Asch the Bloody (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dissonates) wrote2012-05-22 01:04 am
dissonates) wrote2012-05-22 01:04 am
[Written...? / Action, May 20th and beyond]
[It starts with a hum.
It's quiet, barely perceptible, like a fruit fry buzzing away in someone's ear. Across the village, it starts flickering to life in the mind of one Luke fon Fabre, miles away, awake and unaware and waiting for it.
The hum becomes a whisper. Wordless noise. An echo of something that used to be alive and loud and binding. Intrusive, almost, and yet not- because something missed, needed, eagerly and anxiously awaited is rarely unwanted.
The whisper becomes words, messy and jumbled and confused, a thought process born of desperation, fear, pain, loneliness. The words of the dead, or the dying, or the living. Of all three at once.
I'm here.
imhereimhereimherereplicaimherewhereareyou
help me
Alive. Alive.
And calling for him.]
[It's much later - after he's found, after he's awake and aware of his new situation - that Asch finally touches the journal. He toys with the controls, flips through the pages quietly, listening to everything that's open to hear. It feels... startlingly normal. Just your average day in Luceti. Life does go on without you- but then, he knew that long ago. This is nothing new.
...Well, almost nothing. It's hard to do much of anything when you can't see the world you're used to seeing around you. Not for the first little while, anyway. By touch and trial-and-error he finds the camera eventually, and he scribbles out a bit of nonsense in what he thinks is the entry area that almost looks like words, he sends out a few misfired comments to complete strangers, and in the end he thinks the entire journal system isn't nearly user-friendly enough. Eventually he gives up and sets it aside, leaving it open. Just. Listens.
It's not much. But for the moment, it'll do.]
((ooc: okay so here's the deal- Asch is back from the dead and blind. He'll be in the clinic for a while while he gets used to it, so feel free to use this post as a catch-all in case people want to visit/stumble upon him for the entire week. His scribble entry is also sort-of posted with a slightly-obscured picture, so if you'd rather use the voice function to bug him, feel free |D Word will probably get around that he's back one way or another.
Luke may or may not be with him depending on the time of visit; more often than not, he will be
[Action] all those hearts and we've barely started
He doesn't laugh this time, anyway. Truth be told, he's surprised Guy didn't go for it, didn't latch onto that escape and march off to seek out better company. No one would blame him for doing so, after all, and it's not like he'd need the truth from someone he despised in order to go on living his life. He could disappear from Luceti right now, go home and die and be forgotten and it wouldn't matter. Right?
But he stayed. He stayed, called out the bullshit. Asked for more. For- not the truth, but something. And that means...
....
He doesn't know what it means. He's well past the point of clinging to a desperate hope that there's a way to turn this around.]
You seem like you're determined to hate me no matter what I do. Killing me hasn't changed anything, has it? Is it because it wasn't permanent? Would you have been satisfied if I never came back? That's why you-
[His breath catches a little, just enough to make him stop himself, his eyes widening as something seems to dawn in his expression. Throat dry, he swallows hard.
Is that why? Is that what had satisfied that desire for death at last? Guy, he'd... he'd been well beyond Eldrant last time, well beyond everything that he and Luke could remember. He'd wished death upon the children of Duke Fabre and the children of Duke Fabre had been gone. Two years gone, almost.
Gone forever. It must have seemed that way. Maybe, in a way, it had been a relief. No more quiet glares from the background, no more insincere smiles, no more passively critical remarks on every decision made. No more anger. No more hate. The target of that hate had been gone. And in that kind of situation, one has a lot of time to think about that hate, the reasons for it, the logic of it, with a much clearer head.
Is that why?
It doesn't hurt, realizing this. Acknowledging it. He tells himself this, knuckles going white at his sides, hoping against hope that the words will somehow become true. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt it doesn't hurt it doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt, the way this sudden, drastic leap of logic brings into question every exchange he'd ever had with Guy during his stay in Luceti. The looks and the words and the encouragement and the smiles and the laugh, he'd made Guy laugh, and there'd been no mockery to it, and they'd been so close and all that time is that why?
He feels sick. Swallows again, because words have to come again eventually, and he's not sure how much longer he can pretend that this isn't affecting him in some way. It's too much. Too much and too soon. He wishes, suddenly and sincerely with every fibre in him that Guy would leave.]
It's easier- [He stops again, his voice heavy, somewhat weak in his own ears. Curses quietly, under his breath. Stop it, stop it. It shouldn't be this hard.] It's easier if you do.
[It's easier to forget that we used to share a house without constant fighting.
It's easier to forget that you wanted to be my friend.
It's easier to forget that you understood me because you wanted to.
It's easier to forget that you wanted to bring me home with you.
Because you wanted me to live.
It's easier to forget everything.]
[Action] WOW I'm failing left and right let's try this again
[The answer comes immediately. Sharply.
What exactly it's an answer to isn't clear... because, in a way, that was his answer for everything.
Well. Almost everything.
He would take hate over confusion any day. He really would. He wanted to say it would be easier.
But he couldn't. He couldn't. Damn it, he tried. If he let it churn too long, the discomfort became a gnawing desperation - a realization that, despite wanting something to change, wanting anything to change with the slash of a blade... nothing would change at this point.
Whether he killed Asch once or a dozen times or a hundred times... nothing would help.
Nothing would be enough.
No satisfaction.
Nothing that he could do with his hands. No words that he could say. No glares he could cast.
It would simply be hate for hate's sake. An aching urge for that momentary loss of self-control, just for something that extended beyond the memory of his family and home.
It was a fuel that.... well, he felt lost without, yes.
It was why he wanted to hate this man.
But it seemed that something else had slipped alongside those tendrils of anger. Something that he had never felt for Asch in particular. Something he honestly had never expected to feel for Asch.
But as Asch's words had slipped out, he'd felt it ball up in a familiar fashion. He nearly laughed at the feel of it.
Almost.
His voice stays quiet as he rises from the chair, his tone low. Not out of anger... but of something else.]
I don't know what the hell has happened to you since you've been here or what you remember me as. I'm not going to pretend to know. [I'm not going to pretend I care.]
But what does it matter to you?
You're alive. And yet you're sitting here asking me if your permanent death was something better? Like you think my answer will give you some sort of justification?
[Like you think you know what he's thinking? What he's going through?
He scoffs - a harsh, cold sound that barely resonated at all as he slides the chair back against the wall, staying silent until he reaches the doorway. Lips press together as he speaks over his shoulder, his voice tight.]
Dig into that little, self-absorbed head of yours and find some goddamn worth in yourself.
You at least had a little of that when I last saw you.
[Pity.
Disgust.
He didn't care for the reasons anymore. Self-sacrifice out of an apathy for the value of his life in the eyes of another?
Tch.
How absolutely pathetic.
Even the vulnerability and openness of this moment - the chance to learn and ask questions - is hardly enough to keep him around.
And so... he's gone. Not about to wait for an answer he knows will probably be bundled in emotions he just doesn't have the patience to understand.
This was a different Asch. He realized that, now more than ever. And more importantly? This was an Asch that he now despised for a completely different reason than personal revenge.
But he doubted that he'd ever be able to get that through. And frankly, he was too confused and too exhausted to care.]
[Action] I think this thread successfully achieved some feels
You happened.
Asch doesn't respond; he knows there's no point. He listens to Guy's words, his head bowed - not in shame, not in misery, not in anything but a lack of will to raise it - and then, after, listens for the footsteps of the other man's retreat. It's cold, it's abrupt, it's almost heartless, really. The words of someone who has no sympathy or understanding for what he's experienced. No desire to care. No desire to listen. He'd heard something else in Guy's voice then, something he'd never heard before. Something he couldn't explain or give a name to.
He considers it for a moment, then dismisses it. Maybe he'll think about it later. Right now? He can't do it. He's glad, actually, to hear those footsteps, and he waits until he can't hear them anymore before he slumps back against the pillows of his bed, finally releasing his grip of death on the blankets.
Self-worth? That's laughable. So laughable it hurts. To believe that he'd had any, to believe that all his pomp and arrogance and talking-down to the replica had meant a damn thing, in the end. Apparently he is a better actor than he'd originally figured.
What does it matter. What does it matter to you, too.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
The worst of it, the absolute worst, most painful part of that exchange, the way Guy lashed out at the end with his final, dismissive accusation...
It's almost the same as what he might have said before, more than a year ago, his Guy. Almost like they'd been having another one of their fights, like it was normal, like something was there, something he could reach out and touch and not get burned by that ever-present hatred. Something that was equal parts affection. Something that made them allies, friends. Something that made him a person Guy didn't want to lose.
Because dying for someone else isn't the answer.
Because there's nothing more important than living.
Because too many people in the world have already died.
"Because we're friends."
Because I never wanted to die.
But Guy is already gone (and it wasn't that Guy, that Guy had been gone a long time ago, and he knows it, he knows it even if he can't stop the memories from invading this moment). And Asch is grateful for it, and for a long time he lies in his bed and trembles silently and he can't figure out whether he's laughing or crying until he feels something wet on his cheek and a part of him is quietly scolding finally, finally, and the voice that he hears in his mind is Guy's.]