This is probably come out eventually, I think... one or two more chapters at most, probably...
Haha... this and CoinBoy are the most popular fics I have xD somehow, that's really expected... but CoinBoy or Tale is probably going to be updated next... aii...
If anyone's wondering... I love mulberry trees, and apples dipped in honey 8) I don't eat them for religion, I just think they taste good...
Also... NIGHTWISH RULES!! 8D I got their original album, and I LOVE it!! Go out there and love Nightwish! (yayayayay!! Fairy-tale references! 8D )
and... good/bad news... I just entered a huge writing competition, so... 0.0; dear lord, I will fail... if you don't know and don't really care... well, as a sum-up, fics are going to be delayed a bit in updating for the month of November, but I'll try to update them all before them at least...
Disclaimer: My teachers are Nazis. I might be in the wrong time period to answer this...
It was perhaps a week later that Allen was finally fit enough to go outside. The leaves on the trees were already changing colors. One male mulberry tree in particular had it's leaves already in a fine golden bronze hue. The yellow veins stood out expertly on the thin leaves. The tops of most trees had already begun thinning out, displaying the twisting, broken patterns of the branches.
The wind was picking up gradually as the air cooled into the autumn weather, carrying with them the smell of honey and apples that may have been from many miles away, or perhaps just a cyder mill down the road. The clouds were glowing with their pre-twilight gold and pink while the sky remained a determined blue and the grass which was not covered by early-falling leaves was tinted a thousand colors of rich green. Or maybe it just looked that way because of his eyes being so used to the dull-grayness of the Order and the world he had been occupying for so long.
All he really wanted to do at that moment was drop his hood, his coat and roll up his sleeves to feel the autumn on his bare skin. He trembled, trying to deny the want. How long had it been since he had been able to truly touch the world? Two years at least, the last time truly 'feeling' nature being on a rocking ship that tumbled over the seas, the salty spray splashing into his face and soaking through his cloak. His memory roughly called upon what would once have been the foul taste of seasalt in his mouth.
But two years of imprisonment and torture had made him wish for the foul taste of that seasalt. Maybe, one day, while they were free, he could go over the sea again. Skip the train, he wanted to be on a boat. A large one, with an open deck, like the one they came to what should have been his home. What should have been.
He gripped the cloth of his left hand glove. The white, thick, cowhide fabric separating his fingers and warming them horribly, so the wish to take off his new coat and shirt grew even stronger. He envied other boys, whom were able to take off their upper-body clothes as they wished. Even if quite a bit of society didn't quite like such behavior, it was still acceptable, as long as the siad boy wasn't foolhardy enough to run through the streets in such a state.
He breathed in deeply, trying to compensate for his inability to feel with the purity of the air inside him instead. It almost felt like he was breathing in water, the air came and went so fast. It helped. His body calmed down as the horrible heat from under his coat escaped through his lungs.
What month was it now? October? November? No, it couldn't be November yet, it must have still been October... there was no way he had been out so long as to have slept in a coma for long enough to miss all of October...
He shook his head, dismissing the depressing thought. He had missed so much of a life that was destined to be so short, a month should have hardly mattered anymore, but it seemed to matter all the more.
But the rough shaking of his neck when trying to dispel the thought caused servere pain to shoot through his spine. His hands flew up to clutch the bandages tightly wrapped around his neck, hiding the tendrils that had crept over the entire left side of his face during the Headquarter's second invasion. In a moment, the memories flashed through his mind. The falling rubble, the bullets, Komui's office, the horrible pain he had been in, the way Damien had screamed at him, the way his arm had—
He forced himself to breath again and leaned against a tree to support his shaking legs. The bark was hard and chipped. He felt the jagged pieces even through his coat, and especially on the back of his head. He hadn't noticed before, but his hair had grown out again over his brief visit.
He felt pathetic. He had never been so weak in his life, not even when he was a child and partly paralyzed, his left hand being completely useless at the time. A young child in an orphanage, or one the streets. It didn't matter. The fact was his shaking arm was too hazardous to do much, though he was grateful, eternally, that he had been kept out of the factories because of his arm. Machines daily ripped off limbs, sewed fingers and crushed skulls. Those who died instantly were considered lucky compared to the rest whom were in constant pain until they bled to death.
Allen had to admit it, where he came from wasn't his favorite place in the world, but Britain was and forever would be his home, so he couldn't help but feel the connection— or lack thereof when gone.
His legs gradually returned with their expert balance. He couldn't help it anymore. He had been broken. He had gone past the point of no return many times already. In every play, there was that point. In every life, there was that point. He had gone through that place so many times he could hardly remember where he had been before.
It was sad. Before, he could have taken massive amounts of pain. He could remain standing after being thrown into walls and had buildings collapse on him. He could still walk around with sense after being struck with a hammer (after he woke up, of course). He could still train after having his heart almost ripped out, still beating, from his chest and his arm decimated. He had been able to fight while his body was broken down to near the atomic level.
But six months in Central and he lost balance after turning his neck too quickly.
He exhale again, rubbing the place on the back of his neck where the pain had begun. He automatically tried to find his arm with his eyes as he moved it, but to no avail. He was still getting used to his master's mask, or rather, his version of his master's mask.
It was strange, usually anything that reminded him of that man made him ill. He couldn't help it, he had gone through thee years of 'training' under the madman. He was quite sure that was enough reason to dislike him. And aside from that experience...
The bastard sold me.
The Crows. His voice. His pleads. The pain. The smile. His fight. The hug. The lies. The truth. The hug. The sorry. The hug. The hurt. The hurt. The smile. The hug. The truth. His master. His master. The hug.
He fell over this time, covering his ears, trying to supress his memories of that rainy night. Everything ached suddenly. The Autumn was cold enough, suddenly. He suddenly didn't want to take off his jacket. He suddenly didn't want to expose his flaws. Everything came at him suddenly.
It was ironic how suddenly the fact hit him.
Walking forward suddenly had never been so hard as it was now. At that moment, suddenly surrounded by what should have been beautiful. It had been once, moments before, was suddenly ugly, scary. The gold was now sickness, suddenly diseased.
He trembled, trying to lift himself up and off the ground. His arms shook with the strain of lifting the rest of his body, but he did it. His left shoulder ached. Badly. Nothing compared to what he had been feeling earlier, but it still was a constant annoyance and a reminder of how weak his body had become, how poorly it reacted to pain after months and years of training. Training to be like a dog.
His legs buckled under him as he tried to stand. It took him two tries before he was securely on his feet.
The moment he was able to, he turned and ran.
Anywhere. Even if it was back.
000
Moa jumped as her back door opened and slammed loudly, causing her to almost cut her finger as she pealed some potatoes for that night's supper. She had taken to the Order's outcast's quickly and had been acting as an older sister or mother to all of them almost as soon as they had arrived. Though it was Allen that got them into her home, he didn't have anything to do with her befriending almost all of them immediately.
So her natural instincts that had been reawakened in their stay came in to play right away as she saw a familiar stock of snow-white hair rush through the hallway aside her, moving so quickly that any later and she would have missed him entirely.
But what really made her notice him wasn't the door, but the soft, strained breaths he was taking. Like he was fighting off tears. He had been acting badly every since he had awakened.
What? She was a police officer, it was her job to notice things. It was also her job to make the wrong things as right as she could. She couldn't help it, to be an officer, you had to really care, because you might be giving up your life in the line. You had to be ready, and those who couldn't bare the pressure soon left. But three years ago, before she had met Allen, there would be nothing in her line of work to make her not come home to her brother, and after that... she was an even better police officer.
She wouldn't let another person lose a life because of a fight, so no one would be another Mark.
She could do absolutely nothing to be able to fully repay Allen for what he had done, because she truly believed he had saved her sister and Mark. All she could do was try to help him in any way she could, even if he didn't want her to trouble with it— that role was reversed when they first met, anyway.
She made her way through the living room and towards the spare bedroom they had given him almost two weeks earlier. He was forced to spend most of his time there unless one of the others happened to be able to help him get out. Today had been the first time that he had been able to function well enough to go outside. He had been outside for barely half an hour. Nothing could have happened to him in that time, right?
She knocked slowly on the tanned wooden door, eyeing the pictures on the wall beside it. The same ones Allen had knocked over when he had first arrived in her house. She heard no reply, and so she opened the door herself, slowly, peering in carefully. She winced.
Allen was collapsed against the wall, his legs drawn up against his chest. He was closing his visible eye and his mouth opened wide, gasping like he had just been scared halfway out of his mind. His white hair was plastered to his skull, as though he was wet, sweating.
"A...Allen?" She whispered. His head shot up and he winced and froze very suddenly. "Allen?" His head dropped back into his legs.
"Good evening, Moa..." Was the faint whisper she heard. He was hardly talking. But he was recovering from whatever they did to him... right?
"Allen, what's wrong?" She asked. She took slow, quiet steps across the room toward the mess of mismatched colors that was Allen. The shape shrugged. He didn't make any noise in the process. She hardened her face. "Allen, answer me," She said loudly. The body against the wall stiffened and threw out a weak reply to her near-demand.
"S-sorry," Moa's eyes softened again. There were people who came into stations like that. Small, stuttering, terrified. They were the victims of the crimes, without fail. She finished crossing the room and sat beside Allen's form. Only up close did she notice how he was shaking. How subtle the movement was, even though it made his entire frame tremble. He didn't look like he could control it.
"Allen, what's wrong?" She asked again, whispering. He shook his head rapidly, like it had been a yes or no question. "I'm not going until you tell me what went so wrong," She hissed, "I'm just a bit tired of being kept in the dark when it's so obvious something's wrong."
"Sorry," He muttered. Moa sighed.
"Fine," She leaned over and hugged him. "At lest let me try..." Allen began to shake more. She felt something wet on her arm. As she looked up she realized she couldn't see his eyes at all, because they were covered with the thin sheets of white hair spotted with burnt black that had resulted from what Lenalee had said was a fire. Why there had been a fire, she didn't want to know.
His eyes may have been hidden, but his trembling jaw showed clearly the tears as they fell freely down his face.
She hugged him tighter. Suddenly, she knew why he had wanted to be alone.