A nightmare creeps across the room and takes Cross by the throat.
His dreamscape changes; no longer is he facing a horde of Akumas, all leering at him with wicked, satisfied smiles. Instead a woman stumbles across his path, shudders to a stop and falls flat on the ground. Her silk sleeves flutter in the wind.
In that instant he knows. Anita. She is back to haunt him.
He rushes forward, pulling her upwards onto his bent knee.
"Anita!"
She stirs. Only – there are black spots over her face – her skin is darkening.
"Marian –" she says, very nearly dead.
He touches her pale, trembling lips. They too are turning a hideous ashy shade, those lips he used to kiss months ago, those lips he sought comfort in.
"Take care of yourself, Marian," she says. Her eyelids slip downwards, drawing a curtain over her beautiful eyes. The light of his world has begun to darken. "I am glad we meet again at my end."
"Anita –" he says, but she is gone now, she is a handful of dust, a crumpled silk dress, a bright sash trailing across the mud.
Cross wakes, perspiration thick on his forehead, on his cheeks, on his neck. He sits up, cradles his head in his hands, thinks of the forgotten past and the frightening future. He thinks of a world without a woman who truly understands his heart, his mind, his purpose.
He has a strong urge to leave the Headquarters now, to slaughter any number of Akuma, to avenge the woman he has lost to mindless savages built out of the skeleton of human misery. Thoughts such as this have plagued him ever since the young exorcists brought news of Anita's death aboard the ship she loved so much. No one else can fill that gaping ache in his heart now, no wanton or mistress could possibly take Anita's place.
You should have lived, he thought. We were to sail together across all the waters of the world.
But Cross knows he cannot leave. To leave now would be to incur Central's displeasure; to leave now would be to abandon his comrades to their certain deaths; to leave now would be to earn the wrath of the god in whose name he serves. To leave now would render Anita's death purposeless.
And so he stays, alone in the darkened room, for once sober and without a woman in his bed, thinking of the past and the future, and of the present. It is here, in the Headquarters, after all, that he can find ways to avenge Anita. It is here that he has to stay, for his idiot apprentice needs him as an anchor in the storm that is approaching.
Cross stays not because he wants to, but because he is duty-bound to stay.
For Anita, he thinks. For Allen. For the Fourteenth. For Mana. For all those who have died and all those who must die.
:::
Krory passes by his old holdings one wintry day.
He reigns in his horse, shields his eyes against the wind and stares into the distance where the sun's fire-bright rays glint off the snowy mountain. Somewhere along the mountain a thin spire stretches into the sky, a most lonely sight. He cannot see the villages where he was lord, but they are there.
"Do you want to go back?" the Finder asks.
Krory says nothing, hears nothing.
"Sir?"
Krory startles like the beetle beneath the December snow. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Do you want to stop by your castle?"
Stop by his castle? Stop by the home of his youth, that dark, lonely place where the wind rattled the doors at night? Stop by that dreary, deserted mansion where no servants dared to work, where his grandfather had died ranting against the demented world? Stop by that cold, ancient seat of his forefathers, where dozens of his cousins and uncles and ancestors had lived in misery, many succumbing to the strangles of vices, many dying in grotesque circumstances perhaps orchestrated by the creeping hand of evil? For there was evil there, long buried in that land, and the evil had taken root in the heart of the ancient stronghold of the Krorys.
Perhaps that was why Eliade had been content, if only for a while, to live with him. Perhaps evil had called to evil.
Krory thought of Eliade, who had brought sunshine to his dark rooms, whose hair had gleamed like ripened corn in the fields of his fiefdom, who had sat with him through the darkest hours of the night as the shadows slid around their feet, who had taken care of him the best she could. She had loved him in her own fashion.
Eliade, he thought, are you in heaven now? I could go back, and stay with your memory. I could… I have to fight in her memory, he thought. I cannot let her die in vain.
And so Krory shakes his head. "No, we will go on."
He raises his hand in farewell to the old castle; his signet ring glitters in the morning sun. Farewell, my love, he thinks, and doesn't look back – he rides on, for he has a task to fulfil, and the Headquarters to return to.
:::
Miranda fumbles with her buttons; she is late for a meeting.
Will the Chief be angry? she wonders. I'm always doing this. Unlucky Miranda, useless Miranda.
Her finger slips. The button refuses to slide into the buttonhole. Unlucky Miranda, useless Miranda.
Unlucky Miranda, useless Miranda. Poor Miranda, ugly Miranda.
The children used to call her that. She remembered them, standing in a row, brave in their numbers as they stuck their tongues out and pulled faces at her, chanting the horrible chant they had made up for her.
She had been so poor them, so tired, so woebegone. There had seemed no way out, only an endless stream of days and months and years of helplessness and disdain, only desperation and contempt, only a life of turmoil and poverty.
And then the clock had come into her life. The days repeated themselves, and only she noticed. She had thought she was going crazy. It was then that Allen and Lenalee appeared, walking together in their black coats, observing everyone.
Rhode attacked them. She had been so useless then – so helpless as she saw Allen and Lenalee suffer, bleed, and yet return to the fight.
"I'm different now," she said aloud. She smiled at Time Record.
It's all different now. Now she had power she could harness; now she could play a small part in their defence.
The button finally slid into place. Miranda grabbed her cloak and left her room, not bothering to lock it behind her. She was no longer worrying about whether Komui might scold her for being late.
Instead, she smiled as she walked, glad in the knowledge that she had a home now, that she had people she cared for, that she had the power to fight for them in turn, as they had once done for her.
:::
Bookman watches as the shadows climb like spiders across the floor, up the walls, dancing across the ceiling.
It is midnight, and he is old and tired. Lavi is already in bed, and it is time for him to sleep too. But he doesn't stir from his chair; instead, he sits still and silent, fingers locked. He thinks of the Akuma they have slain over the past week, of the dead and the dying, of the carrion birds circling the battlefields.
He thinks of the widows and the orphans, of the black gowns and sad faces in the street, of the houses that now stand empty as a forsaken nest.
He is old, and yet he has never witnessed so much carnage. The Earl is indeed ramping up his plans. This is an era to watch, and he is lucky to be here at the centre of things.
Will you leave? Will you flee? another Bookman had asked as they passed each other on the street. Lavi had not noticed the other man. You could ask for a simpler assignment elsewhere. Let someone younger take your place.
No, Bookman had said. I will stay to record all that there is to record.
Peace be with you, the other had said, with a gentle press of his palm, and then he was gone.
Bookman sighs. It is a weary sigh, a sigh that comes from old age and disillusionment.
Why does he stay? He could flee, could preserve his life. It is my duty to stay and record the matters, he tells himself. I stay because it is my duty.
But there are times when he wonders if that is the only reason he stays, the only reason he lives at death's door every single day.
AN: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this; constructive criticism is always welcome. Bookman seems rather unattached to the Order in canon but I like to think that he does hold friendly feelings for his comrades (although it is quite possible that this is merely a misguided thought).
In other news, I've just finished Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. Her writing style is such a pleasure to read, don't you think?
Anyway, have a good new year weekend!