A/N: End.
hypoesthesia
« by arsenous elation »
—
in varying degrees
(3)
After.
In the cavernous hallways of the Nostrade mansion, the ghosts are quiet. Watching.
The princess walks with her head held high, as if she still has everything. As if she hasn't been stripped of the only thing that's worth a damn. But the bodyguard sees, with the sight afforded to those who have tasted the essence of humanity (choking and truly ugly). Her every step now has a shadow, curling around the edges of her feet. Something has taken the place of innocence.
They both stop, the sound of footfalls dying in slow echoes.
For a moment her voice belies her usual self, drops the façade of youth. When she speaks, her voice is light but carrying something ancient and scarred. Her shoulders sag.
"You think you are alone."
And what do you know of being alone? Kurapika wants to ask, but that isn't right. Because despite the riches, the people surrounding her, what is Neon Nostrade but alone?
He settles with: "You don't know me, miss."
This time, Neon turns to look at him. No pretenses, and he can see the openness of her face. "Ah of course. To each his own."
Kurapika opens his mouth, because it is odd, like he is seeing a memory. Like he is back in time, surrounded by blood and fire. He recognizes this for what it is.
A knifepoint between two people who have lost, had things taken from them, and now, will take things from others. Two people, one on the verge of the abyss, the other halfway through. The knowledge is fragile and indomitable, heavy and light all at once—
He nods, "To each his own."