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There was no sun. The clouds blanketed the entire sky and no matter how hard the wind blew, the heavens wouldn't open up to reveal the light from above. The fog crept quietly across the forest floor, half-hiding the carpet of red and golden leaves underneath and curling around the bare branches of the shedding oaks. It was another year dying slowly, withering with every breath and every backwards hour until only the skeletons were left raking at the sky. Vaguely, he thought he missed the snow because everything seemed so clean when it was covered, but he knew hiding the dirt didn't make it any less dirty and pretending never made anything better. And every snowflake was like a thousand years longer than he should have lived already.
He rarely read anymore and honestly didn't know why he he was doing so now. It had been long enough that the words were harder to remember though the passages jumped out clearer to him than even his own memories. The wrinkles of the pages were more familiar than his dreams. It was Shakespeare, of course, master of the tragedies doomed to repeat themselves over and over, beyond the age of his contemporaries, beyond even the realm of fiction; his were the words that were set to recycle until the apocalypse that so many of his characters had already faced on their own. And he read them knowing well their truth, their lies, their signifying nothings. What else was there to do these days?
The tattered hybrid leaned back against the half-naked oak and sighed a breath into the breeze.
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indentThe empty-gray sky was a familiar face, especially for this time of year. It drew contrast to the autumn foliage, the pale off-white and darker bark, and the color of his eyes. Of all the things that had changed about him, only his eyes had remained the same. They carried the calamitous knowledge that settled with all self-fulfilling-prophets. This information only settled ill within his bones, which ached as they had since the first act of treason had been committed under his rule. He did not forgive the transgressor, and he would not forget. For whatever else he was, Ahren held true to the things he believed in completely.
indent No forest felt like home. Not even the one he could hear at night, and often found himself walking in. He could never remember arriving there. Chimera’s former territory was a land plagued by ghosts and shadows, where memories and forgotten lords wandered witlessly on the road he had once raced the wind on the back of a horse. Everything had been cast away in the presence of war, love, and the endless cycle of reason and devotion. He barely recognized himself anymore; who he was lay forgotten in the ocean and its deep, dark waves.
indent In many ways, the same waves coursed in his soul. “What are you reading?” He asked quietly, coming to a halt behind his former friend.
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Change was a hard things to describe sometimes because somethings remained just as out of reach and intangible as they had always been. He knew his mind had fractured in many ways and he was beginning to feel almost as if there was a third person lurking in the confines of his skull. It would be ghost of whoever he had once been, the impatient and immature creature that had an all-important air about him and a cold, cynical view of the world. It was in him that all of his anger resided because his current self had given up on the rage and fury -- it was just as empty as the quiet forest and he was too tired to dwell on it anymore. So give it someone else, even if they only existed in the past. And what remained was the change, was the thing that he was now, was the quiet, sad hybrid sitting under a tree that had probably seen and lived through more though sometimes he doubted that.
Macbeth, he answered dully, slowly pulling his head back down though he didn't look at the other pair of red eyes. They seemed to have so much in common once upon a time, but he was sure that their eyes were the only things that remained, and maybe that their children had the same mother. It was my favorite, the tattered male added softly, not sure whether it still was, or if he still had a favorite at all, or if it mattered (that was an easy one; of course, it didn't matter). It was strange being there; Ahren had possibly been the only person he had thought to call a friend and he could think of absolutely nothing to say to him.
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indent Some men might argue that change was constant, while others viciously opposed this idea and claimed no one ever changed. Of this grouping, Ahren stood with the former. It had been proven to him each day he looked at himself, looked at who he had been, and looked at who he had become. The only person he had found exempt to this law was Misery, the mad hag who had gone halfway around the world and back and still wore Damian’s cross, still carried her anger, and still had a cynical, vicious take on the world.
indentThe children were an unknown factor in their friendship. Ahren had not gone to the coast yet, and would not make his way there until pushed. Kaena was a distant figure from the past, a woman he had fallen in love with, fallen out of love with, and left. She was not his first lover, and not his last. That would be Matinee, no matter where she roamed. One day he would find her. Of all the things he believe (or did not believe) that was the constant. “I like Hamlet best myself. You drawing parallels with that one?” He had done the same with his.
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Laruku believed that nothing mattered -- change, no change; it was irrelevant in the end, wasn't it? Efforts in either direction were futile and besides, wasn't change itself a point towards there being no change? Constant change balanced out between people and in an equation, the world moved at the same pace for everyone. Macbeth had not changed; he had merely been weak and easily influenced. Maybe he should have changed, but he probably still would have died. Hamlet as well, though the amount of time he had spent in his own head would have suggested that change be easier for the man. And Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, but no one gives a shit anyway.
He had half-realized that he was probaby just like them, dead. He had killed his own constant and he had killed himself. Maybe it was figurative; maybe not. But really, who was he anymore? Not himself; who was himself? Who had he been? How did he know that he wasn't who he was supposed to be? No idea. There was no way to define any of it, but it felt that way. He was dead and Ryoujoku was alive; Laruku was just a ghost hanging on to an image of something that wasn't real anymore. Parallels? How was he supposed to draw parallels out of anything?
I suppose, he replied half-heartedly, turning a yellowed page. It isn't hard. Everyone's living one of these grand tragedies. And soon enough, the forest would come alive all around him and slaughter him on his wretched throne. If only, if only.
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indentHad he been able to read the mind of the hybrid alpha whose word was said to be law here, Ahren would have declared him a nihilist. The school of philosophy, psychology, the very idea of mind and soul were grounds he had walked with then and walked with them now. Of course, being an existentialist, he managed to reason the world in contrast to his own being as one might do with a mirror. Being absolutely free meant that all that arose by your hand was, as it always had been, your prerogative.
indentRunning from his responsibilities had led to his decline and eventual transformation. No longer as enlightened as he had once been, Ahren’s feet forgot the weight of the earth below him. “Dire combustion and confused events new hatch’d to the woeful time,” he offered, moving and putting his back against the tree, separating the two. He brought a cigarette to his mouth, drew a match, and struck flame.
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'Twas a rough night, he replied half-heartedly, closing his book. And the king is dead, he thought, he had been dead a long time and the murder had not stopped there. But who among them had not been born by their mothers? They were too primitive, still, and so the monster remained, never to be overthrown, never to be vanquished. It was just how things were, hm? He could have smiled though; it was almost like old times, so much that it was like a dagger between his scarred ribs. But he could not admit to his murder.
But to be or not to be, the hybrid sighed, opening the pages again, unable to let his fingers lay still. It was agitating. Laruku was an absurdist. And in true absurdist fashion, he didn't know or wonder or care why. He just was. And he should die.
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indent Something had changed. He knew this from the moment that Laruku had walked up to the borders and practically spit in his face. The urge to strike him had risen with undying fury, and it took more self control then he wanted to admit to hold his traitor hand back. A bond of friendship was all that kept him steady, as weak and thread-bare as that may be. These two were distant brothers, each born from rape, each conceived with madness in his soul.
indentIdle hands were the devil’s playthings, and so Ahren found his own pushing back the heavy dreadlocks that gave credit to his Leo nature. “All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity,” the blonde replied, one foot curling on its toes as the other took his whole weight. While he himself was not injured as his sister-cousin was, time had done work on his body and the cold was felt deep in his bones.
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All forms, moods, shapes of grief denote me truly, but, Laruku turned another page, uncertain as to what he was looking for, if anything, half-remembering that he was reciting from a different play now and half-knowing and not caring all the same. You know, it's been a long time since I've read any of this. I never knew I had anything memorized until I met you. His voice had more feeling to it than it had had in months, but it was a quiet life all the same, as if putting too much into it would extinguish it all over again. It was nostalgia, he knew, a cold and empty feeling because the past always had things you missed, even if the whole of it was a sad story you never wanted to retell.
Something had changed. That inevitable, careless, irrelevant change, but it was relevant. To some because they derived their own meaning. To him? What was the change to him but simply another in an endless serious of unfortunate events? Absurd. Nothing, always nothing. It's all pointless knowledge unless someone else knows what you're talking about and even then... it isn't like you couldn't've put it in your own words. He turned another page, but his eyes blurred the words on the page. He had something to apologize for as he always did. What did I say to you at the borders? Laruku wasn't sure what friendship was anymore and the term he was only comfortable in using in the past tense. It had been a long time.
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indent A faint and half-hearted smile graced Ahren’s worn face as his companion spoke. They had met as strangers in an old theatre, one a pianist, the other an actor. Time had changed their professions, of this there was no doubt; still, Ahren was brilliant when he needed to be and it was more then likely that Laruku could still recall some haunting composition. It would only be appropriate. They were liars, whores, and murderers. No one was innocent here.
indent “You mocked the loss of my pack and more or less accused us of deciding to settle here because we had nowhere else to go,” he said flatly. The rogue and the hag had only come to Clouded Tears because it was the closest to home. It was a pathetic excuse, but could he really recall any other reason? He did not care for the remnants and children of Chimera, who were not worthy of that title, and Laruku had greeted him with a sneer rather then a smile. He had known then, and he knew now. The Sight was nearly gone, but that didn’t change his eerily accurate intuition. It didn’t change the fact he had been there. “How long have you been blacking out?” Addicts know. Addicts always know.
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He closed his eyes and listened. The words could have been expected. His other half wasn't so hard to guess at after all, but that fact terrified him the most because if he were really that predictable then didn't they think alike after all? He would call it a monster, a demon confined in his skull, but were they really the same after all? Was he really such a despicable thing on the inside? (Of course, darling.) I'm sorry, the hybrid said, though he felt as if the words meant nothing now. He had apologized too many times to too many people now and the words felt empty on his lips no matter how much he meant it. The regret transcended words now and nothing would ever be good enough.
He opened his eyes again because keeping them closed made him dizzy with thoughts and vague imagery of things and days he would never see with clarity. I don't know. A year, maybe. He couldn't remember when he had seen Ahren last. Had it been a year? And had it been the time he was drunk or the time he had threatened the safety of the other's children? Everything blurred together because... something. A reason didn't matter. Laruku was addicted to a miserable life. That was it. He just didn't know how to be happy.
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indent The things within a man’s mind are truly his own vices; addiction, temptation, love, reason. Apologies meant little to the eldest de le Poer, whose three years explained nothing outside of the fact he was the only one to blame for everything that happened. They were just excuses. It hid the truth, just as fire-water, devil-grass, and true love worked. “What happened after I left?” His voice remained distant, as though a stranger in a strange place might ask. Ahren was truly a hometown boy—the former rock-star’s son, who had risen to his own fame and then left without any reason or explanation.
indentHe didn’t have to explain himself to these people.
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There were a thousand holes in his memory, some intentional, some not. And he couldn't tell them apart anymore. There were things he wanted to remember and couldn't while other things jumped at him with every blink of his demon red eyes, presistent and laughing. What had happened? What had happened indeed. Corona had asked the same. And others, he was sure, though he had forgotten them already. Piper? Who else even knew? What had happened/ He knew; he didn't know. He denied it; he denied he was denying it. But it was a stupid reason anyway. It shouldn't have mattered. He had accepted it. He had accepted it. So why should it continue to affect him so much?
I don't know, he answered dully. Was it the truth? These sorts of truths were subjective anyway. I'm just a fuck up, that's all. He had no pride to protect; he just didn't know what he could say. He couldn't explain himself to himself.
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indent Behind his teeth, Ahren’s tongue rolled, striking metal against bone. The barbell was the only other constant in his life—he had not removed it since the day that he had first struck it in place. Of all his markings and signs, the simple piece of metal meant the most. It signaled his independence. It signaled his exile. For this reason, and because he had nothing concrete to hold onto (his parents were dead, he had no siblings, he had lost his home) he found comfort in it.
indent Their eyes were almost the same. Almost, but not quite. Ahren’s darkened considerably at the words, and that second secret darkness flitted in quickly. His jaw stiffened slightly, and his hands convulsed once, curling in momentarily. It was an automatic response. To what, even he couldn’t be sure. “No more then I,” he said lowly, unaware he looked close to laughing or baring his teeth. “No more then anyone else here. This place isn’t exactly pure,” he nearly spat, hands dropping to the pouch on his hip for a cigarette.
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It was silly, he knew, but there were things he held on to, even now. Quiet beliefs tucked away behind his ears where no one else could see them, where not even his own smotheringly cynical philosophies could taint them. It was the last dandelion in the field of dying summer flowers, there to grave the winter cold on its own. And so Laruku still believed there were such things as good people, pure and faultless in as many ways as was possible. He knew no one was perfect, but some came close. The hybrid thumbed the pages of his book. There were no pure things within, but outside of it, he could still believe, sometimes.
No, some men are more wicked than others, he said solemnly. It was something else he believed in with as much certainty as he could. Everyone sinned, some more frequently than others, some more seriously than others. His own seemed to be both frequent and serious, deadly and unforgivable on all the scales Justice had to offer. His heart was heavy with it; guilt was made of lead and he would send the feathers flying and Ahemait (or at the very least, Gabriel would) would have him.
I killed a child, he confessed finally, uncertain of why he was telling at all. He didn't feel like Ahren would care even though he wished someone would. And kill him for it. Ate him too. Weigh against the feather, eat the heart out.
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indent The pop and hiss of a match signaled his addiction’s hold. It was, in many ways, all he thought he was. There was no more to hold onto, just estranged family, forgotten friends, and the vague reminder of everything he had left behind. No one had ever managed to get him to answer exactly why he had left. He didn’t need to define himself outside of his own personal conventions, be they a cigarette, a tongue-ring, a tattoo, or the anathema. All things in time, though. All things in time.
indentHe listened to the words, inhaling on the tobacco and tasting the smoke deep in his throat. This was not the first time someone had come to him with confession—it would not be the last. It was indifference that kept him in that position; while he judged silently, he did not let this outweigh what his head told him. The death of a child was not entirely shocking. A long time ago, he had seen a mother do the same, if for different reasons. “Can you tell me why? Do you remember?” He sounded like a psychologist, like they were Freud and his wolfman.
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They spent their entire lives falling. Born at the summit of the highest peak, they tumbled out of their poor mothers' wombs and fell. At first, there are others, family, siblings, parents. But one by one, they all fall apart, each with their own speeds. Gravity and air resistance pull them apart and onward they tumble alone. And then maybe they'll meet others on their way down; they're always reaching for something to hold onto -- something tangible and real. Something real. So they'd hold onto each other, desperate and clinging, but the end was inevitable. They fell faster and faster, spiraling towards the fires of hell below. And they would fall apart again no matter how hard they tried.
They always fell apart.
More than halfway down now, what did he have to hold on to? He didn't even have himself. Laruku wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and stay there forever. What could he tell Ahren? Only Phasma knew and he hadn't been the one to tell her. Could he ever tell anyone? Could he find the words? Were there even any words? There was no reason. No reason would be enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Nothing, never. You deserve to die. YOU DESERVE IT. The book lay discarded on the grass now and the hybrid leaned heavily against the tree, idle hands tracing the places where the skin rose in patterns across his wrists. I don't remember anything. I just know I did it. Did it really matter how? He knew it was true. He had seen her face (and he had imagined his). Why? God, I can't even make up a reason that would make any sort of fucked up sense. There can never be a reason for that.
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indent He couldn’t look at him. He wanted to, he wanted desperately to look into that stranger’s eyes and see familiarity. He wanted to believe that there was still something of Laruku in there, but even now, he wasn’t so sure. It was a terrible thing to be caught in, the squirrel cage of self. Not like he had any room to talk, of course; his existentialist crisis was far from over.
“There’s always a reason,” he said lowly, careful of his tone.
indent Another drag on the cigarette, another gust of wind to chase the smoke away.
“All action is driven by purpose, even if we don’t want to admit it.” For a long time, he remained silent. Finally, after curling his right hand hard enough to bleed, he spoke again.
“I don’t remember raping Aiji. I could tell you why, though.” It had made sense, a long time ago, when he was mad with the quest for power and the dreams of a reckless, foolish, exiled prince.
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Ahren would not be the first to think that maybe whoever he had known as Laruku was gone and he would not be the last. If the hybrid didn't know himself, then how could anyone else say? What were the standards to measure by? Where did the personality of the past end and the one of the present begin? Subjectivity destroyed all definitions. And meaning? They always tried so hard to make sense of things, to derive purpose and motive from actions and reactions, but what could anyone say? What if some things -- what if most things, what if all things -- what if they were really meaningless after all? Nada es nada por nada.
Why? he asked then. Why did there have to be meaning? Who was anyone to say that it was true after all, that he had a black heart and vengence buried deep inside it because nothing would ever be good enough. Was it denial or more nihlism? Or was even meaninglessness meaningless to that end?
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indent “For what all men desire,” he said quietly, pausing only for another deep breath of the smoke. He held this in, felt his head begin to pulse, and exhaled. “Power.” It had been that simple, hadn’t it? He had seen her, an heiress of sorts, and so he had taken her. Abducted her in a church, thrown her to the floor, and taken her with no grace. Ahren had blacked out long before then—alcoholic blackouts were dangerous things. It had not been the first time and was not the last. Since that day it had occurred several times over; shortly after his father’s death and his second exile, and throughout Europe.
indent Even now, he didn’t know whose blood he had been covered in.
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