I do not own Lavi, Bookman Junior - He belongs to Hoshino-sensei - I just like to play in his mind. Not for profit, but for fun.
Inspired by the song 'Epitaph' by King Crimson.
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He wonders if this is the end. His end. Will he even be allowed an end, with no one to write his epitaph? He wonders mirthfully grim, maybe he could ask Tyki Mikk. He wonders grimly mirthful he might actually know what Yuu might say. 'Dead Rabbit' would be more pathetic, epithetic epitaph than anything. At the end of it all he can be mirthful and grim and - feel enlightened all at the same time. It was freeing.
He thinks back to the time when Allen joined them. Hevlaska's prophecy of the boy with sunlight in his eyes and moonlight hair being 'The Destroyer of Time'. Komui had himself admitted to having no clue what she meant. Bookman - also grasping at straws - had presumed that Time alluded to the Earl of Millennium. Allen – he was a Noah. The 14th. The host of the Noah that tried to kill the Earl - in a time before any of them (Yuu, Leenalee, Allen, and himself included) had even been born. At the end - (his) - only does the history begin. O the irony.
Then there was Lulubell's invasion of Headquarters. Those Level Fours, the Skulls and the lower level Akumas. The Noah, and their minions. Instruments of death – all. The building which stood the test of time for at least a century. The Exorcists, the Vatican and Central, even as the physical was torn asunder - so did fissures and fractures spider-web cracks through the Black Order.
Even as Lenalee is torn between duty (as exorcist), want (that wish to save her family) and need (for her innocence to accept her will) . Bookman Junior is torn apart by duty (he's not really sure as whom), want (that wish to have-or-have-no-heart) and creed (the Bookman one). Everyone is torn apart, by what they want, want, want, but cannot have. Road shows him clearly his core. What truth he chooses to garner from that experience is his alone to mull over. Here at the end, under the weight of memories which replay in a dreamscape of nightmares compounded with interest, of screams spiral loud into silence. Will no one lay a laurel wreath?
It is ironic that if he with no heart, was halfhearted in the one thing that might lead him to the ruination whole-heartedly in another. Which meant the credo was right all along, that it was better to have none, not even that half and thus not lose at all the other. Defeat was complete and the circuitous route that he so carefully carved - with insouciant indifference - had become the vast sameness of a desert. The sands shift, and in his mind the mix of memories overlay each other like sweet mirages just out of reach. He was a drowning man looking for a lifeline. Overthrown. He sits and his head lolls uselessly, manacled as he is and arms affixed uselessly. The irony (or clarity of nous) of his situation makes him want to laugh, laugh and laugh. Till he cries, cries, cries and (may) sweet oblivion take him then. Confusion will be his epitaph.
He could bemoan his fate but he isn't really one for regrets and such nebulous concepts. Any more than Yuu would his curse (and deep longing for that other), any more than Allen Walker would his meeting with Mana (or Marian for that matter). The truth of the matter was that he was indebted to Bookman, for giving him purpose, direction, and who gave him a life. The truth of the matter - known since the dawn of time, not just the Bookmen - that knowledge is power. But the Bookmen set the rules for themselves an adherence to neutrality as a truth. Bookmen are no mere historians. Historians were (oft) ruled (dictated) by the victors, who liked to cloud the truth with the crutches of inaccuracies. In the end, even if he never found out about the intimated 'third side' to this war. It was clear that the fate of mankind was in the hands of fools (like Central and the puppets - in or of - the Vatican, and the Earl.)
Even though Exorcist he might've been (because where is his innocence now?) or Bookman Junior (because where is his master now?) that he might've been, he is certain that a certain Noah, suave and debonair, would agree with him. Because Noah he might be, but fool he isn't. The world hits a bump, and rolls on, always, always in the hands of fools.
Lavi-or-whoever-he-might-be-now, fragmented, and faceted as he (was)is, feels like he'd been pried open (like that time in the Ark with Road) yet again. Pulled apart by parasites (fed to him by Fiidora), every crevasse (inside) caressed - tenderly by Tyki. Even Wisely has had a go - because Road isn't in the here and the now - nudging at nuggets in his mind, playing hide-and-go-seek in his memories.
Thankfully - and he can be grateful for the small mercies - he's glad that none of them have the finesse that Road's delicate touch of dream has. Because roughness he can handle. With all that he's seen - now he can feel a thousand-fold.
An accretion of pain all at once - in return for all the times he has just observed, noted - objectively abstract. Karma - come back to bite him - or if he wanted a more concrete view of this, Kekulé's dream. For dream it might've been but it gave rise to a chemical structure, quite, quite real, and proven to boot. Wreath-like as well if he wanted to look at it that way. As a Bookman he can appreciate this idea instead.
He laughs (inside), he laughs some more. This might be hysteria setting in, the tears that do not come, because the cries are silent too. Crimson - is that hair or blood - or some sweet other thing, falls in a curtain. He lays down his - metaphorical - wreath and hears it clear (because at the end of it all Yuu had been right all along). 'Stupid Rabbit' is truly the only thing that fits. It comes to him in a coloration of consciousness and clarity. Here, at what might be the end of it all.
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Fin
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Notes:
The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known.
Knowledge is a deadly friend
If no one sets the rules.
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools.
The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams.
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams.
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams,
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams.
Confusion will be my epitaph.
As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it we can all sit back and laugh.
But I fear tomorrow I'll be crying,
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying.
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Crying..
Crying...
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Yes I fear tomorrow I'll be crying
Crying…
Epitaph by King Crimson
Yes, I was inspired - and I can blame that hazy-in-between time of half-awake-lucidity at midnight, for lack of coherence and clarity - ha!
I deeply and humbly apologise
Have a lovely, lovely week all - Zan