A/N: My social life sucks right now. Honestly. Ugh. This all happened because people are ANGREH. On the bright side, some of us are closer, and I've got drive to write some killer angst. Oh yeah.

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He found Luke in his room at the inn, sitting on the ground, staring at the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth, not really focused on anything. He was staring without seeing, those jade eyes clouded over and distant. Then they glistened with tears unshed, and then the owner of those eyes would harshly blink them back, as if forcing himself not to let them fall. His hands were gripping his kneecaps, so hard his fingers and knuckles were bleached white.

Monotonously he rocked back and forth.

Lloyd cocked his head to one side, completely ignorant of what had happened. He had just been ditched while paying for their recent purchases, and he came back to find this. Cautiously he approached, one step at a time. At arm's length away he stood, and the other still hadn't noticed.

Lloyd opened his mouth to say something, but Luke beat him to it.

"Canjear," He rocked back, his feet rolling on the heels, and then they came flat on the floor when he rocked forward. He never looked away from that wall. "You know what that means? Canjear."

Lloyd shrugged animatedly. He didn't know anything about Luke, his people, or his people's customs. He learned a bit by reading those books from Daath, but that wasn't to say he understood everything right off the bat. Fonons especially. The source material which composed everything at home was easier to understand--necessary for life, created special phenomena a.k.a. magic, and only those of a certain descent could channel it. Fonons were absurdly complicated. Lloyd didn't even know the extent of the languages here. That he even could speak this place's common tongue was probably thanks to Origin.

"No clue." He responded honestly. The one thing he did know about Luke was that Luke never liked to study, and that he grew up speaking the one tongue. So Lloyd had no idea what was up.

Luke rocked again, still gripping his kneecaps. His fingers were curled so tightly, pulling at the material of his pants that they began to resemble claws. A chill jolted down Lloyd's spine.

"Canjear." Luke repeated bitterly, poison dripping off his tongue. "Ancient Ispanian, the language of the Dawn Age. I began to study it a while back--might help operate the passage rings." He rocked back and forth again, head lolling to and fro, staring at that wall.

Lloyd worked his jaw, not knowing what to say to break the ice. Luke, however, needed no urging.

"Means ... 'to replace.' To take out one thing and put something else in it's place. Switch, swap, whatever."

The tone Luke took was a frightening one, one that Lloyd had seldom heard spoken even by those completely justified for. Lloyd was slightly scared to speak, but Luke seemed to forget someone else was there, maybe he really didn't even know--he was so far out.

"And this is worth mentioning because ... ?" Lloyd trailed off, waiting for a reply.

Two rocks forward and one rock back later, the redhead followed suit.

"They replaced me."

"What?" Lloyd asked, brow knit, bewildered. They?

Luke nodded, eyes narrowing, brow furrowed, a deep frown engraved in his face. His eyes became hard, angry. "They replaced me. Their passage commander was gone, they needed another one, so they go trotting back to him." He spat the last word with obvious disdain, a tone unfamiliar on Luke's tongue.

He abruptly stopped rocking, unfolding his legs, hands falling to the carpet before him. A strange crooked smile spread on his lips, and he tilted his head back, an odd strangled cackle escaping his throat.

"No, no ... of course. I stole everything that ever mattered to him, so of course he should be able to take back what's his. I shouldn't be complaining ... but still." He slammed a fist on the floor, glaring hard at the spot of flattened carpet. The strands of pale fiber sprang right back up, resilient to his force. He smashed that spot again, and again, and again, eager to squash that clump of fibers down, determined to make them stay down. The punches were muted by the carpet, but the force of the blows were just as great.

Lloyd bent forward, grabbing Luke's hand as it came flying down to hit the floor again. The fist stopped in midair; once Lloyd had grabbed the arm to which it was attached it simply hung limp. "What is the matter with you!" Lloyd demanded crossly.

Luke's whole body released all the tension it held--all at once he just went limp, sitting on the ground. He gave a small sigh, rubbing at his eyes.

"They ... my companions. My friends. I saw them, and they ... replaced me. They don't need me." His voice started to break, breath on a hitch. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, determined to wipe those tears out of existence before they fell. "They don't need me." His voice was quiet, demure, weak.

"They don't need me."

All at once Lloyd was forcefully reminded of the group of mismatched people exiting Sheridan with a Daathic God-General in tow. A God-General that was exactly identical to Luke. Seeing Luke now, talking like this, being like this ... this was ... this was someone else all over again. That had been excruciatingly painful, and Lloyd had no desire to repeat it. And the red hair did not help to put that memory out of mind.

So he did what what he should have done to that someone else from the get go--he flung his wrist back and punched Luke square in the jaw.

Luke was floored from the impact, flat on the ground on his side. His hand flew to the injured spot, the flesh tender as a bruise began to form. His gaze snapped up to Lloyd, who towered over him darkly, fists clenched tightly. He opened his mouth to say something, but Lloyd simply strode over, grabbed him by the collar, and punched him.

And again.

And again.

Luke scrambled to his feet, but Lloyd executed a well-aimed kick at his midsection--he flew into the bedside table, painfully. He cried out, falling to his knees, massaging his back, where the edge of the table had jabbed into it.

"What the hell--" Luke cut off when Lloyd roughly grabbed him by the collar again, the grey scarf slightly mussed. Lloyd's eyes smoldered darkly, his frown almost jagged.

"I didn't," he growled low in this throat, "break you out of that cathedral so that you could--" his voice began to rise with each word, until he was shouting and spitting venom, "--sit around feeling sorry for yourself! Sorry, princess, but I'm not gonna sit through your pity party!" He finished with another blow to the jaw.

Luke lay eagle-sprawled on the floor, dazed, not comprehending that Lloyd had just beat the living stuff out of him--and even called him by an unsavory nickname that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He stayed on the floor, flat on his back. His eyes flickered with sparks.

"What would you have me do?" He retorted, beginning to sit up, glaring daggers at Lloyd. "My sense of purpose was just destroyed! Tell me! What the hell am I doing now?! What was all that for--I survived all that torture--all that humiliation--only because I thought of them! And this is how ... this is how ..." He choked on the last part, massaging his forehead with a hand, hiding his eyes. His lip quivered, his mouth a jumbled mess of lines twangling downward.

Lloyd slammed a fist on the wall, a loud noise reverberating throughout the room. He had never been so angry, not even in the most dire situations back home.

"Martel's blood! I thought you were making your own decisions!"

Luke stopped, considering. He bored holes in his upturned palms. What was he going to do now? He was going to return to the others, but they didn't need him. Lucky there was no shortage of people who could hyperresonate on their own, he thought bitterly. After a time he clenched a fist, squeezed his eyes closed. What could he do ... ?

"Van still needs to be stopped," he offered lamely. Of course he did. But the others were setting out to do just that, weren't they? "But ..."

Lloyd cut him off mid-sentence again; "And? Sitting here making excuses isn't going to change anything. If you want to do something about it, use your own head!"

Luke stared at the ground, at the fibers of carpet he had tried to flatten earlier. Of course he wanted to do something. Van had betrayed him. Van had used him, played him like a chess piece. Manipulated him like a puppet. Taught him to sing the way he wanted, like a caged songbird.

He still had hyperresonance on his side, though it was weaker than Asch's and not totally under his control yet. It was powerful enough to eliminate a city and drive it into the Qliphoth--surely he could use it against Van, even if he could never duplicate the destructive power that took out Akzeriuth.

Van's little songbird had talons.