AN: Yes, in said roleplay, Vincent is still alive. When I get around to completing the story, it will become clear why and how. But for now, just be sated that yes, he exists, and no, he is not a ghost. Enjoy. :D
It hadn't been a coincidence that he'd picked this particular book from the crazy old hag's library. He'd searched long and hard for it in that flame-scorched Mecca, ashes all the while flaking down to cloud his glasses and melt into smears along his cheeks. He'd searched until his gaze fell onto a particular title, one of a scarce few undamaged tomes in the entire room. He'd searched until he saw that familiar icon embroidered faithfully into the binding of one single book, its pages numbering so many that generations couldn't hope to live as long.
And when he'd finally found it, he'd collapsed to his knees in the rubble and wreckage, laughing despite himself out of sheer ecstasy, or perhaps something a bit more.
This book was the key to his freedom.
And now he'd finally be able to use it, he'd grinned to himself. Now, his uncertainties overturned, his psyche sound, his mind finally able to come to terms with how exactly the town had kept him 'alive' after Claudia...now, he could obtain that which he wanted most, that which he'd strained so tirelessly after in his previous years but could never seem to obtain.
He'd had no doubts in his mind that Alyssa, Heather, even Claudia had 'powers.' He'd known for a fact that Dahlia had them, or she wouldn't have been able to lure that ignorant buffoon Heather had called 'father' here so long ago. And he'd envied them all for it horribly. Why, he pined, shouldn't he be so lucky? Didn't he deserve it any more than the rest of them? Did God frown upon him so unpleasantly?
It had been selfish, yes. It had been childish, undoubtedly. But he'd not given it up, oh no, not in all of his years stuck in this hellhole. Never once had his thoughts deviated from his goal.
Some might have called it ambition. Most would have called it, in his case, insanity.
It mattered little to him, now, what his intentions could have been interpreted as. The very instant his fingers had turned those first pages, he'd felt the strangest churning in his stomach, his very being trembling with anticipation. He'd taken every line in, every idea and every incantation, memorizing, to the best of his ability, all that he possibly could in that one first sitting. His heart was pounding, his thoughts reeling.
He'd gathered, somewhere within his haze, from somewhere within that rubble a knife and a matchbook. He'd stared at that one page for so long, nerves wavering in uncertainty of his resolve, that he'd lost track of time, and, were it not for the oil-lit-lamp he'd brought with him in a moment of prior insight, he'd have surely lost use of the daylight from the nearby, somehow-not-collapsed window.
He knew he couldn't close his eyes or look away, not when he was in this deep. He knew that he had to keep his gaze trained to make the marks proper, that he had to bear with whatever sacrifices he would have to make in the name of his God.
The mere thought seemed to steady him, somehow. He took one last moment to brace himself, eyes closing only momentarily before slipping half-open, the most feline of grins seeming to take him in completely thereafter.
That's right. This was for his freedom. This was for his God. Everything had suddenly become so sugar-coated, so heavenly, so very worth it.
The knife was still sharp after so many years of disuse, and it broke skin so silkily smoothly, gliding through flesh as though it were thin air. It was so hard to keep the lines proper, though, the way he was shaking. His eyes were widened and glassy, gazed fixed on the task at hand with an almost crazed sort of determination; his teeth were sunk into his lip to mask the pain and keep his voice at bay; his entire body felt as if it were a part of the fires that had blazed here so long ago, though the sweat breaking on his brow was icy-cold. He couldn't make himself break away from it, though, his motions so ritual and so mechanical, as though he were in a trance. Perhaps he was.
He was stained bloody red by the time he'd finished, both hands trembling and cold as death. His lips were starting to darken from having forgotten to breathe for so long, dry and perhaps starting to crack some, copper lacing his tongue from where he'd bitten down so hard. It was so tempting just to lie down - he was already on his knees, it wasn't so far to fall...and closing his eyes, even for just a few seconds, was such a blissful promise of release from this agony.
But he couldn't give up now, not when he was this close, not when he could taste that freedom in every drop of blood he'd spilt...
The matches were so small, so hard to grasp with his wavering, bloodied fingertips. It was even more difficult a task to coerce the sulphur into ignition. But he reaped the rewards when he managed, after at least five failed attempts, to strike one frail red match-head...only to drop it, still lit, into the rubble around him, watching fallen books and foundation alike rekindle in recollection of the taste of flame.
He couldn't let it touch his book, though, his hard-earned prize, his longest-living dream. He had to wait for just the right moment, when the fire was large enough to suit his needs, yet small enough that he could still quash it...
...now.
Palms plunged towards was must have been a table years ago, the only flat surface nearby and ablaze, contact forced and demanding. Instinct told him to draw back, pain told him to scream...faith told him to wait it out. Fingertips bent and dug into softened, charcoal-wood, as if that feeble grasp was all that would sustain himself against the blaze until the wounds cauterized. His eyes drooped closed against his will, but it couldn't be stopped now - he'd put himself through too much, his body crying out in exhaustion and weakness. But it was moot, by now - he had, indeed, stifled that flame with his touch; the once-imminent danger now no longer a concern, he could finally relax.
It seemed drugged how he fell to the floor, head cushioned by the book opened thickly to its middle pages out of sheer luck, his body crumpled and almost fetal in its position.
And just outside of his reach, imprinted boldly on the charred and still-smoldering tabletop, were two identical, bloodied markings of the very sigil of his faith, the mark of the Sect of Valtiel - the Halo of the Sun.