Change is an invisible enemy. With gossamer hands she toys with lives and nature, altering everything. Wild children grow into subdued adults. Seeds blossom into flowers. The land suffers from a melt, reducing the white winter into a swampy brown and green spring. The temperature doesn't seem to rise any higher than the day before. Yet as days and weeks press on, the differences between the "then" and "now" become more apparent. Change hides within the mask of consistency, keeping those around her blind from her presence. When she flees from her hiding spot, reality faces the sun, and it is too late to return to times of the past. "Now" has become "then," and nothing can halt the progression of time.
In the same manner once Change had her way with Alfred, the differences were kept from view underneath his diffusing smile. The simple upturn of his lips kept worriers at bay for a time. He moved through his life as he had before; he still woke early to go to the lumberyard and worked until the evening sky settled overhead. After he returned home to weed the garden or help Amelia manage the home. Everyday should have been the same as it had before; his actions were exact replicas of his old self. He was a windup doll, performing as one in his position should.
However, as days became weeks and weeks became a month, a subtle difference became palpable. The actions were the same. The body was the same. The man inside the body, performing the actions, was no longer the same.
Matthew had placed the object in the center of the table, claiming it would brighten their spirits. The vase was narrow at the top and widened just the slightest as it descended down. Chipped glass created the rim, telling of the vase's age (Amelia fondly told of how the vase came into her possession as a gift of her engagement to the boys' father), but due to a crystalline body with turquoises swirls melted within, it still managed to draw in the eye with its quiet beauty. The flowers that donned the vase were fresh from the garden.
The sunflower stared down on Alfred as he sat to dinner. Once the lone flower had been bright. Its yellow petals had stretched in the sun's warmth, following the orb as it made its path in the sky. In the glow, the petals had been a glorious mixture between cobalt yellow and gold. Its thick stem had been a hearty forest green that seemed impossible to break. For lack of a better description, the flower had seemed jubilant.
Now, inside the house, its impending death was made clear. What had been a glorious sight was fading. Gold and cobalt yellow bleached to a dull straw color with dirty splotches invading near the base. The stem adopted a grey shade and limped. Without the sun to watch, the sunflower remained still, blankly looking forward. The sight was unsettling.
The flower should have been back in the garden and surrounded with others of its kind. Instead, it sat alone, waiting to wilt. For awhile it could pretend its place was among them, but soon it would shrivel into a brown husk. It didn't belong in the kitchen with his family. Its true existence should have been out there in nature.
A bowl landed before Alfred, startling him from his thoughts with a flinch. He saw the crease between Matthew's eyes at the response, but the concerned aimed at him was ignored. Steamed cabbage assaulted his nose with earthy tones. Picking up his spoon, he dragged the utensil through his stew, but his eyes remained trained on the vase and flower. As the others took their seats, he made the effort to raise the spoon to his lips to sip in broth.
Matthew babbled about how he spent most of the day with Gilbert; they had spent most of their day near the beach, trying to fish only to fail. Next Matthew began asking everyone about their day, starting with Arthur, then Alfred, and finally Amelia. When it came for his turn, Alfred merely shrugged, unable to pull together the words to describe his painfully mundane day. None mentioned his lack of conversing; over the past few days, silence was becoming more common than not.
"I finally finished the winter coat Ludwig ordered," Amelia said, smiling to herself. She sat across from Alfred at the table, so even with his focus on the flower, he saw her movements in the corner of his vision.
"It's too bloody hot to think about winter," Arthur grumbled. He was next to Alfred, and occasionally he'd send a well aimed elbow into his brother's side. The action was probably meant to encourage his participation in family matters, but it only resulted in Alfred scooting over, farther out of Arthur's range.
Amelia hummed softly. "Not really, if you think about it. Summer's almost over, and many are going to need heavier clothing soon. Ludwig's just getting ahead of the process. He said something about his old coat being torn to shreds by mice, so he wanted me to make one that was more durable to heavy wear and tear." She turned forward and jumped, surprised to see Alfred staring directly at her. "Is something wrong, Dear?" she asked, frowning just the slightest.
"How long will the coat last?" he asked.
Her frown remained at the question. She glanced at Matthew; his concern was showing on his face, as well. "My usual work last one or two years—three if their used gently. This one," she hesitated, "I would say anywhere between four and six years. Why do you need to know? I made you a new one last year; it should still be functional."
The ghost of a smile appeared on Alfred's face. "No reason," he sighed, and with one hand, he reached out to stroke the petals of the lonesome, dying sunflower.
On the surface, it appeared as though he was betraying his family. Anyone would look upon him with shame and disgust. Whispers would be thrown behind his back. His punishment would be quick and severe. The door to his family would shut and lock for the rest of his life. Forever he would be the man who chose the enemy, the man who sympathized with a demon.
In his heart, underneath the loyalty to his village and underneath the guilt of damaging his blood, something stronger drove his actions. Something stronger than pity or fault compelled him. Understanding. Alfred, who was supposed to be the dim-witted brother, understood a man he had known for only a few days better than he did any other person who entered his life. He couldn't put the feelings into words; he just knew. The knowledge sat in his chest as though it had always existed there in the space between his lungs, but the pressure was new. He felt the connection grow as time pressed forward. If it continued to expand, he felt as though he would explode, unable to contain the raw emotion any longer.
Hence, he was able to power through the pain of taking Amelia's shop key. It wasn't as though Amelia went through any effort to hide the key. She placed it in the same place every evening once she returned from a long day of work. The key's permanent home was hanging from a nail driven into the front door's frame. At two inches long, it was short and easy to miss; if it weren't for the inch diameter ring, the bronze key would have disappeared years before.
Alfred slipped the key into his pocket and slipped outside. He held the door as it shut, keeping it from creating a booming slam. He froze. No sounds rose from the house as sleep continued to grasp the household. Darkness blanketed all around him. The moon failed to shine, and the stars followed suit, twinkling only with the dimmest light.
The night was still stifling. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been sweating after ten minutes. With all of the supplies he loaded into two knapsacks and the heavy layers of clothing he wore, he was drenched within moments. Complaints lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them. It wasn't like anyone would hear him anyway.
Avoiding the guards was surprisingly easy. In the darkness, their lanterns were a dead giveaway from down the street. Twice he crossed paths with a guard, and both times he was able to duck into an alleyway to remain unseen. Maybe Ludwig needed to retrain the guards; if he of all people could sneak into the heart of the village, there was something horribly wrong with the security system. With his slow travel, he reached the tailor shop in a little over a half-hour.
Inside the shop, he had to lite a candle which took an embarrassingly long time catch. Once the flame flicked to life ten minutes later, he began his search. Stepping into Amelia's shop was akin to stepping through time. Little had changed since his childhood when Matthew and he would adventure through the yards of cloth and fabric. Every wall was covered with sample patterns and textures, while each flat surface was buried under clothing in various forms of completion. Only Amelia's work desk was uncovered save for a lone needle.
Somewhere in the maze was Alfred's goal. With nothing holding him back, he began his search. He shied away from the light pastel colors; Ludwig would never order anything in such feminine colors. Gilbert would probably mock him for the rest of his life. The tans and neutrals were also out of the question; they weren't quite commanding enough. He was left with the darker colors.
Sure enough, near the top of the pile of heavier coats was an intense forest green coat. It was thick with heavy stitching, and grey fox fur lined the edges and collar. The work was beautiful, of course; his mother would accept nothing less. She would be crushed when she found it missing the following morning. Alfred's heart lurched; his hands trembled as he tucked the coat under his arm. There was no other way, he knew it, but it still hurt in the most primitive way possible. Blood was blood; nothing could change it.
Alfred dug through the neutral colors, and upon finding two pairs of brown trousers and a tan shirt, he picked out a pale yellow shirt from the pastels. The extra clothing was tucked into a rucksack. In his mind's eye, he could picture the clothing being almost the correct size. At the very least, they would be a bit too big instead of a size or two too small. A smile came to Alfred's lips at the picture of the other man wearing the yellow and brown combination. He'd look like an overgrown sunflower.
The shop's door was locked behind him. He'd leave it back where it belonged, and then there would be no way to hide what had happened. In the morning, the family would realize he was gone, and then once Amelia made it to the shop, she would notice the missing items. A connection would be made quickly. Amelia would be confused, but eventually, they would come to terms with his departure. Probably. He could only hope they wouldn't be completely devastated.
Or perhaps they would be more than devastated. They had lost him once, would twice be too much for them? No, no it wouldn't. The first time, his absence was sudden and unexpected. His death was assumed, and they were in mourning. This time would be different. They would know he had left of his own will. They wouldn't know why, and they may resent him for it. But...
He reached his home before he realized. He stood at the door, staring at the stained wood. His feet grew roots. He couldn't move.
"Are you just going to stand there all night, Alfred?"
Alfred flinched and spun around on his heels.
Across the street, Matthew stood, wrapping his night robe closer around his body. His face was contorted with confusion; his eyebrows drew together while the corners of his mouth tilted down. "Answer me, Alfred," he demanded, but his voice remained low. He didn't want to wake anyone, Alfred realized. "Are you going inside? If so, lets go. Back to bed. Back home."
His stomach flipped. Alfred licked his lips, mumbling, "Matthew." His grip tightened around his supplies. A swelling in his throat threatened to stifle his words, but they found their way through constricted tissue. "I have to go." A simple truth, and his words were just that. He could prolong his time in the village to avoid the issue, but in the end, be it a month or two years later, he would leave. Nothing but death could halt his journey.
For now, he was still alive. Alive with purpose.
Matthew walked to him. His hands gripped either side of his brother's shoulders. "Go? Go where?"
The answer came in the turn of a head, a long gaze into the grey unknown. Unknown to Matthew, perhaps, but Alfred knew what waited outside the village's boundary. Past the mist and towering pines, up the throat of the world where few dared to travel. He waited for anyone—no, for him to be his hero. To rescue him from suffocating loneliness of a beautiful yet desolate place; rescue him from the pain that haunted his eyes and birthed his fear of 'goodbye.'
"There's nothing but death out there, Alfred. You know what happened to Papa, to Arthur. The mist almost took you from us, too. But," Matthew's voice cracked, "but you came back. Like a ghost you came back. Why would you choose to return to death when it spit you back out once? This isn't a game, Alfred. You can't toy with fate."
Alfred shook his head; pieces of hair fell into his eyes. Shadows hung on the contours of his cheeks and eyes. Youth fled his features, turning him into a stranger. "You don't understand. He's out there, alone." His folly was recognized immediately. His mouth clamped shut; teeth dug into his tongue, barring him from further speech.
Matthew was no fool, but for a moment, he started at his brother as though he couldn't understand the words. They sounded familiar enough, but no connections sparked in his mind. "What?" he questioned, facing the dirt. His mouth trembled; words went half-formed and unspoken. Matthew's face adopted a red tint. "There's someone out there?" He tossed an accusing finger at the mist. Realization dawned across his lips in a scowl as puzzle pieces fell into place. His eyes darkened, cold and cruel. His shoulders squared and tensed. "A demon? A demon helped you survive?"
Straightening his back, Alfred turned to stone, and his eyes hardened upon seeing his brother. His beloved, sickly brother. He'd never seen Matthew with such a face; he didn't think it possible for his elder to express so much hate. Yet there it was, just like everyone else. "No. A demon didn't," Alfred spat. "While my people abandoned me to die, a kind, albeit naive, man saved me."
"Damn it, Alfred. Do you hear yourself?" Matthew tried to move closer, but for each step forward, Alfred moved back the same amount. "Now I know why you've been acting so strange since you've returned. That demon brainwashed you, Alfred. I don't know how, but it made you think it was kind to you. All it wants is to hurt you, and through you, it will probably find the village. Are you really willing to risk putting the rest of us in danger just because of some fantasy instilled into your head?"
Alfred glowered at the other. Rage pulsed in his ears and flooded his vision with a red haze. "You sound like Ludwig," he said, only to discover he had an echo. He spun to face the house. Gripping the threshold for dear life, Arthur stood, bed robe undone and exposing his undergarments to the sleeping world. His eyes were open, staring at the space between Alfred and Matthew.
Matthew mask of hate dropped. He started for their oldest brother, cooing, "Arthur, why are you up?"
"How can I bloody well sleep when you two are arguing outside my damn window?"
An apology was at the tip of Alfred's tongue. He held it.
"Then you heard everything? Good. Please, try to stop Alfred," Matthew begged. "He doesn't know what he's doing."
Much to the twins' surprise, Arthur laughed. It was a short, biting laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "You expect the twit to listen to me?" He scowled up at nothing in particular. "This demon of yours," Arthur began, "is it the ice demon that rules the mountain?" If he could see, he would have witnessed Alfred's flinch; instead, he heard the crunch of gravel as he shifted. "Don't question how I know; I just do."
"What do you know of him?" Alfred asked. A lump formed in his throat.
"Nothing good," Arthur huffed. "A demon clan born with those who have absolute control over ice and snow, even where there is none. Their eyes glow a frosty purple, and their stature fits such beasts that could survive in a harsh environment. Even other demons fear the clan." The wording wasn't quite right. Arthur's memory couldn't replicate Francis's words exactly (the man had the tendency to unnecessarily flourish his words), but the idea was conveyed well enough.
"See?" Matthew said, shuddering. "See, Alfred? No demon can be trusted."
A crease formed between Alfred's eyebrows, and he frowned. "You only talked about his clan, not him, himself." His fists clenched against his side. Resolve blossomed in his chest. "I'm going, and there's nothing you'll do that will stop me."
He pivoted on his heels, eyes trained forward. Rage encouraged each stiff movement of his legs. Every step was a direct protest aimed at those behind him. The crunch of gravel underfoot wasn't enough to cover his brother's desperate pleas. Each word pounded into his head, clawed at the love he felt for his family. Even as the distance between Matthew and him grew, the volume of the calls remained steady, beating against him with a thundering rhythm. The noise swelled. It filled every corner of his mind, trying to pull him back.
Silence greeted once he entered the mist; it licked his cheek and rushed relief to his thoughts. His anger dwindled to a small flame at the bottom of his stomach. It sat without complaint; he stomped down unfamiliar paths. When he reached the river, anger was nothing more than a glowing ember. The river rolled forward with a small splash or gurgle every minute. The wavering surface reflected the stars; they appeared as little trembling dots. The dot pattern only faltered when a shimmering silver fish broke through the surface. There was a flash of glistening scales and then nothing. Just the stars. He looked up the mountain.
The mist clung to its sides like a thick cloak. The dark tips of pine trees poked through the grey and white blanket. Now that he was further from the village, a chorus of crickets sang their song. If he strained his ears, he would have heard the rustling of a mouse hiding in the brushes. If he looked into the nearest pine tree, he would have seen the wide, unblinking amber orbs of a hunting owl. The world teemed around him, but he didn't care. Somewhere among the churning fog and extensive wildlife, there was Ivan.
"Ivan," he whispered. His gut fluttered this way and that way. A giddiness bubbled in his throat, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. A small, hesitant smile played across his lips. Sucking in a lung-full of fresh air, he started his trek.
A/N: I'll just leave this here... Honest to God, I don't mean to update once a year, but I'm as consistent as chunky peanut butter. I sincerely apologize to everyone.