A/N: This is angst. This is mostly angst. However, in this chapter I have included a bit of something else. The way I write, I tend to romanticize angst, because that's how I feel it is, really, if you take a moment to think about it, and to really, actually LOOK. So enjoy it, because the next chapter is going to be very…different. It is not going to be half as happy. And yes, I consider this happy. By my standards, at any rate.
Disclaimer: Witch Hunter Robin does not belong to me.
Chapter 2: Nostalgia
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It was strange how he noticed things. He would ignore the big picture and focus on the flashes of movement, snatches of words. That, he thought, was why he noticed the small things that people did. A slight movement or a whispered phrase.
He noticed the way she swept her skirt carefully to one side as he sat down, he noticed the delicate grace she possessed as she walked…
He told himself it was because this was how he noticed things. This was how he observed. This meant nothing, that he watched her…
He remembered his thoughts on people-watching, and allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch slightly. He wasn't sure why it was amusing. It just was.
It hurts me to speak of it…
The beauty of language often escapes those who speak it. Only now did she realize how much she missed conversing with the sisters at the convent, listening to the traditional Mass.
Latin was a beautiful language. The ancient words held a power, a feeling of being connected.
She said her daily prayers in Italian.
What is in a name?
Often it has been repeated that a rose is a rose….
Names are different. Some might say the meaning defines the person. Or that the person defines the meaning. But the truth is…
He remembered how she used to say his name, in her soft and quiet voice. It was almost a whisper, and he would strengthen the walls before replying. Said like that, a name could mean anything….
…Amon…
…it's in the way other people say it.
And then the question that should be asked is completely different.
What is in a person?
Sometimes the most unlikely people are great writers of poetry.
He was unlikely, but he was no writer.
Sometimes.
She liked to keep notes. Not a diary, but a collection of random thoughts. On other people. She liked to watch them, and would think about it all day until she could write it down. Maybe, she thought, that was why she was always called scatterbrained.
Or childish.
She supposed she shouldn't care what people thought, but for some reason whenever they called her that it was…irksome. Especially those she looked up to.
Today he almost smiled. I was watching him, walking ahead of me. Always ahead. Always leading the way. It was ironic, because we were on a Hunt, and it was dark outside. And it was an abandoned warehouse. It always is. He was looking at something on the ground, and just for a moment, I saw him almost smile. Perhaps sometime I will try to make him smile, so everyone can see. I like it when people are happy…
He once wrote a love letter. An attempt at subtle romance. He still had it somewhere. Once or twice, he had idly thought of throwing it away, but it stayed wherever it was. Somewhere. He even knew what it looked like…if he shut his eyes tightly enough he could just make out the crumpled paper, a poorly-written haiku scrawled across the page. He had never even gotten to give it to her…
Of course, he had known he should never have become attached. He had learned his lesson well. He just wasn't sure he liked it.
But I still wonder why. I wonder why he isn't happy.
Every person has ideas that spark into their heads, only to be forgotten a moment later because no one bothered to write it down. That's what margins are for.
Many a notebook, diary, or journal has been copied and discarded, the main contents carefully written down word for word, the genius of it all exclaimed over time and time again. If only the copier had paid attention to the scribbles on the backs of pages, in between the lines, smudged and squeezed into the corner of the margins.
Da Vinci got lucky.
Into the very back of her notebook were a few hastily scrawled notes, quite different from the precise and neat penmanship occupying the former pages. Hardly notes, even, simply words and half-sentences skittering across the page, upside-down and sideways.
Soul
A name is a rose
Apologies are a sign of (smudged)
Remember the vows
Falling on doomsday
January
And in the far most corner, so far into the margin as to disappear into the spine of the book:
25
- 15
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10
Father, forgive me…
These are my sins…
A/N: Well, slightly shorter than the first chapter, but that is because the next one is more of an action chapter. Or…more of an angsty chapter at any rate. The goal of this one was to…well, you folks read the chapter, right? So. As always, I appreciate praise, constructive criticism, and all that. 10 reviews gets an update. 15. gets a 2-chapter update.