voidtreckerexpress | [CLOSED] how could I ever think it's funny

Entry tags:

elidibus [ou]

[CLOSED] how could I ever think it's funny

Who: Ansem and Xehanort, later Vexen. Also Special Guest Elidibus!
Where: Quiet Car, later elsewhere
When: Llama 21
What: Ansem informs Xehanort of his actions upon others, and offers him a choice.
Warnings: Horrible Decisions and Regret. Highlight the following for spoilers, but this is a heavy log and has some heavy content. CW for manipulation, attempted murder/suicide via poisoning, and talk of trauma/death/etc.

Ansem's memories were coming back in time on their own. Mostly, they came dreamlike, in slow bits and patches that he was eventually able to connect to others for a larger pictures. Occasionally, though, there was a sudden connection, a sudden flash; most often, these came upon a familiar action or face.

Such as Xehanort's own.

After speaking with others, learning more- it was, perhaps, no surprise that the memories that surfaced afterwards were ones primarily connected with the other man. His apprenticeship. His betrayal. His actions on to others- and Ansem himself, trapped in darkness, with only anger and rage to sustain him. Letting it drive him once he escaped to spread further harm to others, all in the name of revenge...

He could not change the past. He knew that. But...perhaps. Perhaps one could keep it from repeating.

And so he sought out the other, first checking his room, then the library- and then, as he moved past through the quiet car, he happened to glance through a window and find him. Well. That was convenient. A light rap on the door, and-

"Xehanort- I'd like to speak with you, please."

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He knows Xehanort, to a degree, but the blunt question makes his gut twist. Ansem grimaces, shaking his head. "If I knew then, I do not know now- only that you would have built an empire of ignorance on the ashes of devastation. Do you understand why now, there is so much wariness of you? How the notion of any of this repeating itself terrifies us?"

How the fear of him trying to take over the train - while Ansem had faith in the other passengers - was a very real one?

"If I am to be truthful," is the quiet response, his tone subdued and never really rising or falling in marked emotion, "Then no. Very little of it makes sense. I don't know why I would do such things, or why I would inflict it upon stranger and familiar alike, with no obvious goal at the end that would make it possibly worthwhile."

The headache twists along with the rise and fall of agonizingly sharp internal conflict. "Were any other besides you speaking of such things, Master, I would brand them a liar." It was ridiculous, impossible - but Ansem does not lie. He doesn't act out of self interest, he doesn't torment others for entertainment, and certainly wouldn't be spinning such a tale for amusement.

He rests his elbows on the table, fingers clasped at his chin, eyes focused on some speck on the table that had failed to get brushed away at some point. "But understanding is not required, I think."

"Mmm." He is honest, at least, even if his lack of understanding is- not troublesome. Troublesome is too small, too innocent a word. Disturbing. "Had I not experienced it directly, I would have dismissed it as well. But I have lived these events, Xehanort. And I can never forget them."

Nothing would erase them again, short of being lost once more in that dark place of sapping everything. And nothing could change them. The scars he, they bore- they would be with them as long as they lived, and in whatever came after. But.

But.

"So, let me ask you this, as well; if you could ensure none of it would come to pass. Would you act?"

"No. If nothing else, this anger you feel is very real.... these echoes of fear and hurt. And something would have to explain them." Something like betrayal. Like seeing everything unravel, thread by thread.

Never forget sounds a lot like never forgive, in the whispers of Darkness.

Multiple worlds.

Irrelevant.

Radiant Garden ... harder, but he knew them. Merlin and his strolls, the duck selling icecream.. what did they do to deserve such a future? How would they feel in Ansem's place? He constricts it further.

It was his home. And there were those within it that he could, and did, put a lot more concern into. Else why would Even's shattering ice be so deeply, painfully shocking? Why else would the thought of seeing them ruined be so unsettling?

This is his future.

No place to call his own. No kith, no kin - he'd see to that, eventually. The And for what?

For what? For what?

This was the rage of a king who's lost everything. And he.. and he deserved it, or would--

In the silence that follows such a question, there's no motion to mark it, no sound of response, no assurance that it would never happen, he'd see to it - just quiet, and stillness, and the music of the dark that only he could hear. It wasn't restful, it was painful and chaotic and told him he would, he would, if only the conditions were right, if only the reason were right, everyone, everything was replaceable--

Dark eyes close. "There is a duty that falls to each of us, to minimize the suffering we inflict." There's no obvious emotion. In another decade, in an older body and deeper voice, animation from him would be more tangible than this moment. "Whether or not that suffering makes sense. Its origins, its reasons don't really matter. I should have stayed on the platform."

Ansem does not speak, instead allowing Xehanort time to digest all of this information and to mull over it. He studies the man closely during that time, searching for...what, exactly? Reactions? Tells? Something that would give him some clue as to why, perhaps, some method behind the madness...

Nothing. It is as painful as anything could possibly be. Not for the first time, Ansem wonders of his part, where he went wrong; could he have changed things, had he been more observant? Had he been blind? Something had been missed...

Ansem lets out a breath at the response. It is not what he wanted to hear; he did not want to hear about duty. He wanted to hear about what Xehanort wanted, but- his own eyes close.

"Be that as it is," he murmurs, slowly reaching in to his pocket, "you are here. And there...is an option that is available to you. I am not certain how studious you were in herbology, but...I found Sleeping Nightshade in the greenhouse."

In his hand is a small pouch. In that, a fine powder. He sets it on the table, then withdraws his hand, letting it sit between them.

"It is a sleep aid, in minor doses...but enough of it, and one's slumber is final. I have...prepared an overdose, if it falls in line with your thoughts."

It's a carefully constructed shield, in poor emulation of the command of calm rationality Ansem himself wielded. Wild emotions had no place in scientific endeavors, could taint research, cloud the mind. How precious a heart was ... and yet one could not be controlled by it. He would not shame his master's teachings now. Not if he could help it.

Objectivity.

He had been warned so recently from Elidibus that Ansem might not be truly objective, might act out of fear or vengeance or something else, and Xehanort had denied it. Too they had spoken on the greater good, and what must be done to ensure the lives of others. That sacrifice sometimes had great worth, if ...

As Ansem sets a small pouch between them, it becomes apparent that Ansem didn't come here to simply speak, and divulge knowledge he'd sought. He'd come to kill, to see to conclusion what had begun on the platform. Judgment, final and terrible and utterly reasonable. From the only one Xehanort was sure could read a situation clearly and concisely and act as was just ... a price in blood, for crimes not yet committed. His own teacher, a man he would have regarded as close to a father as he was ever likely to get, wanted him dead.

A powder is hardly a challenge, he had a drink with him. Easy. Quick, in theory.

"...In these years that stretch into the future." And it's still that subdued, controlled tone. "Do you know if I ever discover where I am from? If I have family or friends who might have been searching for me?"

If he was asked, Ansem would simply say he came to offer a choice; another time perhaps, he might say differently. For just as Master and Apprentice creates a barrier, it creates a tie; a method of influence. Manipulation. And while Ansem may not be directly thinking of it right now, the fact remains the power imbalance between them makes the other predisposed to follow his lead.

But for now- for this moment. He tells himself that he is simply offering a method. Bringing it to light. A kind method, all told; Sleeping Nightshade is as painless a method as anyone knows. To drift away in slumber, to not wake up...

Now is his turn to close his eyes, and to slowly shake his head.

"We found nothing. If you did have bonds, before- they remained lost."

"Then I have destroyed the only thing I had that was worth having." By ...existing. By being there. By some twist of fate that would see it ruined, and everything dragged down with him. It's said as if it doesn't matter, as if all were calm and perfectly ordinary, a mockery of the agony that seethes beneath it.

He uncoils, in one smooth motion pulling the little pouch closer, his earlier disregarded drink of nothing more than by now lukewarm water likewise set in front of him. It's almost as if he intends to call a bluff, so steady are his actions, the dust simply poured within and then shaken a little to prevent it from settling.

And then it's gone.

The container is set back down, a brief expression of disgust crossing his face. Bitter. "...I don't think it'll change what you've endured, Master, time ... may not allow for it." Bitter and unpleasant, lingering on the back of his throat. How long did such things take? Calm is hard to maintain, but he does his best.

What's one life? One life no-one will miss, one life that only brought ruination. A roil of nausea, fought down easily; instinct and body know damn well when there's something wrong, but it settles out in slow spreading numbness. It's the numbness, not the previous action, that is frightening, that burrows under his skin and makes his hands unsteady as he nudges his drink aside and betrays his determination to be as calm and collected as Ansem was in gesture and in voice. "If anyone asks. Tell them I attacked you. You had no choice. No one-" A crack, and he pauses before continuing, force of will winning out by degrees. "...No one will doubt it or blame you."

He can only watch in silence as Xehanort makes his declaration, his action, and then-

-then it is gone, and his heart feels as though it has stopped beating. The herb is quick, he knows, from experience; he had taken a test dose when he had first found it, if only to confirm it was what he suspected. A dreamless sleep, unplagued by memories had followed- the first restful one he'd gotten since the platform. And now, Xehanort is on a path to the same, only...

Only from this one, he will not awaken. Of his own violation. His own decision. And now, as Xehanort slumps, he instinctively reaches out to steady the man. Much as he had with others, recently, when he had both confessed and been confessed to regarding memories, pain...

"No," he whispers, "they would not."

Only he would know what he had done, but with Xehanort losing strength before him, his Apprentice having dutifully followed his King's command- Ansem is beginning to feel a clawing in his chest as his heart is suddenly beating rabbit-fast. An anxiety as the enormity of what he has done settles upon him.

He has saved worlds. Lives.

He has taken one by his own hand, one that has trusted him. Would follow him.

He can't do it. Can't maintain that unshakable facade of calm rationality, not with being unable to manage the simple coordination of remaining still. It spreads, and he flexes unfeeling fingers; they barely move. Ansem's stabilizing helps somewhat, but he just leans the other way, up against the cool glass.

The sound in the darkness changes, the whispers less intelligable than usual, but louder and urgent, terribly urgent, and a dull distant part of his thoughts wonders if he'll finally understand soon.

"No regrets." He's not as easy to understand. For who? Himself, with vision blurred by pathetic, childish tears and the horror of what he'd done, future and present? For a king who would surely face some consequence for this impulse? He's going to die. He's going to die and there's only going to be relief when he's gone, why did he drink the damn.. no. There's more important things, even as that too becomes harder to grasp. "There's another Radiant Garden that's safe now. Another castle, other lives." Words are as hard to keep clear as the mask of tranquility splinters. "They'll live. Not just survive."

That's what's important, isn't it? No names on a list, hollow shells and empty lives, surviving but not living. In the last fragile moments of wakefulness, there is no steady mask of someone resigned to their fate, only the bitter terror of facing the inevitable closing too fast, a lifetime of wants and dreams spiralling away into the rising song of Darkness. "Don't." Words slur, they're failing too, barely intelligible, blurred by sleep. "Don't look at me like that."

Like there could have been another way.

If there was anything else he would have added, there's no time to, only a glassy-eyed, blank slow blink, and when his eyes close next they don't reopen. One could imagine the steady breaths to be that of sleep, but they grow shallower as swiftly as the rest had come on.

Another Ansem and his Apprentices might be spared pain- but is it worth it? When the future is not set in stone, only the past, and- Ansem cannot help but think of another way as the Xehanort's eyes close, and dawning horror momentarily steals his breath.

"Xehanort."

There was no lie on the platform; Xehanort was fully willing to stay behind. To spare them the pain of his simple presence, even if he was, by all rights? Innocent. He was not their Xehanort of memories, who had transgressed against them so, and who was to say that being warned would not have been enough?

It's then that Ansem realizes he is trembling. He pulls his hand back, looking down at it, then at the now-still body of his Apprentice. A strangled sound escapes his throat before he stumbles to his feet, not to run, no, but there might be-

-there could be-

There's no panel in this carriage. Hating himself for leaving for even a moment, he nonetheless speeds out to the next carriage over, slapping the ICP on the wall to activate it. And though he tries to keep his voice steady, an undertone leaks through as he speaks. "Even- I need you in the quiet carriage."

Edited 2021-06-09 01:27 (UTC)

Fortunately, Even is not prone to blocking out the noises of the train, specifically because he never knows when something on the ICP is going to be worth listening to. He's not expecting to hear his name, let alone the name that only one person on the train really uses. And that undertone...he's not sure what's happening, but something is clearly wrong.

There's no warning, before a dark corridor abruptly appears in the hallway, fading as quickly as it appeared and leaving Even standing there. He can see...a painful, but not hostile, darkness coiled around his king's heart, and behind him...is that Xehanort? But his heart is fading, at a speed that he realizes with a jolt is alarming. He should find it a relief, and yet...

"What is going on here?"

His words come out as a harsh hiss, but not out of anger. Ansem will recognize the note of urgency in his voice, the fear driving him to take stock of the situation and search for a solution...even if it means making demands of his liege.

Ansem's hardly back at the doorway to the room before Even appears, and even if Even couldn't see his Heart? The fact Ansem actually startles would say something, eyes wide before he composes himself. Nonetheless, there is a distress about him, and he looks back at Xehanort before looking back at his Apprentice, mouth dry for a second. How could he admit to this?...

Tell them I attacked you.

No. No, he would not lie, not to Even, not to anyone else. Swallowing, he manages to rasp, "I need your help. It's- sleeping nightshade. An overdose. My doing." Responsibility taken, he straightens to look Even in the eyes. "I need an antidote."

He knows Even could disagree, and there is nothing he could do to force him short of trying to order him. And while Xehanort has shown that at least one Apprentice would follow his words, Even is...different. Both in nature, and in history. It is a very real possibility that he will be denied, and he allows a trace of desperation to crack through.

"Please, Even. I have made a mistake, and I must fix it."

There's the barest moment of conflict in his heart. Then, almost sooner than Ansem finishes speaking, he's rushing into the room. If that means pushing past Ansem, he'll do so, although he'll be noticeably gentler about it than he would be with most.

A moment of concentration and a flick of his wrist causes the white strands of life magic to coil around Xehanort, fading into him to provide a buffer. It won't clear the poison, but it will buy them time. Then he's pulling a wooden briefcase from nowhere in a cloud of dark and cold mist, which he opens to reveal a compact chemistry kit. His motions are quick and efficient as he sets up what he'll need, including an agate mortar and pestle and some medicinal herbs from the greenhouse.

"Do you recall the recipe for an alchemical antidote?"

Relief practically radiates from Ansem's posture as Even pushes past and casts his spell, even as a whisper points out Even is simply following his words- just as Xehanort had. Swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat at the thought, he focuses on the question, moving over to offer what help he can.

"No. And I'm not clearheaded at the moment enough to try and remember." An admission of clouded judgement, as well as an unspoken acceptance of Even's temporary authority. "I recall how the herb works, at least," with how it effects the body and such. Which he'll share, but otherwise try and stay out of Even's way unless bid to assist.

He waves his hand and conjures another item from storage, a book titled in the familiar alphabet of Radiant Garden, 'Household Alchemy Basics'. He quickly flips to the page on treating status conditions and puts the book down on the table.

"My spell will restore him partially if his body perishes, but we still have little time. Help me prepare the necessary ingredients."

A soft 'mm' of acknowledgement/agreement, and for a few minutes, Ansem is silent. The only sound is them working and his unsteady breathing, which hitches when he briefly glances towards Xehanort. So still, such shallow breaths of his own...

"He took it," he whispers without realizing it. "I put it before him, and he took it, without protest."

Horror? Wonder? For as quiet as Ansem's voice is, it is filled with many things. And-

"-and was that Life magic, you cast upon him? When..." Even Ansem doesn't know that spell.

Edited 2021-06-09 02:27 (UTC)

As the minutes tick by, he finds himself glancing fretfully at Xehanort every time he doesn't need to keep his eyes glued to his work. They are in a hurry, yes, but alchemy cannot be rushed. Try to quicken the process, and you're more likely to just burn and ruin your ingredients.

"Auto-Life, yes. It seemed...prudent, to improve my restorative magics, given life within the Organization. It turns out I have a minor secondary talent for Life spells in particular, possibly due to my skills in biochemistry."

It seems, for a moment, that he's not going to addresse the rest of what Ansem said. Then, attention still fixed alternately on his heating brew and his patient, he asks, "Why did he take such a thing? Surely he must know its effects."

He'll have to marvel later. For now, he has to make sure their work is flawless; for Xehanort's sake, he will not make another mistake in this matter. As for the question...

He barks a short, bitter laugh.

"Of course he did- I even told him as much. After explaining to him what we had suffered by his hands. What worlds had suffered. Even, I...I may as well have poured it down his throat, myself."

"My lord." His words are firm, in a perhaps poetic reversal of their positions the last time they spoke in one of these rooms. "The Xehanort we recall would not have cared about such things. He would...certainly not have given his life for them. This man before us...he is not what we expected him to be, and neither of us could have been certain of that fact before this."

The color of the potion finally changes, and he removes it from the flameless heat. The barest hint of ice magic applied to the air helps to cool it down, and he draws it into a dropper for easier administering to their unconscious patient.

The firmness catches his attention, at least, and he regards Even for a long moment before he lets out a heavy breath. "Nonetheless - I have wronged him. I cannot even pretend this was a test of his character, for I...fully intended on this happening. Short of your presence," he amends, closing his eyes.

But. Work done, he focuses on cleaning up and allowing Even to administer the dropper. There's still a subtle tremble in his shoulders, an unsteadiness for all he's holding on to his composure.

"We...both have. If you will recall, you are not the first to have made an attempt upon his life."

And this is far kinder than what Even had tried to do to him. The needles of ice he'd sent at him would have been quickly fatal, but not at all painlessly.

He delivers the antidote, then lets out a breath. His Auto-Life hasn't discharged, so they should be in the clear, even if it's going to take some time for the normal sedative effect to wear off.

"He will be groggy upon waking, but there is little we can do about that with the materials at hand."

"Perhaps not- but I am not his peer, as you are." A reminder that Ansem, for all Even has taken the lead here, is still in a position of power above his both. And he, quite frankly? Abused that. What must Even think of him...?

Again, a twisting inside. Again, shoving it away, at least for now. And once again, a short, humorless sound.

"I would say we should take him from here- but I do not want to answer any questions as to his state. Even- he said that I should claim that he attacked me, for this. That I had only acted in self defense."

He runs a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, beginning to lose that struggle to hold on to his composure.

"Xehanort- slandered my name, and yet this one- he would have spared it, he-" It seems even the Wise can near hysteria. "What have I done, Even...?"

"What you thought best, for the denizens of his Radiant Garden."

He can, at least, make this space a more comfortable one to sleep in. A small portal of darkness brings a pillow and blanket from his room, and he shifts Xehanort to be laying down properly. He takes the opportunity to check the man's pulse - weak, slow, but there. A glance at his SCA confirms that its screen has changed from red to its normal color, signifying that his life is no longer in danger.

That done, he straightens and turns to rest a hand on Ansem's shoulder.

"No one is incapable of mistakes, and he who holds himself to such standards is either arrogant, or weak of confidence. You made a mistake, yet you also acted in urgency to fix it. Is that not what you have told me matters most?"

Ansem seems more-or-less...well. Out of it. Until Even takes back his attention with the touch. He looks down in surprise, then back up, speechless for the words before forcing himself to consider them. He had, and...

...was this how Even felt, at times? As though he'd committed such a crime that the thought of forgiveness from the one wronged was nigh-unthinkable?

He takes a deep breath, lowering his gaze, and, after a moment-

"You're right. I...no. You are right."

He could not take back what he had done. But...he could move forwards. They could move forwards. Even so, it aches at him that he is capable of such a thing, and with his head bowed, he reaches up to rest his own hand atop Even's.

"...will you speak with him, when he awakens? He should...know of the situation, but I do not think it wise for me to be the one to explain."

[CLOSED] how could I ever think it's funny

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