Wood District :: Middleton People in Middleton live pretty well; everyone seems to be fairly equal in the middle class, and as one wends through the winding streets of Wood District, it's pretty obvious that this place doesn't really seem to have an area that could be considered 'slummy'. Some places are older then others, and maybe a little run down, but this is more from time's inexorable march then any lack of care and disdain. Which is not to say that Middleton doesn't have it's equivalent of White Trash lurking around here, it's just that they're harder to make out then they are in your average Ohio trailerpark. The houses here seem to cover all shapes and sizes, and some look a little odd next to each other; great gothic mansions nestle next to small half-buried, environmentally conscious sod-homes, and it's safe enough in this city that children are often seen darting down the streets between them, climbing eaves, picking fruit from trees that don't belong to their families, and generally doing what kids do. It's a nice, safe place. Don't you want to live here, too? Contents: Aion Rosette Obvious exits: The Burrows Out to Promenade What a pretty night tonight is. One perfect for discoveries and revelations. Let's hope there are some good ones to be had. Middleton has always been the middle ground in the massive chess match between "good" and "evil." The place one could go to if they were tired of the struggle and simply wanted to get away from it. Neutrality was an important aspect of the game; it kept both sides balanced, so that one would never have a significant advantage over the other. Thus people could have their souls chained down to this world for all eternity and never know it because, if the conflict became too much for them - there was Simurgh, ready to usher them in. But now that is no longer the case, is it? No... the balance begins to tip. Which means /now/ is a time more ripe than any to act. He doesn't know how long he's been here. Time does not weave and flow here, but remains stagnant, so really the rankless demon Aion could have been staring at this moonless sky for days now. Who could argue? But Middleton... this place is important to him. It has a wealth of information to be uncovered and used. And one must know thy enemy as they know thyself, isn't that the saying? He'll know, soon enough. But for now, he'll lean against a rather large, old tree towards the middle of the wood district, push his glasses up along the bridge of his nose, and look to the sky, stretching out a hand towards where that moon should be. Yes. Soon. It /is/ such a lovely night, isn't it? The sky is cloudless, a perfect span of velvet darkness marked only by the diamond-bright sparkles of the stars--and somehow the very absence of the moon makes the stars appear brighter, as though they're trying to make up for its loss. Alas, there are not many about to admire the evening; Middleton is a peaceful place, and while some partying does go on, it tends to take place in the Fire District rather than here, where the majority of the homes are. Now, there are only a few passersby coming home late, most of them with tired, dragging steps after a long day, and quiet cloaks the street. A quiet that is broken by a clear voice in quiet song. o/` Home is behind, the world ahead... And there are many paths to tread~ o/` The lamplight gleams off pale blonde hair and subdued robes in pale blue as Mary makes her way home into deep within the Wood district, step still light. It had been a long day, but the evening services the minor Canary priests had held had been lovely, almost enough to overcome the feeling of foreboding that had nagged at her all day. o/` Through shadow, to the edge of night~ o/` She sings, now, mostly to comfort herself; there is no power in her song, as she does not believe anyone to be listening. She sings to take her mind off the vestiges of unease, and for the pleasure of it--it's nice to actually be able to carry a tune now, unexpectedly so. And the night... simply seems to call for it. o/` Until the stars are all alight o/` (A TRAIN went through a burial gate,) Those that admire the moonless evening are those that wish to place themselves up to that high point where the moon once was, away from the gods and their demands, to a place where no one could touch them -- where their power reigned, and no will controls their destiny. Chrono couldn't see that place in the stars, not like Aion. That's why he was only a soldier. The smile that touches tanned lips is wry, rueful; Chrono should have been the sword that Aion would use to cut through all of the restraints. Now... now it is his sword he must use. All because of her. Because of-- (A bird broke forth and sang,) --... That voice. Is familiar. Too familiar. Aion's eyes widen a touch as the songs' words, that lovely voice, drift into his ears, (o/` Home behind, the world ahead... And there are many paths to tread~ o/`). His head snaps up. He has never heard her sing, but the voice is unmistakable. So... her, too. That shocked expression slips away. A cold, forced smirk replaces it as the man slowly straightens, stretches out his arms to either side of him as if emulated wings. (And trilled, and quivered, and shook her throat) The song dwindles, and ends. Broad, brown wings invade Mary's vision soon afterwards, the eye of a great bald eagle staring at her with one might think a hateful gave before swooping down RIGHT AT HER - and flying just over her head. Behind her... (Till all the churchyard rang) "Welcome back from the land of the dead..." The voice of Aion the Sinner is one of restrained amusement. Restrained, to hide the bitterness in his throat, "... Mary Magdalene." o/` Mist and shadow... o/` But no will does control destiny. Oh, perhaps one could say God had, at home, but... oddly enough, Mary had never been able to bring herself to believe in God. Not, at least, as he had been portrayed by theologians--all-powerful, all-compassionate, all-wise. She had seen too much to believe that whatever happened was for the good. o/` Cloud and shade o/` That whatever happened was inevitable, yes, but for the best? That, she cannot know--and does not want to venture a guess on, even. What is, is. That's enough. o/` All shall fade o/`To even say that destiny can be controlled feels... oxymoronic, at best. Old paths, old thoughts, treaded ceaselessly over and over and--enough. Not to be thought tonight. There is only the walk home, the anticipation of a meal and a warm bed, and to rise again tomorrow to repeat the same routine, comfortable and safe. o/` All shall-- o/` She cuts off abruptly as wings flare above her, and she halts in her steps as knowledge flares similarly in her mind. Looking up, she watches the eagle swoop down at her, and doesn't flinch at its descent, as the passage ruffles her hair and the shawl she holds instinctively close, as she turns and follows its track and swoop back to its master. Only then do her eyes widen in surprise, before a smile forms upon her lips and she steps forward, spreading her hands in welcome. "Aion! It's..." She only makes it a few steps forward before slowing uncertainly, hands drawing back until they rest clasped together on her breast, still once again. "...you," she finishes quietly--and even a touch uncertainly. This... this was not the Aion she knew. No. Rather, it /was/ the Aion she knew. But something had changed him, some event... and those words. The hatred and bitterness he exudes... ...surely--surely it could not have been so? The one to kill her was to have been Chrono, not Aion! Had something happened while she slept here? The uncertainty shakes her, and she can only manage a quiet, "I... was not aware I was supposed to be there. Yet." No will should control destiny, perhaps. But freedoms are controlled in most subtle ways every day. And in here, Aion's freedom has been suffocated by a link to his soul by a god who could care less who he is, as long as he plays the part given to him. That's why a hand reaches up towards heaven. Because he will be the one to make sure no one - ever - restrains him. He will be free. No matter what the costs. But Mary doesn't seem to remember that, does she? The bird perches on a white-clad arm that waits outstretched for it. Those magnificent wings spread wide, before closing in on themselves once more. This Aion is different from what she may remember. What does she remember? Does the violet eyes staring at her so harshly call to mind any memories she may have shut off? The hair is longer; a pair of glasses now rest where none had been before. But everything else, is him. This IS Aion, staring at the so-called prophet Mary Magdalene. Not as she remembers, but then... there are many things that aren't as she remembers them. Uncertainty pulls her back, and a smile so calm tugs at the corners of his lips. What was a dramatic moment is torn asunder as that smile becomes so much more casual - like old times. His eyes shut, and his head dips down, pressing tanned fingers firmly against his forehead. "What's the matter?" His eyes crack open, staring at her. Memories are remembered. Smiles and laughter, when--(You have lost your rank... Sinner.) "Have you forgotten something important?" That hand raises in the air, waves a dismissve gesture. Any hatred or bitterness is gone from his face. But not his soul. "Maybe you have. You can't seem to remember... don't worry." A step is taken to close the distance between the two. If she won't openly come to him... he'll come to her. "You can't see the truth even though you're a prophet, Mary? Don't close your eyes to it. The memories are in your soul." His hand presses firmly to his chest, "You... died." So. "Why is it that you're here, now?" Ah, but freedom is an illusion, is it not? One's actions are shaped every day--by the actions of those around oneself, by circumstance, by one's own inherent nature. Perhaps even his desire for freedom, his desire to break free of the gods who chose him and everyone else here is merely a product of those intermingling forces. It's never been an issue that troubled her, though--or if it did, she made her peace with it long ago. It appears, however, that he still has not. Whatever changes he may have undergone, he still searches for something, yearns for it--she can tell that even from here. It is writ deep upon him, and she reads it instinctively, just as she reads the bitterness he so easily disguises with his mask of false cheer. "I think rather," she says, as calmly as she is able, "that I have forgotten something I have yet to experience." She didn't even know that was possible, here--but why should she doubt? Time is a fluid thing, she of all should know that, and in a dream one would think it even more fluid still. But... to know the future is one thing, and to encounter it having already taken place is another. She holds her ground as he steps closer, her expression serene as she can make it--but there are hints of strain, in the tightness around her eyes and the set of her lips. And he speaks. And she has no reason to doubt it. She can hear the truth in his voice--more, she can feel it, as her soul unfolds, responding to the presence of a familiar soul. Her eyes close as memories slip quietly in-- but broken, fragmentary ones, whispers of the entire truth. Yes. She died, and by his hand--almost once, and certainly the second time. Her hands press closer to her breast, unconsciously mimicking Aion's gesture, as she remembers the pain of that--the hole torn through her, the pain of her soul being drawn upon--but why was her soul drawn upon? Questions upon questions, whose answers she does not know yet. Oddly, it is Aion's voice again that draws her back to the present, anchoring her here and now. Her eyes slide open, focusing on him, and she smiles. "... because someone thought I would be more useful here." Freedom is a conception. There are little concepts in this world, Dreaming or not, that can be considered more than an illusion. The pursuit of freedom lays entirely in the mind - as does the acceptances of enslavement. The acceptance of one's 'fate.' Since birth, Aion has never been one to so easily accept his fate. Time is not fluid here. It is stagnant, existing at all times and yet none. Life and death blur until they have no meaning anymore, no significance. The loss of the body does not matter, because heaven has control of your soul. So why is it such a bad thing that Aion would wish to reintroduce death into a world that has lost it's meaning? Why be so troubled over the man who reaches his hand out... to save you? Maybe it's because the hand is clawed, and a darkness and hatred swirl in the violet of his eyes. "It's a shame." Feet shift and trail against the hard street, the toes of Aion's boots trailing along against the ground as he walks. "I keep remembering things when I look into your eyes." You have lost your rank--your rank, you have los"Happier times." He closes his eyes and smiles, ruefully, the muscles of his lips forcefully tugging themselves upward, as if being countered by some unseen force. "It's really a bother, because when I look into those eyes of yours, I see him... smiling." (Chrono's really changed, hasn't he...) "Happy... but weak." She infected him with that weakness, the same weakness that let her... "Does she still sing inside your mind?" Does Mary remember? The song of Pandaemonium. It's grating his nerves to see her this way - breathing, that is. Alive. But it's not unexpected, so he simply takes it in stride. "I've come a long way, Mary. I've lost comrades and made enemies out of friends." Why does she have to be here? Why--his hand grasps the strap of the back slung carelessly on his shoulder. Long and thin. The eagle departs from its perch, flying into the sky to circle over them - like a vulture who circles around the scent of death. "All to bring me inevitably to this place, to this point. Isn't that so?" His hand grasps more firmly, even as the other grabs a hold of the zipper. One solid pull down, even as he slides the bag off with a firm toss, and out comes the Sinner's blade. Unopened for who knows how long. "So you're of more use here, then?" Even as he talks, fingers encircle the hilt of the airborne sword. They hold on firmly, and... It is the pointed end of a black blade that points very dangerously close to Mary's throat. "Show me then, what purpose you have that allows you to keep living. In that respect, then--only one among many--they stand far from one another, products of opposing ideas. The breaker and the chained of fate; the maker and the reader. The living and the dead, even, or the one who would reintroduce death and the one who would preserve life. Even if it weren't for that, though, his would not be a hand that she would take--for it is not salvation he offers. True death does not come here except to those who are ready for it, who tire of the struggle of life and want only to lay it to rest. Those who are not ready to die, who still have unfinished business to take care of or the will to keep going, still have that opportunity--to take that away would be only further cruelty. But then, that's never been a problem for him, has it? "Don't be ashamed to remember better times." Drawing her shawl closer about herself, she lowers her gaze for a moment--perhaps in recollection of those times, as well. After all, those remain her primary memories of him as yet--the new ones are there, but they are only a small portion against everything else, and too new besides. Lifting her eyes again, she adds quietly, "Happiness can be a greater strength than you know." Her eyes close momentarily in a smile, almost too cheerful. "I hear only the songs of the lives around me." Opening again, she regards his actions without surprise, that faint smile still hovering on her lips. "And I'm sorry you had to go through that." She even sounds sincere, inadequate though the words may be. "... if it was all to bring you to here, though, there must have been a reason... do you know it?" For she doesn't. Since comnig to the Dream, her certainty, her foresight, has been less than reliable; she cannot even see what lies in store in the next few moments. So it is that, with no concept of what the action might bring, she closes her eyes again, smile serene and apparently unheeding of the blade leveled at her throat, and sings. And are we yet alive and see each other's face? Glory and thanks to Jesus give for his almighty grace Preserved by power divine to full salvation here, again in Jesus' praise we join, and in his sight appear. What troubles have we seen, what mighty conflicts past, fightings without, and fears within, since we assembled last... This song, unlike the one before sung for her own pleasure, has power exerted through it; the melody carries with it a suggestion of calm and soothing, speaking to the spirit of warmth and comfort. Rest, it says; there is no need for anger or bitterness, no need for violence. But the power is not strong; it is merely a suggestion, and like any mental suggestion, resistable. The needs and wills of others mean little when faced with a will that is far stronger. In the end, it is his desire and ambition that drives him, not others. It is not Chrono's, it is not Sheda's, it is not any one else's but his own. So he does not need to worry about those he may hurt or kill in the end. There are those that will fight for him and die for him, and those that will stand against them. Chrono... Rosette. But he lives for a reason. And it is not to be a marionette tugged by the 'divine' strings of some great feathered deity. So how can she expect him to stop at signs of vague ideas such as cruelty? It is difficult for her, isn't it? To persist. What is it like, when the world isn't as clear as it once was? A new, exotic kind of vision problem in which the mind's eye of a prophet cannot see the future. "I'm not ashamed of better times." He's not. But... "I'm ashamed of what I allowed those 'better times' to do to my best soldier. It is your fault, after all... why he turned out the way he did." Flashes of memories. A young boy with violet hair and pale skin, a shade of his former self. But still there's that smile on Aion's lips. Confident, nonchalant. "Happiness is only an indulgence of those who can't see the truth." She hears no song of chaos and despair ringing in her mind. There is some semblence of relief that filters into his eyes, into his posture as it slackens ever so slightly, but it is for no positive reason; it just means that this is another potential problem that he won't have to deal with. Pandaemonium's head is hidden away; only he knows where it is. And it'll stay that way, too. Now he only has a few loose strings to take care of. "I don't need your apologies." It would be a snarl if not for the way the words flow off his lips. Composed as ever. "Because I do know my purpose. And it's something I will sacrifice everything for." But then why... Why does she have to sing...? The voice is like a comforting presence against his soul. It filters through his ears, slides through the very fiber of his being. There's something unnatural with it, he knows. Why... does he feel so compelled to lower his sword? Why does it feel so meaningless? "...stop that." Why does his hatred feel like its slipping away from him, his drive and his ambition? "Stop that." Why? She needs to stop singing now. NOW. "STOP, NOW!" Like glass what was once the man's composure and confidence shatters for a span of a few seconds. His knuckles pale as he presses the tip of his blade that much more firmly against the throat of a girl he might have once considered a friend. "I don't need your songs!" The growl rumbles from deep within his throat as his right eyebrow twitches. He doesn't /need it/! "Illusions of warmth and happiness are meaningless. You can't understand... so how can you hope to comfort me when I don't have any need for it?" His soul stirs once more, and his eyes blaze with life. "I know MY purpose. Do /you/?" It would be foolishness to expect it, indeed. Nor does she, really. But it would be foolishness to pretend that it is a matter of mercy and saving others, too, when it is only one's own desires that fuel one. It is difficult. But it is... almost interesting, in a way, even as she feels half-blind half of the time. There's a certain refreshing change in having no expectations or knowledge of what the future will hold, and isn't is a truism that ignorance is bliss? ...but all the same, it can't be said that she's the happiest she's ever been. Reasonably content, perhaps, but there still nags the feeling of business left undone at times, or sadness at the thought of friends left behind. Or in front, as it were... although he no longer qualifies as a friend. Certainly, no friend would press a blade against her throat, hard enough to cut off her singing, just barely enough to open a thin, hairlike line of red. Her eyes tighten, the smile slipping and vanishing, but she remains where she stands. There's no point in running, after all--he's much faster, and even if she took to the air, he could follow. Death is impermanent, anyway--and while she would not relish the pain of it, she wouldn't flinch from it, either. "If you need no comfort," she says instead, voice slightly breathy from the pressure, "... then why is your anger so strong?" Lifting her hands, she reaches for the blade of the sword, seeking to lay her fingers gently on the flat of the blade and lightly guide it downward. "I have shown you my purpose; it is not my doing if you can't--or won't--accept it." In this place, Mary finds some measure of contentment, at least. Aion does not. Maybe she resigns herself to the "divine" entity that rests a part of its will within her soul, but this man doesn't. He is... incomplete. But this encounter is just another step on the journey he will take to becoming whole. Another step to shedding the skin of old and... /ascending/... into something new. And a part of that step is abandoning the ties of old. This is just another necessity, and the Sinner reminds himself of that as the sword presses hard against Mary's soft, pale throat. It would be pathetically easy to just slide it through. He could see it, too. But what would that accomplish beyond some meager sense of self-satisfaction? ... No. Even as power tinges around his fingers and the blade presses ever the close, ever the harder, the demon allows himself another small smile once more. There's not a slight bit of resistance as Mary presses her hands down against the blade. In fact, the tan-skinned man draws it away by himself after a moment, taking a step back. There is silence, even as he slides the weapon once more into its bag, zips it up securely and slings it on his shoulder once more. "Ah, Mary." The name is said with a chuckle, as if in a light-hearted reprimand. His eyes shut gently closed and he runs a hand through his white hair in a way that suggests he finds what she says... comical. "Is this /really/ your purpose here? There's nothing missing? I wonder..." His head lifts and straightens, even as he turns her back to her, shrugging his shoulders in a most casual manner. "... but I guess it doesn't really matter. You're not part of the equation anymore. Enjoy your comfortable neutrality here." Hands are shoved into the pockets of his pants, and Aion walks away. Cutting off another string. "Next time we meet, the circumstances will be entirely different." There's an involuntary swallow as the sword finally withdraws from her throat, but she resists the urge to touch the line of pain across her skin. It's not deep enough to be threatening in any way, and it's not bleeding copiously, so it'll handle itself for just a little longer. Instead, her hands drop before her again and she watches him put away the sword, expression just slightly sad. It's an expression that alters slightly, into a tinge of surprise, at his gently reprimanding question. "I..." She would be lying if she denied it entirely. Perhaps it is the purpose that she was intended for by Canary; but she can't deny that it feels like there's something... not quite complete about remaining here and bringing comfort to others with her words and actions. That it is a worthy purpose is undeniable. That it doesn't completely fulfill her is also undeniable. "... it is enough," she finally says. For now. Perhaps something else will come along, as Aion did, to give her a different purpose-- but right now, it is sufficient. Turning slightly to watch him go, only then does she reach up briefly to touch the cut at her throat. Her fingertips come away red, but little more. "If we meet again," she says to his back. There is a finality in his words that she doesn't fully understand... what is he planning? And... would she ever encounter him again? "I... thank you." For happening to be there. For giving her back a little of what she had forgotten, however unpleasant. And, perhaps, for shaking her out of the comfortable routine she's been lulled into. Perhaps there will not be a change in it, but at the least... she is aware of it now. And really, perhaps that was her purpose for encountering him tonight.