a chaotic heart
Chapter 11

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His parents are still there. His mother's warm embrace, and his father's strong and steady one.

And then someone else. Big. Strong but a different kind of strong. Familiar. And vanishing into a bright light until there's only grey and the Saviour's shocked face left.

Snow. Completely oblivious to how he's vanishing from existence, being crushed in the palm of a God before he's got the presence of mind to rip himself away and flee, flee so distance can be the shield to protect his friends from an angry God –

But then he's caught, and his mind is torn in two. Lightning – the Saviour – she's trying to hold him still, hold him there and at least it's her because neither of them will ever dream of killing her. But Snow is another matter. They've both wanted to kill him. Both gotten close. Except there's a world of difference between a fourteen year old boy and a God…

But all that is there and gone in a fleeting moment, and a mix of anger and panic engulf him. Anger because the Saviour failed. Panic because it's Lightning – Light – and Bhunivelze wants –

And then the Saviour is gone as well, and there's only a swirling grey and something locking his limbs in place, and he can scream freely: his own scream, without a hint of Bhunivelze's because he's the puppet all trussed up and struggling and he can't get free but he has to. Has to stop. Save. Say.

The words roll into each other, and then the swirling grey as well: a uniform black that's binding him tight and choking him.

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It's too quiet. The perfect environment for the whispers in his head to be unbearably loud, making him squirm and whimper. He'd fight more if he could, but exhaustion weighs him down more than physical bonds. As far as he can tell, there are no physical bonds right now – but that doesn't matter. There's always the invisible ones, tethering his soul and now, for the last two years, he knows they're there.

Something cool touches him, and fire burns behind his eyes before he forces them open and a fuzzy human shape replaces the scene. 'Oh.' And his mother's voice is shaking but sharp. 'Go back to sleep, sweetie. You've got a fever.'

His mother's right here. So close. Like a dream, or a phantom because he knows she's been dead… But that doesn't matter. She can be the devil of Bhunivelze himself in disguise and he'd still reach for her.

He lifts a hand and the fuzzy human shape disperses into the black.

I…turned away..?

But he already knows he did. And he knows why.

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No-one is around the next time he awakes, and he panics before he realises it's his room and the most familiar place in the world – this world, but even that's not completely true. The room isn't the sanctuary he often mistakes it for, always wants it to be. Not a place Bhunivelze can't get in because he's already here, already deep. Sometimes it's even a prison, where they're both stuck in but can't get out, even when he pounds on the walls until his knuckles crack and bleed.

He doesn't realise he's doing it again until his door bangs open and his parents are there: both of them and he can't quite place what's wrong with the image, why they shouldn't be. He's in his home, isn't he? In his bedroom, in his bed. Why shouldn't his parents be home as well? Because he's mother died an age ago and he turned his back on the possibility of living a reincarnated life with her? Because his father's always at work – or dead as well and a relic of the old world, a foundation they've long forgotten about in favour of the God that succeeded him?

'Whatever did you do in a past life to wind up with me as a son?' He laughs: a short, bitter laugh that grows deeper, longer and – different. No longer that of a boy's, but of a God's and he knows it's slipping that way, knows that guilt that chokes him is slipping away and leaving other emotions instead: frustration, and perhaps a bit of anger as well. 'Why do you stand in my way?'

They've muffled the wall. Not holding him tight like they used to once upon a time because they know they can't hold him, hold God or his puppets when God has the strings. Or maybe he does something he never recalls. Or maybe the God parading in his body does something. He doesn't know and it doesn't really matter. So they've muffled the wall instead. Snuck his pillow and comforter between his body and the wall. Pulled him so he's on the middle of the too large for a teenager bed instead. And when he's not moving anymore, pulling himself up so he's cross-legged and sitting without any other support but the quilt he clutches to his chest while his mother unwraps his fingers so she can clean the wounds and bandage them.

He's not even wearing his gloves. Or his neckerchief. He's still wearing the bright orange square around his right wrist though. Originally just to remember left from right without having to embarrass himself in front of his classmates by tracing L shapes, or so he'd thought except that's not really the case now, is it? He wonders if he's still got his contacts in, or if they've fallen out – or someone's taken them out. There are no mirrors in his room anymore. Or the bathroom. Or in the entrance hall. If there's one in the house at all, it's tucked away in his parents' bedroom where he won't go because that instinct at least is strong enough to bury a God's tendencies. Unless Bhunivelze feels strongly about something or other. Which he doesn't. Not when it comes to his parents, anyway. They're just little offerings to keep him in line. Or the only threads of his humanity that haven't been tainted by that God. He's never sure which it is and it doesn't matter. They're here, phantoms or dreams or real and that's all that's important. If only he was a three year old and complexities didn't matter.

His hands feel cold and his mother's dabbing peroxidase on his scrapes. It doesn't burn though. Is it supposed to? Has it ever? Such simple things he's forgotten. Such simple things that don't matter anymore. What does matter anymore? He's not entirely sure. Making sure Bhunivelze doesn't get a free reign but what does that accomplish? He's powerless when push comes to shove, after all. Just so happens the God is willing to sit more or less quietly for the time being. Or something. He doesn't understand. Never has understand. Why he's even necessary. Why he's so important. Why he'd been born with silver hair and green eyes to match the God's image in human translation so perfectly, as though he'd been fated for this role as a puppet, long before becoming a l'Cie.

And to think I whined so much then! He laughs. The rage is a dim echo he can barely recall now. Against Snow. Against the Sanctum. Of course, that's before Snow has to play Hero and destroy that possibility. Before Snow is crushed in the palm of a God. Before Snow shows up in the entrance hall. And he was scared before. He remembers that. Frightened. And eager and squashing that eagerness down with fear. That's how it was before – when? Sleep or unconsciousness make him lose track of time. And the quiet. A hundred and sixty-nine years passing by in the Ark.

'Hope?'

He's still laughing but there's no feeling behind it. No drive. Just an empty echo and he's not even sure why he bothers.

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It's still dark. The windows and blinds are drawn and his father's turned the radio on before leaving so there's the illusion of a crowd that can't touch him and he can't touch them, and it seeps into his empty brain and too full soul and lets him find a sort of mindless balance there. A balance that's sometimes good and sometimes bad. Let's him lose himself in some dream, or some routine. Or lets a whispering voice take over and lead him like the meek little puppet he's become and he lacks the presence of mind to do anything about it at all.

This night, there's whispers in his mind, stirred up by visitors instead of home. The strings around his neck and arms, holding him aloft before they spiral away with the instruments. The pink hair that nuzzles his cheeks. The strong but thin arms that really should be holding a sword instead of him. The shadow he missed in the doorway. And his mind's rewinding, fishing further and further, not realising he's shaved bits of the memories off, or is mis-remembering them – like Snow's sudden absence, or presence, or his motorcycle fitting nowhere, and like her hair now dyed black… It's just Saviour, Saviour, Saviour and the steady drum of it propels him out of bed and out the door.