The headaches were getting worse. His brisk pace slowed to a stop, and Wizeman leaned against a tree and groaned. He was slipping. He could feel it. He could scarcely think straight; his skin felt too small for his bodies.

He slid down the tree, only to glare up at the cherry blossom petals now above him. They were picture perfect. Disgusting. He would have to make note to–he groaned again, tossing his head between his knees and tearing his hand up through his hair. It was difficult to resist the urge to dig his nails into his scalp.

He had been doing so well, too: He had quite the collection of Ideya with him, and thus far, no one had recognized him. His other 'marens, at least, were smart: The moment they realized he was a Lucid, they left him be.

But it was getting harder. He couldn't focus. The thoughts weren't coming, and his vision was blurring. He looked at his left hand, which wavered in his eyes. It looked like he had three, but that was right, wasn't it? Or was it? He didn't know anymore. It too joined the hand(s?) on his head, and a feeble whimper fell from his lips.

He didn't notice when his skin began to crack.

It started small, a fracture, like pottery, upon his hand. Then another one that shone upon his boot. Brilliant white light spilled out from these cracks, and they quickly began to grow. More appeared on his body and grew, and his eyes shot open.

No!

NO!

NO!

In a flash of light, he exploded.

Cyrus was flung to the left and bounced twice before he came to a stop. For a few moments, he was still. Slowly, he pushed himself up. The first thing he became aware of was the silence in his head. For the first time in countless years, he was alone. No other voices, no other presences. Just him and his own thoughts. The others… He looked up. They were flung nearby. At least the pain had stopped.

He moved to stand, but before he could even get his feet under him, he froze, staring down at his body. He had his second realization, and he brought his trembling hands before him. "My hands." Indeed, they a series of sudden, jerky movements, he examined himself, the scars that peppered his arms, the red tartan boxers, the scar on his left side between his two ribs, the cornflower blue robe, the long black hair, the pale skin and thin limbs, yes, yes, it was all there. He was all there.

"No," he whispered.

The lost lucid brought those trembling hands into his chest, shortly followed by his knees. He remembered this body. He remembered tearing it apart. He remembered the hatred, the fury he felt on that night, so long ago–it hadn't faded. How dare they. He may have lost his new form, the one that marked his freedom from the shackles of this world, but that did not mean he was going to stand the indignation of being forced back into this one. He stood up with a jerk, and his brown eyes turned purple as he began to consider what sort of… improvements he could make…

Flung to the right was the body of a man, his body scrapped against the ground before he came to a halt. Gagging, the man quickly wrapped his hands around his throat and wheezed. He wasn't used to being flung around out of his own vessel like that. He didn't notice the others at first, and only paid mind to his inability to breathe.

Once he caught onto his breath, he propped himself up on his knees and elbows and shuddered. He remembered this body. Hadn't he given it up all of those years ago? Where did it come from? How was it back? Not that he minded; he was the only one who had no hatred for it; A mess of black, curly hair, olive skin, strong limbs, torn clothes… He sat up and examined his hands, frowning at the marks he held on his wrists. Suddenly, he was reminded of why he gave it up in the first place, and a wave of despair washed over him as he brought his hand to his neck. Tracing his fingers over the mark that wrapped around it, he secretly longed for the vessel that he shared with the others… He'd much rather forget about these horrid marks and take the voices any day.

Though that brought up the question; what happened to the vessel? Hazel eyes scanned over to where it once was, and with it's absence, groaned louder. It was then the full realization hit; the fragments were separated. The man hesitated for a moment before placing a hand on his head. That's right. He knew it was too small and that it would give-way soon… Why hadn't the others listened to him? Shaking his head, he decided to speak;

"Well, that was quite entertaining, was it not?" He forced out a grin. "I no longer need to torment myself with your foolish voices. Ha! The silence!" Though his voice mocked, his expression declared otherwise. He knew this wasn't going to end well…

Flung straight ahead of the cherry tree was the final fragment; the body of a boy, no older than the age of eight. Unlike the other two, he tried to land on his feet when he was sent flying, however was unable to obtain his balance, and effectively did a backwards somersault. With a bang of his head, the child yelped and whined, drawing in his limbs and holding his head as he trembled. So much for a release from the agonizing headaches…

As soon as the boy opened his eyes, however, he shrieked. Desperately, he waved his hand in front of his eyes, snapping his fingers and clapping to try to fix what had been broken. After a few moments of failure, the boy's face flustered red and he screamed. Without hesitation, the boy dug his fingers into his eyes sockets, and ripped from them his eyes.

He threw the disgraced slime balls onto the ground before attempting to stomp on them, not paying any mind to the other two elder fragments and their remarks.

The man watched the child as he tore out his eyes and stomped on them, shaking his head slightly at the child's fury. Being reminded of that anger, he was suddenly relieved to see those marks upon is wrists again. With a quick flick of his wrist, he spawned from thin air two new eyes with purple irises.

"Child, cease with your fit. Here," The eyes began to float from the man's hand over to the angered child. "Take these, and you will see once more."

The boy stopped froze at the words, turning his head and frowning at where the voice was directed from. However, instead of protesting, he held out his hands.

With a soft smile, the man flicked his wrist once more, and the new pair of eyes dropped into the child's hands. The boy held the two spheres in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over them to observe their texture… Soon, however, he slowly brought the new pair of eyes to his eye sockets, and popped them inside. He let his lucidity do the rest of the work, attaching the nerves to his eyes as colors were finally being registered.

The boy looked at his hands, almost a bit baffled to find that they were a metallic silver color. In fact, all of his skin, he noticed, was this reflective color. His attire was a sort of ancient Greek robe that signified a high status. His hair was black and straight, and upon his head, two disfigured silver horns broke through. With a huff, he turned to face the other two, sneering at them. "The Vessel shattered."

This made the eldest snort. "No, you think?"

The boy growled, and spotted one of his faulty eyes. He quickly stomped upon it. "I despise Lucids."

"The are quite a bothersome bunch, aren't they?" The man grinned. "Then again, are you not one of them, Theos~?"

The boy snarled, conjuring a stone in his hand and violently throwing it at the elder, whom simply caught it with a frown.

"As are you, Richard." Theos hissed. "You're the worst sort of lucid I have ever come across. Arrogant, cowardly, and quite idiotic." He did not return the playful grin Richard gave. "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't rip you to pieces right now."

"Shut up," Cyrus snapped, half-turning to the pair. They had already lost one body today; they didn't need to lose another.