for some reason, I never crossposted this here? [probably because i had a feeling ffnet wouldn't let me title it 'Elev_n'...]
This was written as a result of Re: 11 and a gross amalgamation of nonsensical feels, so it's slightly messy and not quite canon, but I think there are enough gems in it to warrant putting it up now.
Hajime's scream. And then, the activation of the Nihilist Minimum.
It's the will of the god that wears black, the god of darkest nights. He's the immortal saviour cloaked in his own death, wielding the justice of promises, the hearts of the world and those that breathe life; it paints pictures of love, weeps ink from empty frames, carries out the wishes of a boy ignorant to the world in its entirety.
The light which burns is fire from another universe. One of talent, vivid colour; valkyries collecting their chosen, beckoned by Nice's death and despair's melody.
Art felt them. Nice's final breaths, leaving as if they'd been intruding. The thief which had opened that chest years ago finally relinquishing their hold on a body that shouldn't be alive.
The wind and its rhythmic beats whisper promises said and promises lost. Hajime falls onto a chest previously locked away in her memories. Landmark Tower holds back the clouds and coldest rain but cannot hold back deepest despair, tears like ashes and shadows spread. Flowers bloom and queens die.
It's a selfless world, this world without Minimum; the world of eternity and Art's desire. Art murmurs to himself under his breath, primordial languages of those who have seen the light and have been reborn.
—and Art thinks, says more to himself than anyone else around him, it is done.
Three is of beast and not of man, a being that knows only how to destroy and not how to save – for any rescue leads inevitably to broken hearts and breathless tears. He's learnt this from Poena, he's learnt it after, and he learns it from Honey.
Even if the tears must be for him, and not because of him, this selfless beast who'd dared to cross rivers of boiling lava so his princess would not burn.
So Honey's injuries never leave her heart, her mind, her soul. Traitorous emotions laugh at her, rip the seals from memories she never wants to remember again, as if her weakness is destined to crush her underfoot; she'll never overcome her role as a predator made to kill other human beings.
I hate him, I hate him, that man is not my father.
Bound to a bridge for refusing security, for opening his mouth more than he ever needs to do, for becoming the enemy of a man called Ishigami Shunichi—
I have to save him – that man my father is in danger.
Murasaki's a man who has found freedom at last, now he's the strongest graduate of Facultas even though he can't use his Minimum; now that no Minimums exist within the entirety of Japan.
The lights tell him to be happy.
As he falls to his knees, guilt and relief ripping his heart asunder, all he can think of is Nice and you should be relieved now and a small voice wonders when he'd forgotten his own existence ever since their partnership began.
Dripping kindness and oozing dedication, Ratio is the doctor who both saves lives and takes them.
The body in the bed is pale, any colour devoured by sheets and machinery beep-beeping lives away. The hospital feeds on those closest to death so they may survive. Such is the reason for their very existence.
Ratio wonders why he's never come to this conclusion earlier. After all, he's the doctor with the eye of truths. Every death he's seen has come true, or will come true. Even if any of his prophecies are delayed, medicine holds not the power of gods. Death is always near.
(Vaguely he remembers something about having died, the false prophet thrown into the vat of fire, but the memory is old and eludes him.)
Ratio laughs.
"Aren't you happy, Birthday?"
There's nothing left in the universe except mud and rust; blood and rot. Freedom that is a lie, spelled with accursed cookies and potions mortals should not consume, death to those whom wish to continue. Their leader, vanquished; the restraining order, gone.
The world is reclaiming what is lost – the queen snatches back the gifts given by the king, ordered by the gods, driven by spirit and hate and loathing and sin. As if suggesting the common are unworthy of talent and skill, nor those gifted, the journey to peace paved with sacrifice as the path to hell is paved with good intention.
Landmark Tower, the tower of the arcane, all at once the shadow and a promise's foundation.
The promise is a dream by another name.
Skill's never been beyond the walls of white Facultas. He, like all of its students, are the same ghosts restrained by countless checkpoints and fences of unforgiving steel. He's never witnessed the birds sing, or the trees laughing and crying and growing in harmony. Facultas has never seen the seasons change, the years pass, beyond tiny windows set high in walls to prevent those outside from stealing the secrets within.
Skill is a boy whose only freedom is on the roof beneath a glassy sky, his taste of nature only the breath of the ocean washing past the city in the rare chances they're allowed to experience it first-hand.
Skill is the boy whose dream of viewing the city from the top of Landmark Tower is like a caged bird remarking if it would be nice to fly free for a day.
Skill's wish is one Art will bring to life, because he's the bird who'd been killed before even a taste of freedom could be retrieved.
See the devil watching over them, dressed in rich silk spun from burgundy sin. Momoka, woman of a thousand flowers, the great mistress of the underworld given to great caprice.
She considers: Ah, what a fine choice; nihilism the first to keep her entertained for so long, amidst pitiful death and beautiful destruction and skies painted by delusion —
Yokohama is nothing more than a simple plaything.
The world is saved and everything is over.
Sins are ripped from countless souls, not by want but by irrefusable command.
The reset key—
R
E
:
—
/FIN/
((thank you! please consider leaving something on your way out.))