Disclaimer: I own nothing~
The Bookman's papery hand strokes his beard as his head droops ever closer to the dying fire. Hardened historian though he is, the saga that tells of how the Destroyer of Time slew the Millennium in mortal combat still tugs at his heartstrings. He is old, and age stifles him, but still he remembers. Bookmen do not forget. On nights such as this, when the elements are in full sway, he likes to warm himself before a warm blazing fire, and read the old manuscripts concerning the Hidden War.
He can hear the cold wind crying and the lonely wolves howling. He can see the grey rain falling and the dim stars fading. He can smell the tempest and he can feel the chill that hangs below the dark eyeless curtains of night. He can taste the salt in his mouth. And the wind scratches across the glass window, and the front door rattles, and the burning logs hiss, and he can almost hear knocks on his window that beg, with translucent hands, please let me in! And then the fire cackles and thunder crackles somewhere far away in the land where imagination holds full sway, and he jumps.
He shivers.
A glance around the empty cabin tells him he is alone. Alone, alone, alone with the ghosts of his past.
He sinks into his cushioned armchair and closes his eyes. Take a deep breathe, he tells himself, no one's here to grab you. And then he opens his eyes and the flickering red of the fire drowns in the depths of his wise green eyes. His thin hand reaches for the aged manuscript. A thick stack it is, and signed at the bottom, with a flourish, are the names Bookman and Lavi. His dry lips stretch into a lopsided grin.
"The Hidden War", he reads aloud.
His old eyes travel down the page, lost in the mysteries of that age. He smiles as he reads about the innocence-caused happenings in the town of Matel – the requiem sang for Guzol by his beloved Lala shook his stony Bookman's heart. Pages flip by, and then he stops again. A frown appeared on his face as he considered the revival of Allen Walker's innocence, which had regenerated itself into an even more powerful form – the Crowned Clown, after an attack by the Noah Tyki Mikk. And then he smiled, happy and pleased.
The chapters on the happenings in the Ark he perused with bated breath, and each ordeal faced by the exorcists pricked his heart like never before. And then he came to the part where Allen Walker, Destroyer of Time, had been revealed to have the memories of the fourteenth.
In the pale firelight, his still-bright eyes sparkled.
And the tears fall freely when the manuscript ends with the line 'And the snow fell on the broken lands and broken bodies'.
The story of the unsung heroes and heroines of the Hidden War only the Bookmen now know, and their apprentices, and the apprentices that will come after. But in him alone will the memories of those dark days still dwell. For he can remember.
He can remember Allen's (not Allen Walker, just plain Allen) easy demeanour. He can remember Allen's ability with cards and his gentle charisma and his determination to save the cursed souls of the akuma. He can remember. He can still see Lenalee flitting about in her special boots, light as a butterfly, tough as a nut. He still remembers her fierce love for her friends and her willingness to protect all of them, and how that determination almost became a burden. He can remember. He can still see Kanda, sulking in a corner. He twitches his legs and remembers how he used to overwork them whenever he got on the wrong side of Yuu-chan. And his long blue hair! He can remember.
He can remember Krory, Miranda, and the other unnamed exorcists, scientists and finders who selflessly gave their lives and their time to save the world they loved.
The rain rattles the window.
Looking up, he seems to see a familiar face begging to be let in. Allen's face, that one is. And that one, with all the wet, bedraggled hair, is Lenalee's. And that is Kanda's. The faces close in on him, and he shrinks back into the cushions. Get a grip! He tells himself. They've all long passed into the darkness. They cannot get you here. They loved you. You love them. Stop hallucinating, Bookman!
And why did I not die?
He shakes his head. But the thoughts do not subside.
The dying embers spill a wavering light over the shrunken man in the armchair. The manuscript lies disordered on the floor. The Bookman is tormented by his thoughts and memories. For he can remember. He is a Bookman, after all.
And he is also Lavi, who watched his friends and comrades perish in the great burning.
A/N: I swear this'll be my last fic till mid october. Ohh well. Reviews are appreciated hahaha.