens his mouth and asks where he is headed. Allen shrugs mildly in response, weariness evident in his movements. He understands what the man is saying, even if it is in French, but he cannot speak; he rakes over his memories, but nothing useful pops back up so he gives up and focuses on the man instead and on what the man is saying. The man finally asks if he is dumb and deaf, and Allen smiles back up at him, cheekily responding in French that he is not dumb, just English. This earns an amused snort from the man, who then motions for him to join him up on the carriage. He is not late to do so, thankfully accepting the apple the man hands him.
The man is headed towards Paris.
Allen tags along.
- o0o -