Old chapters 20-21.

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The Eleventh Testament

– The Prelude to Destruction–

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"The end draws near…"

He opened his eyes, coming face to face with his masked reflection.

"Your time… is running out."

His reflection grew distorted before flickering momentarily, being replaced by another, by the shadow before shifting back once more into its original shape.

Allen sighed, closing his eyes.

"I know."

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Silver-grey eyes shot back open and he sat up suddenly from where he had previously lain, looking back at the bright moon where it hung in the night sky, surrounded from all directions by an array of stars, some shining more brightly than others. The moon was waning again, having grown full at some point during the time he had been bedridden. Those days were in the past though, just like the days of the full moon, seeing that the wound in his side had already closed up as his body had mended itself from the inside out.

It was not fully healed, per se, but still healed enough for him to leave the confining bed and roam the night as he wished; that was his own reasoning at least, and it was entirely possible that his companions did not quite agree with it, but they let him and didn't protest openly, either due to having taken the hint that he needed more space or due to their sheer relief over seeing him on the road to recovery. Still, it appeared as though not all of them had taken the hint to heart, as Allen was soon to discover when his nightly escapades attracted the attention and following company of the latest addition to his tagalongs.

Apparently, his earlier failure to refrain from humouring the brat's inquisitiveness had made the brat think that he would actually be willing to answer virtually any question of his as long as he was persistent enough, and if there was something Allen certainly did not enjoy the company of, then it was people of the utterly persistent sort; normal people were already troublesome enough in Allen's opinion. Still, however annoying the kid might have been, tagging along with him to ask all those persistent questions and express all those thoughts and worries he apparently harboured, Allen supposed the kid might have been correct after all in terms of him – Allen – being prone to give in rather than endure once Timothy wanted to know something. Besides, even if him giving in to the brats demands could have been seen as a bit demeaning in some sense, Allen decided to take it for what it was and reap whatever rewards it brought along, because, persistent or not, Timothy did appear to understand the rather obvious concept of give and take. The importance of providing bribes and other favours, that is.

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"That scar… how did you get it?"

Allen looked up, directing his eyes towards his companion where they both sat out on the roof. With a sigh, he accepted the orange the brat handed him – Honestly, what was it with the brat and oranges? – and put it into his pocket to get his hands free again. Running fingers through his rather unkempt hair, he uncovered the scar all while the brat kept on watching him. "This?" he asked, even though the question was purely rhetorical; what other scars did he have which were worth asking about?

"Yeah, that one," Timothy affirmed, leaning closer to get a better look, his eyes shining with curiosity. "How did you get it?" he then asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

While a bit taken aback by the other's sudden proximity, Allen merely snorted. "I needed a reminder…" he then said, his fingertips lingering on his forehead. "So I engraved it on my face in order to make sure I would never forget."

Silence.

"That's… seriously screwed up," Timothy finally said, but even so, Allen could tell by the tone of his voice that the childish curiosity of his companion was nowhere near sated, even if said brat did sound just a bit put off by his explanation. "Then…" the brat continued after a while, apparently unable to keep his silence for any longer. "What was it?"

"What is what?" Allen shot back, pulling the orange from his pocket and peeling it.

Timothy looked vaguely annoyed. "What was it… the thing you needed to remember so badly?"

Allen didn't look up even as he answered, giving the by then fully peeled orange in his hands a look of disinterest. "Myself."

The look the brat sent his way demanded an explanation, and once again, Allen decided to humour him. "Even without knowing the true nature of my being, I felt that I needed some sort of inerasable proof of my existence…" he said, silently wondering why it felt so easy to do so. "So I made my mark."

The brat made a face. "It must've hurt," he said.

Allen just shrugged in response. "I suppose."

"It must've hurt a lot," the brat insisted.

"Not really," he responded, consuming the last bit of fruit.

"Why not? It should've," the brat persisted.

Allen didn't look at him, turning his eyes skywards instead. "At the time…" he said. "I had other things on my mind."

"Like what?" Timothy shot back, repeating his inquiry when Allen did not answer.

Silence settled between them. It was all a game really, to see which of them would crack first.

Allen, being the one most accustomed to and the most comfortable with it, had little intention of breaking it. If the brat wanted answers from him, he had to offer up something else in return, and the bribe he had brought along had only lasted for so long. If the brat wanted him to reveal the cards he had on hand, then Timothy himself would have to do the same; it wouldn't be give and take if he didn't. Besides, it was only a question of time before the brat would crack anyway; silence was not a thing of comfort to him, and that was a fact which was very well known to Allen. It was only a question of time…

"You know…" Timothy finally said. "This Joker person…"

Allen looked up, genuinely interested this time around. Still, he retained his silence, waiting for the brat to continue.

Speaking of which, the brat did look more than just vaguely uncomfortable as he went on, squirming slightly where he sat. "I don't know if you remember that night, but…" He went silent again.

Allen directed his eyes towards him. "…He spoke to you?" he said, a hint of surprise colouring his voice.

"He did," the brat readily admitted. "He was a weird person."

Silence settled between them once more before Timothy spoke up again, his tone of voice clearly betraying his amusement. "But, from what I can tell," he said. "You're even weirder."

Allen smiled then, seeing that the brat was very much correct in his assessment. He did not comment on it though, waiting for the inevitable question that was no doubt about to be asked, one inevitable question if not several of them.

"Say…" Timothy finally said, easing up and relaxing somewhat, apparently having sensed the shift in his mood. "Why do you wear a mask anyway? Why is there a need to wear one in the first place?"

Knowing well what the brat was referring to, Allen's smile broadened some but he still did not answer, waiting for the question which was still to come.

"Who are you really, underneath it all?"

Who indeed? That was a damned good question. "Who knows?" Allen said, watching the waning moon in the sky with a look of contemplation adorning his features, mixed up with a hint of amusement hiding in his eyes. "…I can hardly say I know myself anymore."

No really, he honestly didn't.

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"So… who is this Joker guy anyway?" Timothy finally asked, watching as Timcanpy – his master's golem – had settled upon Allen's head of all places, acting like it truly belonged there. "Miranda told me… Joker used to be your stage name…"

"Stage name?" Allen repeated, smirking. "Calling it a stage persona would be just a tiny bit more accurate though…"

Timothy looked at him, no longer bothering to make an attempt at hiding his curiosity. "Stage… persona?" he said, tasting the foreign word in his mouth.

"Well… I believe that's the simplest way of putting it…" Allen yielded, far too amused by the subject of discussion to make much trouble. "At least that's what he used to be. As for what he is at the moment, I really can't say for sure…"

He paused briefly, studying the brat's reaction to his statement out of the corner of his eye. "Don't get me wrong though," he then said. "I am him and he is me, but at the same time, we're not the same…"

"I don't get it," Timothy readily admitted.

Allen snorted in response, putting his hand up to shove the golden nuisance out of his hair. "That's fine," he said. "If he went through all that trouble of revealing himself to you, I might as well tell you the rest of the story… the story as I know it, at least."

The golem flapped its wings, seemingly annoyed. Then, it took flight and settled itself elsewhere, upon the hand which Allen held out with his palm turned upwards. "Once upon a time," he began, looking towards the moon where it hung in the sky. "There was a child without a past and without a name, but because of the colour of his hair, he was called Red…"

"Then Red met a mad clown by the name of Mana, and that's when Allen was born… that is to say, that was the day Red was reborn as Allen…" he continued, closing his eyes. "Then, the mad clown named Mana died, and as a reaction to it, Allen split in two… A part of Allen remained as Allen, while another part – the part containing the things Allen was suppressing, the things he refused to acknowledge as parts of himself – was reborn as Red…"

He paused briefly before continuing, smiling sardonically as he did so. "And then… a disheartened and sickly young musician entered the stage…" he said, and Timothy looked up, clearly recognising the description from the one he had given earlier. "Discovering Red, the musician attempted to get to know him, to draw him out of hiding. Red on the other hand rejected him for a very long time, distrustful of his motives. Eventually however, the musician succeeded in gaining his trust and – at least to some degree – his love and loyalty…"

"Then," Allen continued. "When the sickly young musician was dying and left the circus, Red followed him and stayed with him until the end, hearing the man's last confession before he passed away, following which Red dug a shallow grave for him in the frozen ground…"

He paused again, watching the mildly horrified expression of his companion with some degree of amusement before he went on. "That day was also the day when Red and Allen reunited – at least in a manner of speaking – and returned to being a single entity for a while… but before long, Allen assumed the guise of Joker and then managed to split himself up all over again…"

Timothy shot a somewhat confused look in his direction, but Allen simply continued with what he was saying. "In being Joker and in wearing all the masks which came with it, I – Allen – just about forgot something vital…" he said, pausing slightly as he waited for the question he obviously knew would come.

"What?" Timothy asked.

Allen smiled. "Myself."

The brat eyed him in silent confusion for a few moments. "What do you mean by that?" he then asked, sounding almost suspicious.

Allen's smile turned wry. "What do I mean by that?" he repeated, his fingers enclosing around the golem which had up until that point nestled in his palm. Having been caught by surprise, it fluttered futilely in its sudden state of captivity, but Allen paid it little heed. "What I mean is that the Allen you know is just another mask; I am not Allen himself, but rather a role which he has constructed and continues to carry out."

Brown eyes darted back and forth between the futilely struggling golem and its captor. "Then where is the real Allen?" Timothy finally asked.

Allen just shrugged mildly in response, relinquishing his grip on the golem. It bared its teeth at him, but he was noticeably unimpressed when it attempted to bite him. Within the blink of an eye, he had a firm grip on it and in the next he had already flung it into a nearby wall with dead accuracy. Timothy let out a cry of both disbelief and clear disapproval, but Allen just snorted in response, and before long the dreadful thing was already up and about, albeit a bit winded by the looks of it. If Allen was correct in his assumptions, it would no doubt bounce right back in no time at all. Golems were generally quite sturdy things after all; his occasional experiments on the ones he had randomly encountered in his youth had been proof of such.

"The thing is…" he then said, addressing the brat's earlier question. "If one wears masks for too long, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish what's real and what isn't… or in this case, who's 'real' and who isn't. Even so, even if there was a 'real' Allen at some point in time, that person is no more. What remain of this person are just fragments, and I am such a fragment."

"Fragments?" Timothy repeated, frowning. "But how can you be sure you're not the 'real' Allen? Besides, if you and Joker are fragments of the same Allen, wouldn't everything be solved if you just went back to being the same person again?"

Allen shook his head.

"Why not?" Timothy asked. "Why wouldn't it?"

Allen sighed in response. "Simply put, it's because we're no longer compatible," he then said. "If a person's mind is like a mirror, mine is a broken one. It consists of bits and pieces which are only loosely connected or not connected at all – like Joker and I – and in between them there are pieces which have gone missing… leaving cracks through which darkness can seep through."

Timothy's frown deepened. "Darkness?" he repeated, looking at him in confusion.

Allen stood up. "Each and every person has some kind of darkness within them," he then said, looking down at him. "However…some are too busy fighting their outer enemies to notice those dwelling within…"

Timothy said nothing, waiting for him to continue. He turned. "While I may have chosen not to involve myself in any outer conflicts, I have always been involved in a struggle… for the right to continue existing as myself," he said. "But I'm running out of time…"

He closed his eyes. There was a voice again, hiding amongst the static. Similar to his own, yet different. Joker.

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"He will strive to remain uninvolved… but when time comes for Allen to choose… he will need someone to stay by his side-…"

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More static.

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"…-Will you be that someone?"

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Allen opened his eyes again, turning to face Timothy as he too stood up.

"I don't know why he asked you to stay by my side, but I can guess," Allen said, giving his companion an assessing stare. "Perhaps he saw something in you that he didn't see in the others, something special."

Timothy opened his mouth to reply. Then, he closed it again, hesitating. "He said we were alike… but also very different," he finally responded. "That I was what you could have been if things had ended differently. But, what is that supposed to…?"

Ah… so that had been it. Clever Joker, really clever.

Allen let out an amused snort. "As crude as it may sound… he probably wants you to save me."

Confusion. "Huh?"

Allen sighed again, shaking his head. Then, he looked up, a mild look of distaste adorning his features. "Yes…" he said. "But you needn't worry your little head over that crap. There is no such thing as salvation. Besides, if there ever was such a thing as salvation then I am surely far beyond any salvation or redemption or whatever, so you needn't bother."

Timothy's momentary confusion gradually melted into something else entirely and he turned on him, glaring at him in silence. It was all rather uncharacteristic of him, seeing that the brat generally got even louder when there was something he did not agree with. "Don't try to order me around, Bastard," he finally hissed, clearly angered for one reason or the other.

Allen snorted in response. "Suit yourself, Brat."

Timothy opened his mouth, likely to shower him with some sort of insults, but before even a word had made it over his lips, Allen's posture suddenly stiffened and Timothy, acting from experience, snapped his mouth back shut and studied his surroundings with renewed interest, trying to figure out exactly what had put the other on edge. He did not spot anything immediately though, and soon he directed his eyes back to Allen where he had by then turned towards him. Silver-grey eyes looked back at him, seemingly glimmering in the darkness.

"We're about to get some unwanted company," Allen said, keeping his voice low while he made a small gesture. "I'll act as a decoy, so lay low and don't follow. Once they've left, go find Miranda and Crowley. I'll catch up with you later, and once I do, we're leaving."

"And how do I know this isn't just another plot of yours to leave us behind?" Timothy hissed, unwilling to yield. "What unwanted company? I can't see anyone."

Allen merely snorted, making his way towards the edge of the roof. "That's because you don't pay attention, Brat."

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At any other point in his life, Allen Walker would no doubt have acted in accordance to the rule of every man for themselves in a situation of peril. At any other point in his life, Allen Walker would have acted on his own accord and not thought much of the things he would be leaving behind. At any other point in his life, he would not have cared about the outcome of the situation as long as he himself got away in one piece. This time around however, he did care, at least enough to be willing to play the decoy; perhaps they all knew too much about him by then, ensuring that he could never leave them behind without leaving a part of himself with them, without leaving behind information which could possibly lead to his downfall. Truly, he had grown careless.

Glimmering light surrounded him, reshaping his features. The mask fell into place along with the claw, both partially hidden by the billowing white cloak which covered him, shielded him. The White Demon stepped out into the night, not to hunt but rather to be hunted; it was not a position he liked to be in, but it really couldn't be helped. He had very little time to waste after all and this plan was as good as any.

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A sudden gust of night wind blew past him, sending a flock of crows in a nearby tree out into flight, their small black figures showing briefly beneath the moonlight before they were once again obscured by shadows, disappearing out of sight. Having already outplayed his usefulness as a beacon, Allen deactivated his Innocence and did just the same, allowing himself to be swallowed up once more by the shadows of the night as he moved silently between the rooftops before crouching down, pulling a black scarf from his pocket to temporarily cover up the whiteness of his hair. Once he had tied it securely enough, he sunk even deeper into the shadows and waited, listening intently for his pursuers, because he knew they were out there and he knew there were several of them. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused. In the distance, he could detect the scattered presences of his companions, affirming their positions before turning his attention elsewhere and focusing on detecting his pursuers, and after another deep breath, he began counting them.

- o0o -

He had always been alone in his life. Companions were temporary beings who expired, and any attachments he might have had to them usually faded just as quickly as they did. He was a one-man team, a solitary existence loyal to nothing and no one but himself, yet still he found himself crowded by all these nuisances – companions who likely viewed themselves as comrades – people who simply refused to leave him alone and followed him even when he himself sought to revel in his solitude. What had changed, he wondered; what had possibly changed and brought about the arrival of these annoying tagalongs?

He had only required a few moments' worth of contemplation before he had an answer.

It was he himself who had begun to change somewhere along the way. Perhaps his deterioration had begun early on, starting from the point when he had first broken his silent self-instated rule of non-involvement in speaking to Mana on that snowy day by the grave of Allen the Dog. He had broken his promise and gotten himself involved in matters which were really none of his business, and he had rounded it all off by following said madman on some pointless journey to search for said madman's long lost brother who had no doubt met his demise a long, long time ago; he did not have any proof to support this claim as far as he was aware, but he had always had a feeling that it was probably so, and that said brother's death had been what had driven the clown over the edge and sent him plunging into the depths of insanity. In getting involved with the man, he himself had changed as a result of it, taking on the name of Allen Walker. Perhaps he had only gotten involved with the mad clown because he wanted to understand something about humans, or perhaps something about himself as well, and while it had been a strange companionship and while the clown had been annoying at times, a part of him had still enjoyed it to some degree – enjoyed having company at least – perhaps because it made his days a bit less dull than they would have been otherwise.

But even so, as with all things good and bad, they all came to an end eventually and when Mana met his, Allen should have just shrugged it off and moved on – like a part of him did – but instead he lingered by the man's grave, wondering what to do next. He had lingered, standing still for just a bit, and then the Earl had made an appearance and given him an opportunity few of those in grief would have refused. But Allen had, seeing that he was not in any particular state of grief, and he would have rectified his mistake in getting involved as well if only things had gone his way. They rarely did however, and from that day and onward, the Earl had involved himself in his life. Something – curiosity perhaps? – had brought the man's eyes to him, and after a generous donation Allen could instinctively tell that the Earl had no intention of allowing him to remain uninvolved forever.

All his life, he had striven to survive yet to remain uninvolved at the same time, but as he had come to realise, it was not entirely easy to survive entirely on one's own, to remain completely uninvolved. Back then, he had been too young to manage it in his own opinion, and by the time he had grown old enough to make it, he was already far too involved with the world to sever all ties to it. Besides, he had never really liked restrictions, and few things would be as restricting as avoiding society as a whole; one would probably be quite stupid if one actually attempted it, considering the fact that human society did have a thing or two which even he would not fancy living without.

Even so, in his struggles to retain his relative independence from the rest of them at the circus while still remaining one of them, he had at some point gone from being an outsider to being an insider once he had stayed around for long enough and once he had proved himself skilled enough to be included as a genuine part of the troupe. Few had liked him, but the feeling was very much mutual, and people did not need to like each other to keep each other company; life at the circus and with Mana had taught him as much. Still, life at the circus had also taught him that it was not a very good idea to remain in the company of people one truly despised – like Cosimo – and that sometimes, it was far easier to make people disappear than to attempt to reconcile with them.

In his endeavour to remain uninvolved, it had been a grave mistake on his part to touch that piano and as things turned out, it had been an even graver one to get to know the owner of it. The young musician, forever nameless in his mind, had come and gone but even so his presence lingered even years after his departure as an inerasable proof of what once was.

With or without intending it, he had left an inerasable mark on the world just as it had left one on him; although he had striven to live in obscurity, both seen and unseen forces had brought him out of hiding and into the spotlight, just like he himself had stepped out on occasion to perform as another. The masks he wore had been his shields against the world, but it was he himself who had moved them aside and allowed others to catch a glimpse of what lay beneath them. It had been foolish of him, truly, but masks occasionally became heavy and suffocating to bear.

He curled up further where he sat in the shadows, keeping his senses open and alert, listening and counting.

One. It was faint, but he could still hear her slightly laboured breathing along with her somewhat accelerated heartbeat. Her steps were soft, but her presence was easy to detect.

Two. Bloodlust. The person initially kept their presence quite well hidden, but obviously failed to realise that their emotions were leaking out.

Three. There was an old man as well, whose presence nearly disappeared amongst the rest of them; it would have been nearly completely undetectable in case he had not specifically tuned his senses to detect it.

Four. A young man, radiating something akin to excitement.

Five. Another young man, radiating something similar.

Six… Seven. Two more, one of them quite powerful by the feel of it.

He did not sense any others and seeing that no one was attacking yet, he screwed his eyes back shut and focused, once again using his senses to try to detect the brat and the others. Tuned in to their presence as he was, he found them within seconds. They were at a distance, but not far away enough, and it was only a question of time before their pursuers – exorcists, what else? – would split up and pursue them separately. As a matter of fact, it puzzled him greatly that they had not done so already. Even so, he supposed it was entirely possible that this was all a part of some tactic of theirs; obviously having identified him as the leader of the mismatched little congregation, they probably sought to take him out first and pursue the others later when they were leaderless and weak. It was not an entirely stupid plan, not in Allen's mind at least, but was also flawed; they thought they would be able to take him down because he was alone and they outnumbered him by many, or perhaps they had even received intelligence saying that he had been wounded and as such decidedly a much easier prey to catch than before. Regardless of which, Allen was not amused in the least. So they thought they would be able to trap him, huh?

Well, evidently their assembled strength was much greater than his own at the moment, but theirs was divided amongst individuals while his was harnessed within. The fact that they had a general accompanying them was a bit troubling to say the least, but in the end, generals were only as troublesome as one allowed them to be.

Silver-grey eyes snapped open, sensing an incoming attack, but far before it – a glowing ball of some sort – reached him, he had already moved and transformed midair. In the next moment, he had already made it to another roof, turning slightly to catch a glimpse of his assailant before dashing off again. He could sense one of the others making their move and he acted accordingly, evading being hit by this huge hammer. The eye-patch-wearing redhead who swung it grinned at him, seemingly amused by his predicament. Allen just snorted, gracefully landing a bit further away, sensing how the others – those who were still hiding out in the shadows – closed in on him slowly but steadily, all while the general and another seemingly kept their distance. The exorcists were about to move in for the kill, and Allen, having decided that the distance between himself and his so called 'flock' had grown large enough, refocused on his Innocence. It flared up in response to his conviction and his pursuers – some of them caught by surprise by the whole display – were sufficiently distracted for him to slip between them, ensuring that he had made it out of the forming enclosure and gained a slight head start before they once again took up their pursuit of him, making use of it for everything it was worth.

His senses tingled slightly as he detected the strange threads which had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, allowing him to narrowly escape between them before they enclosed on him like a net. Truly, he almost felt like a butterfly caught up in a forest of spider webs, but he had no intention whatsoever of ending up in one of their nets. Besides, the image of him being a butterfly really did not suit him at all, not even with the cloak.

His senses tingled again, informing him that his pursuers were hot on his trail once again and he sped up all while focusing his energies within, shifting them. Before long, he could sense their approach and he dove down into one of the empty and quite narrow streets below. His feet impacted on the ground and his posture sagged a bit. He let out a quiet hiss, having been painfully reminded of the not yet fully healed wound in his abdomen. Then, he looked up, eyes widening slightly as he suddenly detected something nearby which he certainly had not caught before. He turned his head, shifting slightly in his posture, coming face to face with an akuma as it suddenly stepped out, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "You're not leaving us behind," it said and an image of Timothy appeared within it, glaring at him.

So the brat had finally managed to properly possess something other than humans then? It was about bloody damn time.

Allen found himself sagging slightly, not fully recovered from the onslaught of pain and the earlier dash, but the Level-Two Timothy had taken control of was next to him in an instant, ready to catch him if necessary. "I wasn't planning to," Allen bit out, straightening up as he used his human hand to brush the offered assistance aside. "I just got held up on the way."

"You still haven't recovered," Timothy returned, continuing to glare at him. "I won't let you fight alone."

Allen snorted in response; the brat's concern for him had good grounds, he'd admit that much, but even so his concerns were exaggerated and rather unneeded. It was not as though he had actually intended on fighting the exorcists any more than he actually needed in order not to get caught; it was not as though he was attempting to defeat them or anything. Allen knew his own limitations, or at least he thought knew them well enough, and taking his recent injury into account he knew better than to engage in a full out battle with anyone. As was seemingly evident though, his companions did not believe him to be capable of much at all in his current condition; he should probably have found their lack of faith in his capabilities somewhat disturbing and greatly offensive seeing that he was being greatly underestimated, but instead he just shrugged inwardly and snorted in sheer disbelief before steeling himself for what was yet to come. A wry smile spread across his features as his senses alerted him to the fact that their pursuers would turn up at any second. "Then make yourself useful, Brat."

The brat – still very much visible to Allen even in his spirit form – had the gall to stick out his tongue at him. Allen just scoffed at him, turning to face the arriving opposition.

- o0o -

People were very much selfish beings, only really doing things for themselves or for the sake of feeling better about themselves. It was a natural thing, done consciously or unconsciously, but in hindsight, Allen could not help but wonder what had driven him to once again break his promise of remaining uninvolved, what exactly had driven him to hold out his hand to a useless woman who wished tomorrow would never come. Perhaps he had done so for his own sake, believing that the gloomy woman of little purpose would somehow teach him more about humans and maybe even about himself. She had, although Allen was not entirely keen on admitting it, and she had changed, probably more so for Allen's sake than for her own, but that was her own business.

The count had been another story, similar in some ways but differing in others. Normally, he would not have lifted as much as a finger to help a random stranger out of the blue, but somehow something had called out to him then, attracting his attention. Without really reflecting much upon it, he had given the other a split-second decision to make, unaware as to where it would eventually lead him, and before he knew it, he suddenly had tagalongs – nuisances, additional pieces of baggage and so on – who gradually began morphing into the shape of companions in his mind. Still, he was aware that they could not accompany him to the end of the world by any means; darkness called out to him but not to them, not in the same way, and the man who appeared to control it called to him all the same, beckoning for him to come along. However, he had repaid his debt – the generous sum of money the Earl had once provided – with interest, intent on severing whatever ties had formed between them since then, only to realise that he couldn't. The shadow which inhabited him was calling as well; it was not only calling out to him but it was also calling out to others. There was a strong feeling of familiarity resonating through him at times when he came into contact with the darkness – he had always thought it had seemed strangely familiar to him somehow – all while another part of him flat out rejected it, seeking to disperse and destroy it before it lashed onto him.

The Brat, Cross' unfortunate apprentice, had stumbled across them seemingly by chance and stayed for reasons his own, pestering Allen with his presence. The latter was not a necessarily bad, seeing that the brat often proved to be suitable entertainment even when he was an annoyance. No really, what had the Bastard been thinking, taking that brat on as an apprentice? No really, what had he himself been thinking, taking on that brat as his makeshift apprentice?

Time and time again, Allen wondered about the state of his own sanity. Perhaps he had, as he had long expected, gone mad somewhere along the way after all?

"Only time will tell," he thought, brandishing his claw.

- o0o -