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veiledallegory2010-03-05 09:39 pm
eternity_dreams) wrote in veiledallegory2010-03-05 09:39 pm
Entry tags:
Xenosaga: Momentum.
Title: Momentum.
Fandom: Xenosaga. (could work for Damned, as well)
Warnings: Angst buckets.
Word Count: 1144.
Characters: Albedo.
Notes: First person-ish. Theme: Breathe Me - Sia (song - lyrics).
Summary: "I have lost myself again." -- Two movements. Two habits. Explanations are never enough.
"Oh, everything ends."
The way he fulfills one aspect of the future starts simply. Or at least to himself. The blade, point downward, pierces his forearm, nicking the bone on its way through. For the clearest moment locked in time, strengthened by pain both sharp and burning, Albedo can clearly see all aspects of himself, all lines spanning outward, and all options open. He sees his successes and failures, the affects his actions hold, and the strings connecting one heart to another. For a solitary moment, this holds true. And then, like always. Time slows to a standstill. Time speeds up.
---
The first time he dug graves for those he loves he doesn't remember as well. After a burst of pain in his cheek and tears dried under his eyes, he awoke, cramped, curled with Rubedo in one of their rooms, the light already out, night already fallen. Like someone with a mission, he carefully untangles, shifts his twin's limbs into place, and leaves the room. He is in the garden before he realizes. Tears again had already warmed his cheeks. (This, he remembers.) There is falling, or he kneels, and his hands press into the dirt. It's dry and dying. Like everything else. There hadn't been a need for rain. No matter. His tears would nourish in their own way. Like him, they would reach to help and instead take--the salt drying the dirt faster than before, sucking the nourishment from it. His hands are cupped, and as he scoops the first handful, he thinks, the thought soon to become a loop repeated:
This, you should become used to.
---
The way he treads the path falls into place just as easily. Self-mutilation is only so much, especially when cuts and wounds flow away like rain. He remembers kneeling, and feels again trapped in muck, sucking him down. There's something unsatisfying about seeing a wound created disappearing, and so the next step is simple, even as he knows the outcome. He starts small, because despite everything, Albedo is one who hides away. The finger drops to the floor, liquid following, and he inhales on a hiss, releases on a sigh.
---
Habits are formed through repetition, even if he didn't mean to repeat them. Loss to life to loss (to losing, to death)--but he will never say, no, he will never-- And because he will never, and because they will not, he returns. The second time he pauses, stands broken and empty and stares at the place where the gardeners had straightened the dirt. There was meaning, wasn't there? (No, there wasn't, of course there wasn't.) There had been something before everything shattered, came together to split more fiercely. And here he had been thinking that worrying about another's presence was the worst in his life. Oh, no. No. Bad, but now and never the worst. His hand had raised to his mouth at some point; he bites down without thinking, sharp teeth splitting skin. And in the dusk, hidden in the half-light, his differences show in a glow and a return. He understands then, in the smallest of ways. Because he would always return. And they, would not. Would never. As one unused to the thought of mourning, he kneels on bended knee and presses hands into the dirt.
It's unclean here, and he accepts that.
---
The way he falls from grace is the way he started, ever so long ago. A blade is different from a gun, and yet it eventually severs nearly the same, though some sawing was necessary. He finds it interesting that his consciousness remains while the head is intact. He giggles, laughs--there's the sound of retching, and that's all the more amusing. One would mistake his actions as one unfeeling. Au contraire. Each and every cut, bash, and sever he feels with the utmost sensation. Albedo has never lost any sensitivity despite his own actions. His reactions, however, have shifted; an unlike and unease at the feeling changed to pleasure almost fluidly. The relief given in the motion settles like a shroud, attaching him to a melody and a color like nothing else would have. Where else, then, would he show his differences on a grander scale? Where, then, could he underline the differences between them and what he became? --Became? No. That's wrong. He had been like this since the beginning, yes. All of it. This was always and only him. Here, he would hold out the differences with extended palms, point the way to rejection because they were beneath him now. Because being rejected for comfort, being rejected for a detached part of himself laughing across the room was far easier than being shunned for something else. He knows this somewhere. But he tries to forget.
---
He hasn't cried in months and it shows in dark eyes, thin mouth, a tightness across his face and through his chest. His withdrawn nature was noted, and without knowing how to deal with it, ignored--wishful thinking hoping it would somehow slip back into something of what it was, something comfortable. But comfort had already ceased long before this point. This was just the hammer to the nails, driven through the wood of a coffin never buried. Just a show of how separate he was. Another thing. Another thing to separate and push apart. Another thing, and not one that could be ignored. He could pretend, play the part, wish himself and hope to the stars that something would change. That he would or they would and that something would change. Part of him is already grown. Part of him recognizes this as a waste, just the same as this action is an obsessive mourning. All has been settled--had been settled before he even knew, and there was nothing left but for him to realize as well. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, and when they left him, he would keep digging graves. Half of him understands more clearly, another reason to claw fingers into the dirt, pat it down with a quiet kiss and a flower. Because from the moment realizations were made clear, all were too far apart to ever reconcile. They were already gone, and he was still clinging to shadows of what was. Wishing still for something close to hope. He is not beyond that yet. Perhaps in a day, in a mission, in a month, but now. He presses a handful of earth close to his chest, closes his eyes and wishes that that isn't true. He hopes for siblings and closeness and touch, comfort and familiar voices, laughing eyes and smiling faces. He wishes, dreams, and still presses the earth into mounds. Because he knows. He knows that he is wrong.
He digs the graves to fill the spaces left within--a prayer unsaid: Here lies what we could have been.
Fandom: Xenosaga. (could work for Damned, as well)
Warnings: Angst buckets.
Word Count: 1144.
Characters: Albedo.
Notes: First person-ish. Theme: Breathe Me - Sia (song - lyrics).
Summary: "I have lost myself again." -- Two movements. Two habits. Explanations are never enough.
"Oh, everything ends."
The way he fulfills one aspect of the future starts simply. Or at least to himself. The blade, point downward, pierces his forearm, nicking the bone on its way through. For the clearest moment locked in time, strengthened by pain both sharp and burning, Albedo can clearly see all aspects of himself, all lines spanning outward, and all options open. He sees his successes and failures, the affects his actions hold, and the strings connecting one heart to another. For a solitary moment, this holds true. And then, like always. Time slows to a standstill. Time speeds up.
---
The first time he dug graves for those he loves he doesn't remember as well. After a burst of pain in his cheek and tears dried under his eyes, he awoke, cramped, curled with Rubedo in one of their rooms, the light already out, night already fallen. Like someone with a mission, he carefully untangles, shifts his twin's limbs into place, and leaves the room. He is in the garden before he realizes. Tears again had already warmed his cheeks. (This, he remembers.) There is falling, or he kneels, and his hands press into the dirt. It's dry and dying. Like everything else. There hadn't been a need for rain. No matter. His tears would nourish in their own way. Like him, they would reach to help and instead take--the salt drying the dirt faster than before, sucking the nourishment from it. His hands are cupped, and as he scoops the first handful, he thinks, the thought soon to become a loop repeated:
This, you should become used to.
---
The way he treads the path falls into place just as easily. Self-mutilation is only so much, especially when cuts and wounds flow away like rain. He remembers kneeling, and feels again trapped in muck, sucking him down. There's something unsatisfying about seeing a wound created disappearing, and so the next step is simple, even as he knows the outcome. He starts small, because despite everything, Albedo is one who hides away. The finger drops to the floor, liquid following, and he inhales on a hiss, releases on a sigh.
---
Habits are formed through repetition, even if he didn't mean to repeat them. Loss to life to loss (to losing, to death)--but he will never say, no, he will never-- And because he will never, and because they will not, he returns. The second time he pauses, stands broken and empty and stares at the place where the gardeners had straightened the dirt. There was meaning, wasn't there? (No, there wasn't, of course there wasn't.) There had been something before everything shattered, came together to split more fiercely. And here he had been thinking that worrying about another's presence was the worst in his life. Oh, no. No. Bad, but now and never the worst. His hand had raised to his mouth at some point; he bites down without thinking, sharp teeth splitting skin. And in the dusk, hidden in the half-light, his differences show in a glow and a return. He understands then, in the smallest of ways. Because he would always return. And they, would not. Would never. As one unused to the thought of mourning, he kneels on bended knee and presses hands into the dirt.
It's unclean here, and he accepts that.
---
The way he falls from grace is the way he started, ever so long ago. A blade is different from a gun, and yet it eventually severs nearly the same, though some sawing was necessary. He finds it interesting that his consciousness remains while the head is intact. He giggles, laughs--there's the sound of retching, and that's all the more amusing. One would mistake his actions as one unfeeling. Au contraire. Each and every cut, bash, and sever he feels with the utmost sensation. Albedo has never lost any sensitivity despite his own actions. His reactions, however, have shifted; an unlike and unease at the feeling changed to pleasure almost fluidly. The relief given in the motion settles like a shroud, attaching him to a melody and a color like nothing else would have. Where else, then, would he show his differences on a grander scale? Where, then, could he underline the differences between them and what he became? --Became? No. That's wrong. He had been like this since the beginning, yes. All of it. This was always and only him. Here, he would hold out the differences with extended palms, point the way to rejection because they were beneath him now. Because being rejected for comfort, being rejected for a detached part of himself laughing across the room was far easier than being shunned for something else. He knows this somewhere. But he tries to forget.
---
He hasn't cried in months and it shows in dark eyes, thin mouth, a tightness across his face and through his chest. His withdrawn nature was noted, and without knowing how to deal with it, ignored--wishful thinking hoping it would somehow slip back into something of what it was, something comfortable. But comfort had already ceased long before this point. This was just the hammer to the nails, driven through the wood of a coffin never buried. Just a show of how separate he was. Another thing. Another thing to separate and push apart. Another thing, and not one that could be ignored. He could pretend, play the part, wish himself and hope to the stars that something would change. That he would or they would and that something would change. Part of him is already grown. Part of him recognizes this as a waste, just the same as this action is an obsessive mourning. All has been settled--had been settled before he even knew, and there was nothing left but for him to realize as well. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, and when they left him, he would keep digging graves. Half of him understands more clearly, another reason to claw fingers into the dirt, pat it down with a quiet kiss and a flower. Because from the moment realizations were made clear, all were too far apart to ever reconcile. They were already gone, and he was still clinging to shadows of what was. Wishing still for something close to hope. He is not beyond that yet. Perhaps in a day, in a mission, in a month, but now. He presses a handful of earth close to his chest, closes his eyes and wishes that that isn't true. He hopes for siblings and closeness and touch, comfort and familiar voices, laughing eyes and smiling faces. He wishes, dreams, and still presses the earth into mounds. Because he knows. He knows that he is wrong.
He digs the graves to fill the spaces left within--a prayer unsaid: Here lies what we could have been.