Ehem, long wait? I'm sorry. Boy am I on an updating spree this weekend! I needed to vent a little so it was time for Jizabel's rambling. There are more italicised sections in this since I feel Jizabel is a man who gives more away through body-language than through words.
Denial
A small candelabra burns in a room occupied by two men late at night. One is short, old and hums to himself as he covers pages of a medical journal with complex figures and diagrams. The other is tall, slender and remains silent as he writes slowly in another journal, letters large and flowing. After a while he glances across at the shorter man who hums on obliviously. Another small book is pulled out from under a stack of papers and laid in the middle of the medical journal. A date is added and then words began to flow hurriedly across the page, as though the writer is trying to project his thoughts onto paper and rid them from his head.
What a complete and utter mess. Thousands dead and what have we gained? Nothing. Well, nothing but the passing of thousands of worthless, pointless human lives which is a small gain at least.
Why I ever allowed myself to become involved with the eccentricities of a man like Cassandra I will never know…if the cardmaster had not ordered me to, I would never have spent even a second at his side. I rather think I scared Zenopia while operating on Cassandra, who would have known that the old fool didn't enjoy the delicate sound of a skull being split apart? I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Not to mention discovering our experiment would actually work. It was useful that Cassian gave us such an opportunity…
The writer pauses and glares at the words he has just written. The word 'cardmaster' is blotched and scrawled as though the writer wanted to get rid of it as fast as possible, while the word 'Cassian' has been elegantly transcribed as though a lot of time was spent savouring the letters. Casting another glance towards the other man, the writer shakes his head in displeasure and continues writing, more quickly than before.
If I can't be honest to myself, with whom can I be honest? The mess here isn't that Delilah made no progress from the incident, or the fact that Zenopia is writing a ridiculous amount of notes on Cassian's operation and mourning his loss….it is exceedingly annoying, but it is not a mess. The mess exists here…everything feels untidy since the incident. Everything. Although the loss of one subordinate should not make the slightest change to my work I find myself feeling lost more and more often. Surely I will be punished again soon for my lapses in judgment. I'm quite looking forward to it. There at least is something that makes sense. Actions must be answered for.
…When will Cassian answer for his actions? He needn't have run away. Foolish…no. I am the foolish one. He told me so, did he not? It is no surprise that he left after what happened…I suppose the part of him that wishes to be a saviour realised there is nothing here willing to be saved…
The writer pauses again, glares at the last two paragraphs and then hastily scribbled over them, smearing ink across the page. The other man pauses in his humming briefly. The writer shrugs and says gently, 'The calculations were incorrect.' The shorter man resumes his humming and the writer stares at his fingers which are now covered in black ink. He then begins to write again.
The air in this room is vile and making me act foolishly. The loss of Cassian means nothing to me or the organisation. He served little purpose except to get in my way….
This is crossed out and replaced with 'saving my life' which is crossed out so hard the paper rips. The writing resumes.
Except to get in my way. Yes. The fool was always meddling and acting above his station. Even my new subordinate is more useful, despite his idiotic, fire filled babbling and flamboyant outfits. All humans are a waste of skin, but at least this one leaves me to my own devices. Yes, things are certainly looking up. Cassandra is gone. His vile contraption has been taken by the cardmaster…I do not wish to…I am not in the position to question his motives. Things will start progressing again, life will become busy….and this whole untidy mess can be forgotten.
Yes. Things are certainly improving.
The writer stops and his gaze softens as he hesitantly probes memories that had been prowling the edge of his consciousness since he had begun writing. Slowly, distractedly, barely looking at the paper, a final paragraph is entered into the journal.
I saw Cassian at the train station today. He seemed healthy, well, healthy for him. The encounter was so brief I cannot be sure how he was feeling. By the time I realised who I was looking at, he had turned and vanished into the crowd and no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't reach him in time. He boarded a train and left, probably left the city. Freedom. Safety. What strange emotions he must be experiencing after a life of confinement. I wonder…if I had listened to him from the start, would I too be leaving the city? Would I too be free?
The journal is suddenly slammed shut and lifted from the table. The writer turns and quickly leaves the room, ignoring the questions called out by his humming companion. He quickly walks away from the room filled with flickering, uncertain candlelight and enters into a dark passage with a sigh of relief as though wrapping himself in shadows.
"No," he whispers, "I can never be free."
The journal is burnt that night along with a series of notes and other papers concerning a certain operation. And the writer lays on his bed and stares into the darkness until the first rays of dawn creep into the room, unable to sleep for fear he will dream of freedom.
Angsty eh? Sorry about that. Next up is Riff – and I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to write XD Must put brain in Riff mode! Please drop me a line sweeties.
Oh and see? I told you no yaoi! Just canon-like hints of shonen-ai. I am proud of meself
