Now slightly proof-read.
- o0o -
II – Baptism – II
- o0o -
The Paris he sees looks very much – nearly identical – to the one he vaguely remembers. That proves very convenient, given that he has a fair idea as to which places to stick to and which places to avoid.
It is a big city. Thus, it attracts many other performers, making it fairly easy to blend in amongst street performers such as acrobats and mimes and whatnot. Still, he keeps his performances to a minimum once he has earned enough money to buy himself a decent coat. He gets one with a hood this time around, foregoing the eventual need of a cap or something to cover his hair.
The coat he buys is obviously not a new one and is slightly tattered in places along the edges. He finds that such a ragged appearance suits him very well though, and that fits much better with his image as a travelling performer than a new one would. He is very happy too that he had had the foresight of buying it when it starts raining heavily, leaving him to seek shelter. Evidently, it does not spare him entirely from the humidity, but if he had not had it, then he would have been completely drenched.
He barely even reflects on where he is standing before the mighty toll of church bells ring out above him. He looks up, finally noticing the numerous deadened eyes looking down at him with seeming accusation, carved in stone as they are, as his temporary shelter is none other than the small concave space next to one of the entrances of a vaguely familiar cathedral.
Its gates are locked for him – closed, at any rate – and though he looks towards them briefly, he does not reach out to bang his fist against them and demand entrance. He does not, for he is content as long as he is not out there in the downpour, even if he has to spend the rest of the afternoon and probably also the night with a bunch of staring stone-faced images.
They are old yet surprisingly vivid representations – carved into the rock with a great amount of detail. The monks – or perhaps apostles, considering their number and seeming attention towards the guy standing in the middle of it all – almost seem to be looking down at him where they stand lined up along the side of the wall. They are far from alone though, given that a myriad of saints, knights, kings, angels and demons seems to be following their example.
It is an eerie feeling. Even though common sense tells him he has little to fear from inanimate stone representations, he finds that he cannot escape the notion of them somehow having come to life after centuries of nothingness, because it feels as though they are truly watching him where he stands, still dripping from the rain. Finally, deciding he will be unable to stand such scrutiny for much longer, his eyes seek out the doors again. He considers the option briefly before discarding it, turning around so that he has his back on them once more and is given a complete view of the empty plaza up front. Then, after a bit of careful consideration, he pulls his hood back up and steps back out into the rain.
He crosses the plaza and once he has done so, he turns halfway, once again experiencing the heavy feeling of eyes resting upon him.
The doors are open now; one of them, at any rate, has been pushed somewhat open. There is a priest standing there, looking towards him uncertainly where he remains rooted. Then, seemingly having come to a decision, the priest raises his hand and makes a small gesture, ushering him closer. Allen remains where he is though, once again weighing his options before finally coming to a decision, tearing his eyes from the figure over in that doorway and taking a step aside, followed by another, followed by yet another. He is not running away – not by any means – but he leaves and he does so swiftly, intent on doing so before he changes his mind again.
Eventually, he ends up on a doorstep which is only partially covered by the roof above. Then, with some degree of triumph, he finds that there is a hollow space beneath the staircase. With a few agile movements, he is soon down there occupying that very space. Slightly cramped or not, it is nothing that he cannot handle.
Deciding he might as well rest for a few hours, he closes his eyes and curls up, already dozing off as the sound of raindrops lulls him to sleep. Some part of him berates him for doing so almost out in the open at the very heart of a human settlement and in wet clothes at that. He disregards it though, reasoning that it probably would not manage to kill him off anyhow.
- o0o -
He is dreaming and he knows it, when he opens his eyes and finds himself in what seems to be a dimly lit cave.
It is a vaguely familiar type of scenery.
"Nightmares?"
He directs his eyes towards the speaker – his long-haired companion – as they add some additional fuel onto the small campfire in their midst.
"You could say that," he eventually yields, rubbing his aching forehead. "What time is it?"
The other makes a slight sound of disapproval, stoking the campfire with yet another piece of wood. "Does it matter?"
"It matters to me," Allen retorts, shifting into a more comfortable position.
The crackling fire draws his eyes towards it, but he shifts them towards his strangely quiet companion instead. "It's neither late nor early," the other responds after a while, putting another piece of wood into the fire. "I took the liberty of setting up a barrier‒"
"A barrier?"
His eyes scan the cave, as if he is somehow expecting to see it. "We're in the desert right now, aren't we?"
"That's right," the other responds, pulling out a vaguely familiar old tome.
Vague memories of having crash-landed in the middle of a sandstorm slowly resurface.
"You dropped right after we arrived," the other responds, answering the unasked question. "It was a hassle to drag you all the way over here‒"
"And where is here?"
Amber-coloured eyes regard briefly before once again turning their attention towards the book. "Once, I hid out in this area. Still, it looks like I was a little off when I channelled the coordinates to you‒"
His head snaps open suddenly, eyes wide. "Channelled?"
"You don't remember?" The other levels him with a look of seeming amusement. "Well, I guess it's really no wonder, all things considered."
A sudden realisation hits him. "Y-you messed around with my memories," he hisses, halfway to his feet while the other just shrugs mildly in response, slamming the book shut and putting it aside.
"I only did it so that I could throw them off our tail. Our pursuers are swarming the places you've visited, since at least the Earl should know that you can't open gates to areas you've never been," the other responds, barely suppressing a yawn. "But you don't need to worry; I didn't snoop around and I didn't take anything away‒"
"Then what did you do?"
The other rises to his feet, adjusting his cape all in one fluid motion. "Simply put, I put one of my own memories into you, in order to get us to this place," he says, covering up a yawn with his hand. "One could say that I fooled your brain into thinking you've been here before‒"
"In other words‒" Allen begins, rising fully to his feet this time around and experiencing another onslaught of migraine as he does. "It's your fault I feel like shit."
"If you want to put the blame on me, it's fine," the other responds, rolling his shoulders and stretching his limbs. "You'll be fine in no time at all‒well, relatively."
Somehow, he finds himself doubting it. Somehow, he finds himself doubting a whole lot of things.
"Don't worry, Allen. You've still got chances to set things right."
Seemingly having read his mind, the other looks up from his book where he sits cross-legged by the campfire, back leaning against the cave wall behind him. It is a momentary glance, but Allen still feels like he can read a whole lot out of it. Weariness, hidden beneath a layer of wry amusement, meets his eye. Momentarily Allen wonders if it is himself that he sees being reflected back at him, mirrored in the other's eyes.
"You have the power to turn the tide of this war, but whom and what to support is entirely up to you‒"
He retains his silence, all while the other continues speaking.
"You can't be forced and you mustn't be swayed to support either side‒"
Mustn't be swayed by either side…
"If you must fight, then fight for what you can actually believe in‒"
Fight…
"But you must live, because without you, everything is lost‒"
Live…
"You, who still have a choice‒"
What choice?
"You, who were born a destroyer‒"
A destroyer of time…
"I've been running out of time since a long time ago‒"
One destroyed by time…
"No, my time already ran out long before we even crossed paths‒"
Long before…
"I cannot rewrite my own past or change the future which has yet to come‒"
It comes at a costly price…
"But I can change yours‒"
- o0o -
A haunted face in a broken mirror, ever familiar…
Echoes…
- o0o -
"No matter what takes place, the world strives to remain in balance and it'll do whatever it takes to remain that way‒"
- o0o -
"Every action brings about a reaction, and it spreads like rings upon the water's surface‒"
- o0o -
"My arrival in this world caused an imbalance, one which the world is working to accommodate‒"
- o0o -
"It was right after Edo, wasn't it – that you got really ill?"
- o0o -
"To be crude, this world doesn't need two of us, so you – who were already weakened after the fight – got hit the worst by the waves caused by me entering this world, and you deteriorated quickly, forcing me to track you down quickly and to use my power to halt the process‒"
- o0o -
A flickering image of what once was, of what once would have been…
"Do you miss them – your days as an exorcist?"
He looks up, and finds himself standing on a hillside next to his companion, overlooking a desolate landscape. "I suppose. Then again, I suppose not."
The other looks towards him, seemingly curious.
"I miss the people, and I miss helping people, but I‒"
The other directs his eyes back towards the landscape. "Having met your prophesised enemy, you found that you could no longer hate him. Having been abandoned by your friends at said enemy's mercy, you found that you could no longer trust in the values you had been taught; the value of friendship, of fighting for what's 'right'‒"
He looks up, eyes narrowing slightly. "Stop putting words in my mouth. I'm not the same as you."
The other looks to him, motioning for him to continue and he does, albeit slightly unwillingly.
"I started doubting before Edo."
"Ah… Suman Dark, was it?" the other says, his eyes once again surveying the landscape. "Just like any other weapon, Innocence is a two-edged sword; it may allow you to cut down your supposed enemies, but it also cuts into your lifespan, since human bodies were not built to handle it. It's like a candle burning at both ends; it drains your reserves, shortening your lifespan."
"I know," Allen whispers, because he does know and he knows it very well.
"You already know what became of my world," the other says and he nods slightly. "Admittedly, it all comes down to your decision in the end, but here's some friendly advice‒"
Friendly advice?
He does not remember.
- o0o -
"What are you doing?"
He is back in a cave again, looking down at his companion where he sits, armed with needle and thread.
"I'm working on my new stage persona," the other quips, and he kicks up an eyebrow in response.
"Stage persona?" he echoes.
"Obviously." The other smiles at him. "For the sake of impact."
He snorts. "I don't want to know."
- o0o -
Red; beautiful red hair along with a white mask that stands in stark contrast to it…
A splash of colour within his otherwise colourless world…
- o0o -
"How do I look?"
"Red? Red hair? Why red hair?"
"Who knows? A way of paying homage to Cross, perhaps?"
"I thought you hated that guy‒"
"I was never able to meet the one who was your master, so no. Besides, I've always liked the colour."
"Words uttered by a former redhead."
"Well, you know, even if red certainly stands out on a crowd in most places, it's still more inconspicuous than stark white for a person your age. Then again, together, I guess we stand out even more, which in this case works to our advantage‒"
"Explain."
"Which part?"
"Why being conspicuous works to our advantage, given that we're still hunted not only by the Earl and the Order, but also by‒?"
Static.
"What do you mean by that? Why is this even a good thing in your book?"
"By being conspicuous – by stepping out in the open, however briefly – we make ourselves targets, and the odds are that at least one – if not all the fractions – will attempt to catch us, in which case the other fractions will appear to hinder their operation."
"You seek to pit the different sides against each other?"
"Two are already fighting. If anything, making those fractions aware of‒"
Static.
"‒Would work in our advantage, since it would instil doubts within the Order and split the attention of the Noah between him and us. Also, it'd be a great opportunity for you to show where you stand in all of this‒"
He snorts in disbelief. "At first glance, it seems crazy, but apparently, you've thought about this."
The other laughs. "Obviously. Someone's got to be the brain of this whole operation."
The other seems carefree, harbouring a devil-may-care attitude, but beneath it, there is always an underlying tone of seriousness.
"That wasn't intended as an insult, you know? The way you are now, you're still pure, honest and trustworthy, lacking in ulterior motives‒ Call it intuition if you like; I just know it. Your time with the Order might've skewered your perspective a bit, but your eyes right now are wide open. There is no point in you double-crossing me, and even if there was, it'd still take a lot for you to stab me in the back. I mean, maybe you'd do it if I were about to kill one of your former comrades, but other than that, I don't really see it."
The other's belief in him, seemingly an unwavering force…
He cannot understand it.
"How can you be so sure of that?"
More static.
"You sound like a man with a death wish." His own words, being reflected back at him from unseen walls.
Another response, lost in the static.
Laughter.
"You're plotting something again, aren't you?" He hears himself saying.
The other lets out an amused snort. "Hoh? How can you tell?"
He winces slightly; his head is feeling all weird again. "You're not exactly being very inconspicuous about it‒"
His vision swims momentarily, and there's a buzzing noise in his head. Still, he can overhear the other's response.
"I am plotting – that much is blindingly obvious – but I am plotting for your own good."
"Yes," he says. "But you do know what they say about good intentions‒"
"Yeah, yeah," the other brushes him off with a careless gesture. "Been there, done that, signed the guestbook. Believe it or not, but I have experience; it is based on trial and error, but experience nonetheless."
"Then tell me‒" He hears himself respond, painstakingly patient but rapidly reaching the point of absolute exasperation. "How am I supposed to get to these people? It isn't like we can just waltz right into the‒" he pauses momentarily, finally getting a look at the other's face, which leaves him in disbelief. "You're thinking it, aren't you?"
The other just shrugs, feigning innocence. "If I'm thinking about waltzing right into the Order to have the former retrieved? No. Honestly, do I look like a kidnapper to you?"
His answer is short and immediate, delivered without the least bit of hesitance. "Yes."
The other's expression shifts into a mildly offended one, though it is still way more playful than offended. "Hey, I was the one who said that you needed to earn their trust and loyalty, and you don't make people trust you by abducting them‒ not normally at any rate."
Allen says nothing.
"I won't betray you," the other promises. "I can't betray you, because that would be the same as betraying myself. But I'll only last for so long, and when that time comes‒"
When that time comes…
He sighs, resigned. "I shouldn't be on my own, right?"
"Those lone and powerful often succumb to madness in the end," the other says, his tone wistful. "Admittedly, great power can cause isolation and alienation, but loneliness is what breaks them."
"I won't betray you‒" the other goes on to promise, but Allen does not believe in them; not anymore, and never again, as the words are but an empty promise of a broken man, wistful and very much aware of the end which awaits him.
He closes his eyes.
"Liar."
- o0o -
He wakes up disoriented – in a bed which is entirely unfamiliar to him even as he rakes through all the memories within him – to the utterly concerned gaze of a nun with glasses. She speaks, but it is all in French and his brain is unable to process it, so he screws his eyes back shut and turns his head to the side, facing away from her. She continues speaking, and then suddenly, some words seem familiar to him. He only faintly realises that they are in Latin, and it puzzles him, given that he has no memory of ever having known Latin.
He is even more puzzled when he hears himself answering back in Latin than he is to learn that he has been unconscious for at least a day and a half, and that he is in an orphanage, having been found by one of the orphans. He is puzzled, but does not think much of it.
When the nun – the presumed prioress; the seeming Mother Superior – asks him who he is, he answers her with a surprising amount of honesty, revealing that he is an independent fifteen-year-old making his living as a street performer after leaving the circus. She asks for his name, but he does not answer, allowing his breathing to even out to give more credit to the illusion that he has gone back asleep.
Before long, he really does, allowing the rest of the world to fade away. He finds that it still lingers though, its never-ending flurry of sounds steadily seeping into his ears and invading his dreams.
- o0o -
The next time he floats back into a state of reasonable awareness, it is to the sound of a conversation taking place right outside the room he is lying in, just outside the door, with its two participants – one of whom is the Prioress – seemingly discussing whether or not they should call for a doctor to check him out.
Having heard those words, Allen is already out of bed and halfway to the window, where his legs suddenly fold beneath him. It is only ingrained reflexes that prevent him from making a rather disgraceful face plant on the floor, where he instead manages to ease his own landing somewhat before falling over onto his side, curling up in a foetal position as the full force of his headache catches up with him. The pain nearly causes him to black out then and there.
He knows that he must have caused some sort of ruckus though, because the next thing he knows, the door is thrown open, revealing what seems to be the Prioress along with another nun. In the moment that comes after that, the Prioress is kneeling beside him, resting the back of her hand against his cheek, calling for the other nun to go fetch a doctor. He grabs hold of her wrist in a firm but not too firm grip though, looking straight at her even though he feels like his vision is going to cancel out any minute now. "No doctors," he whispers, and he is not even sure which language he is using anymore. "I'm fine. No doctors."
His grip on the Prioress' wrist gradually slackens before he relinquishes it completely. She is still there by his side though, looking down at him concernedly. "Are you sure?" she finally asks, in English this time around, and he gives her a momentary nod before blacking out.
- o0o -
When he wakes up a third time, he is surprised by the fact that she apparently decided to heed his request. He also discovers a kid in the middle of stealing his throwing knives.
All in all, the latter should not surprise him, but it does. He grabs the kid in a headlock, leaving him with a lapful of a struggling boy. "For a thief, you're an amateur," Allen notes with a hint of amusement, and the boy's struggles temporarily cease as brown eyes regard him with seeming curiosity. Allen is not angry, just surprised, and with the struggling having ceased, he loosens his grip gradually before letting go altogether.
"For a sick guy, you sure seem healthy," the boy retorts, in English, and there is a challenge in the other's tone.
Fair enough, Allen supposes, retrieving the knives from the other's possession.
"I feel better," he responds, in English, because he does, really. Then again, everything is comparative to other things. "Still, care to tell me what you'd be needing my knives for?"
- o0o -
The boy's name is Timothy. His surname is Hearst, after the name of the orphanage, which is apparently the Hearst Orphan Asylum; a three-storey flat-roofed building made out of brick, a building of much hope but dire future prospects due to a lack of resources and a steadily approaching date of financial ruin.
Hearing all this, Allen feels that he understands at least part of the reason behind the lines of worry edged into the visage of the Prioress, who despite their situation as an establishment operating with meagre resources had decided to care for a random stranger with little or nothing to give in return.
It was either selfless or foolish, or both for that matter, and it was a behavioural pattern and a view of the world which generally caused things to end badly for the person harbouring them, because no one could be that bloody good and selfless and possibly get away with it unscathed.
Timothy – seemingly possessing a good eye for quality – obviously has his motives for trying to steal Allen's knives, and Allen finds himself understanding them, yes, but he is still very much unwilling to part with his belongings if he can prevent it. Even so, Allen considers himself a person who actually pays his debts – unlike certain redheaded generals. Thus, he and Timothy eventually reach an understanding of sorts, entailing that Allen will repay the Prioress' kindness in actual currency once he is considered fit enough to be allowed back out into the real world.
However, unbeknownst to them both, the real world is already getting ready to come and get them.
- o0o -
It is late in the evening – nearing midnight – one day when a muffled sound snaps Allen from a shallow sleep back into a state of acute awareness. Still, he remains where he is, curled up and on his side, but his eyes open a fraction and then fully, scanning the area not only with his eyes but also with his other senses, trying to discern the cause of that earlier sound.
For a brief moment, he suspects akuma, but since his eye is not reacting to anything, he is not too sure about it. Besides, if life has taught him anything, people themselves can at times be just as dangerous as akuma, if not even more dangerous, as one knows to be wary of the danger that is right up front, but one often looks past the ones that are not.
Admittedly, akuma could disguise themselves either through a given ability or by wearing a human's skin, but they could not deceive his eyes as he would always see them for what they were rather than for what they pretended to be. However, even his eyes – however trained they had been to spot signs of human deceit – are not foolproof by any means, as there are still things capable of escaping his notice. When it all comes down to it, those small things could very well mean the difference between life and death not only for him but also for the people in his surroundings.
His surroundings…
There is a sudden twinge of worry for the Brat – Timothy, that is – as well as for the other children and the Prioress. He finally stirs, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, pausing briefly to make sure that he is steady before getting to his feet. Once standing, he turns his head slightly to the side, listening.
The sound is there again, though it is so faint that he can barely catch it.
Quietly, he walks up to the door, but steps slightly to the side just before reaching it, his hand reaching for the doorknob as he keeps on listening for sounds that seem to be in any way unusual, keeping his senses alert and his eyes wide open.
Steps – that is what they are, though the person they belong to are by no means as skilful at concealing them as he is. Allen can clearly hear them approaching now, seemingly headed towards the door leading to the room he is currently occupying.
For a brief moment, he contemplates heading back to bed and feigning sleep in case the person on the outside truly intends to enter. He shrugs it off though, reasoning that if said individual – a grownup, given that such heavy footsteps could by no means have belonged to a child – probably would not enter the room at such a late hour unless they had shadier motives in mind for doing so.
Besides, it sure as Hell was not the Prioress – Allen knows the sound of her footsteps, having memorised them early on. Beyond that, there is also the matter of presence; a part of him knows the presence of the person outside the door, although he finds himself unable to pin it to any specific individual.
Thus, keeping that in mind, he holds his breath and pulls out one of his trusted knives, keeping it ready, since it could possibly come in handy. What he said to those exorcists back at the circus – to Lenalee and the others – had not been a lie; the fairly regular attempts on his life – more often than not courtesy of fellow performers – were a great part of the reason for his tendency of skipping town and company at regular intervals, since he would rather not sleep with one eye open any more than he already is. Such paranoia generally had a quite negative impact on the quality of sleep in general after all. Still, he knows not to be hasty.
After all, in the offhand case that the person on the other side of the door is not actually out to kill him in his sleep, then it really would not do to go right ahead and stab them before being fully aware of their intentions. As such, he seeks to ensure that he will have time to knock them out with the handle instead of stabbing them outright, since he would rather not have any more blood on his hands if he could possibly avoid it.
He is out in unfamiliar territory, and he knows that; he is in a situation where he has no earlier reference points to compare it to. As such, there is no readily formulated plan to put into action beyond that of common sense and regular improvisation.
Then, there is a hand on the doorknob on the other side, and he withdraws slightly, cloaking himself in shadows, hoping he will not be spotted immediately, and that this person – be they friend or foe – will step into the room and thus open up escape route for him.
It feels like forever, and then, he hears the doorknob turn. There is a slight mumble – a soft curse – and he hears that it is a female voice. He vaguely recognises the voice as one belonging to one of the nuns working at the orphanage; the one with cold eyes and little compassion.
The knob turns fully, and he silently steels himself for what is seemingly about to come, but then, just as the door clicks open and opens ever so slightly, there is a loud knocking noise on what he can only presume is the front door.
Another soft curse is heard. It is followed by the sound of the footsteps retreating. Seeing an opportunity, Allen pushes the door slightly more open, already cringing at the expected screech of it, though he is relieved when it never comes and the door opens almost soundlessly without a glitch.
The nun has her back to him as she heads up to answer the door. She has only just reached it when Allen takes his opportunity to sneak out of the room, leaving the door behind him only slightly open as he moves quietly into the room which is almost right across from it, taking the open door as a clear invitation.
He ends up in what seems to be a kitchen. There he crouches down behind a table, biding his time while waiting for the situation to unfold so that he can figure out just what type of situation he could possibly be dealing with.
The nun answers the door with a mildly irritated huff, and he can only imagine the gesture which accompanies it. "It's about damn time," she says, or at least that is what Allen translates her words to, and he frowns slightly. "I called about this matter two days ago."
This matter?
Another voice speaks up, low but gruff – a male's voice. "Where's the boy?"
The boy?
He goes cold hearing it, and when a sudden twinge of pain runs through him before focusing in the area surrounding his left eye, he goes even colder. An akuma or not, he should have little to fear, but the dread that fills him up at that very moment is undeniable, and so strong that it nearly robs him of his ability to think clearly, no doubt amplified by his Innocence suddenly acting up on him, eager to destroy.
"This way," the nun says, and Allen grits his teeth.
If the akuma is after a boy, Allen can think of only two possibilities. One is obviously him, and he finds himself hoping it is, clearly dreading the alternative, seeing that the other one is Timothy. The latter – while seemingly possessing some degree of awareness of his own ability – is largely unaware of the Innocence he possesses, as well as the dangers that come with it.
Timothy is a new variable – an unknown – in his world, and although he lacks previous reference points, Allen has already become attached to him, at least to the degree that he will not see the other dragged into the unholy war he reads in the future. He supposes it is a remnant of the saving-people complex he once possessed, but he also supposes it is sheer common sense; children should not be soldiers, fighting other people's wars.
Then, there is a hiss in the darkness and he looks up, momentarily startled. "He's not here, woman!" the voice says, an obvious hint of danger in the voice. "You lie!"
"Calm yourself," the nun hisses back. "He is here; I know he is. He has not left this house."
There is a mild growl answering her, and then, there seems to be a slight shift in their surroundings. "Raise the barrier," the akuma says, seemingly addressing someone else, and this time around, Allen feels his blood freeze in his veins.
A wave of panic rises in him as he feels the telling shift in his surroundings of a barrier being established. A barrier? Why are they after‒?
An image of a monocle-wearing gentleman enters his mind, and his eyes grow wide.
"You seem a bit familiar. Have we met before?"
He recalls them – amber-coloured eyes – watching him hungrily.
"This melody‒ Do you recognise it?"
He feels sick and dizzy again. He knows that he needs to leave, but he knows that if he does, the others will die, but if he does not‒
- o0o -
"You have the power to turn the tide of this war, but whom and what to support is entirely up to you‒"
- o0o -
The voice is there again, echoing within him. The words are familiar and somewhat admonishing, but overall well-meaning.
- o0o -
"Still‒ No matter what takes place, the world strives to remain in balance and‒"
- o0o -
"Every action brings about a reaction, and it spreads like rings upon the water's surface‒"
- o0o -
Every action brings about a reaction…
He grits his teeth once more, steeling himself as he summons his Innocence.
What has been done has been done, and he cannot undo the past. Every action brings about a reaction, and he is left to counter them one after the other.
"Don't stop walking," he inwardly reminds himself. "Don't stop…"
He has to keep on going.
- o0o -