(no subject)
Title: (no title yet)
Fandom: Infinite Undiscovery
Characters: Edward, mention of Capell, Eugene, Aya and obviously Sigmund. You can't have an Ed piece without at least mentioning him.
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: PG?
Summary: Edward finds a new purpose, for better or for worse. VESPLUME SPOILERS.
He'd never felt so hopelessly lost in his life. He'd said he would continue; he knew that was what his Lord would have wished of him, what would be expected of him. It was the right thing to do. It was the just thing to do.
What does justice matter? He's dead. Edward berated himself for even thinking it, though it was true; they'd had days to grow accustomed to the idea that Sigmund was never coming back. Eugene had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence, only speaking when necessary and always in those soft, hurt tones. Edward would have pitied him if he wasn't so busy pitying himself.
Aya had come to him the night after Sigmund's death, as they had just escaped Vesplume. It had been sudden and accidental; he'd volunteered to fetch firewood, if only to escape the sight of Eugene going through Sigmund's belongings to fit that imposter with his Lord's clothes. Edward could see the practicality of the situation, and even as angry as he was he could see the worry and uncertainty on Capell's face.
But that didn't make it any better.
So he'd taken to the woods as an escape, let himself rage and scrape the skin of his knuckles raw against a rock face, let himself clutch and claw and sink to his knees in tears, shaking and feeling younger and smaller than he had when he'd cowered before that Gigas, more pitiful than when he'd hunkered down on the floor beside his father's corpse. More alone than he had in his life.
What was the use? Sigmund was dead. Edward had nearly turned right then, nearly turned from the camp and wandered off aimlessly through the highlands, not knowing whether he would go back to Burgusstadt or just let himself walk until he collapsed and found either Sigmund or his own death. He didn't know; he just knew that if he left, he'd be no worse off than if he stayed.
And then Aya found him.
He'd scrambled to his feet then, scrubbed furiously at his cheeks and snapped out a hateful response, knowing she didn't deserve it. He didn't care. He'd wanted everyone to hurt as much as he hurt at that moment, he wanted everyone to be in agony. No one should be allowed any shred of happiness while Sigmund was dead, least of all those he held dear to him. Those who should have protected him, Edward himself included.
Then he realized that she was crying.
She'd hiccupped at the comment, and Edward wasn't quite sure if she'd even heard it; her lips were trembling, her hands almost clasped at her chest, hovering but not quite reaching, as if unsure whether or not to complete the gesture. She was standing there like a saint or a priestess in the moonlight and in a dark fit of anger that Edward later felt shame for, he wanted to destroy her for still being beautiful when Sigmund was dead. "Edward," she choked out, and trembled again. She didn't move, didn't even take a step towards him, but it was almost as if she was holding out her arms for him to fall into. He was torn between turning and leaving and never coming back, and collapsing against her. He noticed vaguely that he'd begun to cry again, but didn't bother wiping the tears away, only glaring and sucking in a stuttering breath whenever his chest burned too much to bear.
"Edward-" And this time Aya came to him, a few cautious steps at first, as if he were a wild animal, before closing the distance with a frantic dash, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his chin to her shoulder with a sob. Edward hadn't moved; he'd expected denials of Sigmund's death, a plead for reassurance, maybe nothing at all; just sobs.
What he got surprised him: she apologized.
"Edward, I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry-" She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask her too. Her fingers curled in his hair and he remembered lifting his arms to wrap around her then; she was so very small, she really was. And Edward knew that all he had to do was twist and he'd break her spine, but at that moment the stronger between the two of them was Aya, and she carefully held him together so he wouldn't break apart.
He shuddered, buried his face against her shoulder and fiercely swallowed a whimper, though he couldn't completely choke the sob that followed. And she apologized again, and Edward thought that she knew everything at that moment, that all the stars had spoken to her and whispered and told her how much he hurt. She wasn't apologizing for his loss, not like mourners always do when they don't understand. She wasn't even really apologizing; but the words didn't matter, he knew what she meant and she knew that he knew and that just make the tears come hotter. He sank to his knees, arms around her waist, face against her stomach and let himself weep, and she held his head, stroked his hair and he'd never felt more grateful towards the girl he considered his sister in his life.
Now, nearly a week later, isolated and alone in a room that she'd insisted he have in the palace, he paced. The imposter had come and gone; he'd had the gall to walk into the room with those clothes and that armor and that face, had the nerve to give Edward the hope that maybe, just maybe, Sigmund hadn't died. That he'd caught up with them, that he was there to either scold Edward for behaving so shamefully or praise him for continuing in his duty.
But he'd ruined it with that stupid smile. Lord Sigmund would never have made a face like that. Or ducked his head at a reprimand. Edward gritted his teeth at the thought and his hands clutched the edge of the table as he contemplated heaving it across the room. He knew he'd be banished from the palace for it and that Aya would catch the flak, but he thought for a moment that it would be worth it.
No, no. No. Lord Sigmund would never have approved of such behavior.
Edward forced himself to relax, and instead moved to sit on the edge of his bed. His hands rested on his knees, then moved to the bed, back to his knees, and he balled them into fists atop his legs when he couldn't decide where to put them. Why, why why?!
"Lord Sigmund..." Edward dropped his chin and whispered, and his eyes burned again. He blinked, twice and three times, and his inhale shuddered and he couldn't help himself. "What do I do...?"
Sigmund would have told him to continue the mission. He would have said that the world was depending on his strength; Edward liked to think he knew enough about his Lord to say that with confidence, but somewhere he only wished that Sigmund would once, just once speak to him with the same concern and- and love he'd shown that double, that worthless lookalike. If he was Capell...if he was as dear to Sigmund as Capell was, what would Sigmund have said?
It hurt. Veros above, it hurt to think something like that, but Edward couldn't stop himself. Sigmund would give Edward those gentle eyes, his tone would soften, his words would drop less clipped but more cryptically affectionate, and he'd say, "Do what you think is right."
Would he have said that? Edward wanted to die, if only to ask Sigmund if he would.
"Wh-what do I do...?" Edward covered his face, hands shaking, and he sobbed with the intensity of someone beyond caring. His breath was hot and wet in his hands and he felt like a mess, like something puffed up but he couldn't stop crying, and everything pushed in his voice hard enough to make it break and choke and tumble over itself like a rockslide. That's what Edward was; he was a rockslide. He was a ruin of what he once was, the tops of mountains cracked and tumbling down in a steep collapse. He was nothing. He was a hindrance. He was worse than nothing, worth nothing, and nobody would treasure him as he'd treasured Sigmund. How could they? Edward's pillar had collapsed and left him a ruin of a castle, left him bereft of support, left him worse than drifting. He was stagnant. He was still. "Wh-what-" He couldn't even complete the sentence, and choked on it until he coughed, feeling the tears and salt and mucus in the back of his throat and swallowing in disgust.
Turning and throwing himself onto the bed, he snatched up a pillow to muffle his misery, not even motivated enough to stand and lock the door. If anyone in the palace had any decency they would leave him the hell alone. Clearly such a concept was lost on Capell, and the memory of that fake Lord Sigmund with that pathetic expression made Edward physically curl up in agony, clutching at the pillow so tightly that had it bones, they would break.
Edward knew at that moment that he would never be whole again.
The thought was so horrifying that Edward briefly -for just a moment- contemplated finding the highest balcony and flinging himself off of it. He would certainly not be permitted to the same afterlife Sigmund had been blessed with, but at least he'd be rid of the sudden fear that clutched and clawed at his insides, stole his breath and his sight and left him feeling wrung out.
But no, no. No. He wasn't that weak. Lord Sigmund had entrusted the Force with the task of breaking the chains, and he couldn't let loss -however great- interfere with that. He couldn't. He had to complete what Sigmund started, complete it in his name, spread the word of Sigmund's glory and...what?
What then?
Wither away, alone?
...it didn't matter. So long as their task was complete.
If Edward couldn't fulfill his Lord's wishes as he'd lived, he would use his every last breath to fulfill them after his death. Sigmund would accomplish what he set out to do, what he'd be prepared to give his life for, what he had given his life for. The Order would not triumph over Sigmund; Edward would slaughter every last soldier in his memory, especially the Dreadknight.
The mere thought of Leonid squeezed Edward's jaw shut so tight that his teeth ground, and when he released them they ached. He hated...hated the Dreadknight, more than anything, more than anyone. He would kill the Dreadknight; he would make Leonid suffer for what he took, he would rob Leonid of everything precious to him and then slowly, slowly introduce him to a death he would find no solace in, no peace. Edward would send him to a hell ten times more painful than anything he could experience in the afterlife before ending him.
Leonid would beg for mercy, and Edward would show him none.
His fist clenched in resolve; he had a goal. Yes, he would fulfill Sigmund's wishes, yes, they would break the chains and free the moon. Of course they would do these things. But Edward's goal, Edward's purpose...was to torment the Dreadknight to his dying breath. It was dark, perhaps, but it was justified. Sigmund probably wouldn't have approved; he'd have encouraged a quick, clean death, always the knight of white, always the purest and surest. Always the best.
Sigmund.
The Liberator.
Edward would be what Sigmund couldn't be; he would help destroy the chains with the Force, and Sigmund's name and legacy would carry on with them and bask in that glory and reverence, and everyone would praise him. But Edward...Edward didn't care if he sank into a world of immorality, twisted and dark, so long as he took the Dreadknight with him. His goal, his purpose, the meaning of Edward's life -now that his Lord, whom he'd pledged his life to, was gone- was to end the life of his Lord's killer. It wasn't noble, it wasn't self-sacrificial and it wasn't in any way clean and righteous.
But it was his.
"Forgive me," Edward whispered, and he felt tired. "Forgive me, Lord Sigmund."
His hand throbbed.
Fandom: Infinite Undiscovery
Characters: Edward, mention of Capell, Eugene, Aya and obviously Sigmund. You can't have an Ed piece without at least mentioning him.
Genre: Drama, Angst
Rating: PG?
Summary: Edward finds a new purpose, for better or for worse. VESPLUME SPOILERS.
He'd never felt so hopelessly lost in his life. He'd said he would continue; he knew that was what his Lord would have wished of him, what would be expected of him. It was the right thing to do. It was the just thing to do.
What does justice matter? He's dead. Edward berated himself for even thinking it, though it was true; they'd had days to grow accustomed to the idea that Sigmund was never coming back. Eugene had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence, only speaking when necessary and always in those soft, hurt tones. Edward would have pitied him if he wasn't so busy pitying himself.
Aya had come to him the night after Sigmund's death, as they had just escaped Vesplume. It had been sudden and accidental; he'd volunteered to fetch firewood, if only to escape the sight of Eugene going through Sigmund's belongings to fit that imposter with his Lord's clothes. Edward could see the practicality of the situation, and even as angry as he was he could see the worry and uncertainty on Capell's face.
But that didn't make it any better.
So he'd taken to the woods as an escape, let himself rage and scrape the skin of his knuckles raw against a rock face, let himself clutch and claw and sink to his knees in tears, shaking and feeling younger and smaller than he had when he'd cowered before that Gigas, more pitiful than when he'd hunkered down on the floor beside his father's corpse. More alone than he had in his life.
What was the use? Sigmund was dead. Edward had nearly turned right then, nearly turned from the camp and wandered off aimlessly through the highlands, not knowing whether he would go back to Burgusstadt or just let himself walk until he collapsed and found either Sigmund or his own death. He didn't know; he just knew that if he left, he'd be no worse off than if he stayed.
And then Aya found him.
He'd scrambled to his feet then, scrubbed furiously at his cheeks and snapped out a hateful response, knowing she didn't deserve it. He didn't care. He'd wanted everyone to hurt as much as he hurt at that moment, he wanted everyone to be in agony. No one should be allowed any shred of happiness while Sigmund was dead, least of all those he held dear to him. Those who should have protected him, Edward himself included.
Then he realized that she was crying.
She'd hiccupped at the comment, and Edward wasn't quite sure if she'd even heard it; her lips were trembling, her hands almost clasped at her chest, hovering but not quite reaching, as if unsure whether or not to complete the gesture. She was standing there like a saint or a priestess in the moonlight and in a dark fit of anger that Edward later felt shame for, he wanted to destroy her for still being beautiful when Sigmund was dead. "Edward," she choked out, and trembled again. She didn't move, didn't even take a step towards him, but it was almost as if she was holding out her arms for him to fall into. He was torn between turning and leaving and never coming back, and collapsing against her. He noticed vaguely that he'd begun to cry again, but didn't bother wiping the tears away, only glaring and sucking in a stuttering breath whenever his chest burned too much to bear.
"Edward-" And this time Aya came to him, a few cautious steps at first, as if he were a wild animal, before closing the distance with a frantic dash, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling his chin to her shoulder with a sob. Edward hadn't moved; he'd expected denials of Sigmund's death, a plead for reassurance, maybe nothing at all; just sobs.
What he got surprised him: she apologized.
"Edward, I'm sorry; I'm so, so sorry-" She didn't elaborate, and he didn't ask her too. Her fingers curled in his hair and he remembered lifting his arms to wrap around her then; she was so very small, she really was. And Edward knew that all he had to do was twist and he'd break her spine, but at that moment the stronger between the two of them was Aya, and she carefully held him together so he wouldn't break apart.
He shuddered, buried his face against her shoulder and fiercely swallowed a whimper, though he couldn't completely choke the sob that followed. And she apologized again, and Edward thought that she knew everything at that moment, that all the stars had spoken to her and whispered and told her how much he hurt. She wasn't apologizing for his loss, not like mourners always do when they don't understand. She wasn't even really apologizing; but the words didn't matter, he knew what she meant and she knew that he knew and that just make the tears come hotter. He sank to his knees, arms around her waist, face against her stomach and let himself weep, and she held his head, stroked his hair and he'd never felt more grateful towards the girl he considered his sister in his life.
Now, nearly a week later, isolated and alone in a room that she'd insisted he have in the palace, he paced. The imposter had come and gone; he'd had the gall to walk into the room with those clothes and that armor and that face, had the nerve to give Edward the hope that maybe, just maybe, Sigmund hadn't died. That he'd caught up with them, that he was there to either scold Edward for behaving so shamefully or praise him for continuing in his duty.
But he'd ruined it with that stupid smile. Lord Sigmund would never have made a face like that. Or ducked his head at a reprimand. Edward gritted his teeth at the thought and his hands clutched the edge of the table as he contemplated heaving it across the room. He knew he'd be banished from the palace for it and that Aya would catch the flak, but he thought for a moment that it would be worth it.
No, no. No. Lord Sigmund would never have approved of such behavior.
Edward forced himself to relax, and instead moved to sit on the edge of his bed. His hands rested on his knees, then moved to the bed, back to his knees, and he balled them into fists atop his legs when he couldn't decide where to put them. Why, why why?!
"Lord Sigmund..." Edward dropped his chin and whispered, and his eyes burned again. He blinked, twice and three times, and his inhale shuddered and he couldn't help himself. "What do I do...?"
Sigmund would have told him to continue the mission. He would have said that the world was depending on his strength; Edward liked to think he knew enough about his Lord to say that with confidence, but somewhere he only wished that Sigmund would once, just once speak to him with the same concern and- and love he'd shown that double, that worthless lookalike. If he was Capell...if he was as dear to Sigmund as Capell was, what would Sigmund have said?
It hurt. Veros above, it hurt to think something like that, but Edward couldn't stop himself. Sigmund would give Edward those gentle eyes, his tone would soften, his words would drop less clipped but more cryptically affectionate, and he'd say, "Do what you think is right."
Would he have said that? Edward wanted to die, if only to ask Sigmund if he would.
"Wh-what do I do...?" Edward covered his face, hands shaking, and he sobbed with the intensity of someone beyond caring. His breath was hot and wet in his hands and he felt like a mess, like something puffed up but he couldn't stop crying, and everything pushed in his voice hard enough to make it break and choke and tumble over itself like a rockslide. That's what Edward was; he was a rockslide. He was a ruin of what he once was, the tops of mountains cracked and tumbling down in a steep collapse. He was nothing. He was a hindrance. He was worse than nothing, worth nothing, and nobody would treasure him as he'd treasured Sigmund. How could they? Edward's pillar had collapsed and left him a ruin of a castle, left him bereft of support, left him worse than drifting. He was stagnant. He was still. "Wh-what-" He couldn't even complete the sentence, and choked on it until he coughed, feeling the tears and salt and mucus in the back of his throat and swallowing in disgust.
Turning and throwing himself onto the bed, he snatched up a pillow to muffle his misery, not even motivated enough to stand and lock the door. If anyone in the palace had any decency they would leave him the hell alone. Clearly such a concept was lost on Capell, and the memory of that fake Lord Sigmund with that pathetic expression made Edward physically curl up in agony, clutching at the pillow so tightly that had it bones, they would break.
Edward knew at that moment that he would never be whole again.
The thought was so horrifying that Edward briefly -for just a moment- contemplated finding the highest balcony and flinging himself off of it. He would certainly not be permitted to the same afterlife Sigmund had been blessed with, but at least he'd be rid of the sudden fear that clutched and clawed at his insides, stole his breath and his sight and left him feeling wrung out.
But no, no. No. He wasn't that weak. Lord Sigmund had entrusted the Force with the task of breaking the chains, and he couldn't let loss -however great- interfere with that. He couldn't. He had to complete what Sigmund started, complete it in his name, spread the word of Sigmund's glory and...what?
What then?
Wither away, alone?
...it didn't matter. So long as their task was complete.
If Edward couldn't fulfill his Lord's wishes as he'd lived, he would use his every last breath to fulfill them after his death. Sigmund would accomplish what he set out to do, what he'd be prepared to give his life for, what he had given his life for. The Order would not triumph over Sigmund; Edward would slaughter every last soldier in his memory, especially the Dreadknight.
The mere thought of Leonid squeezed Edward's jaw shut so tight that his teeth ground, and when he released them they ached. He hated...hated the Dreadknight, more than anything, more than anyone. He would kill the Dreadknight; he would make Leonid suffer for what he took, he would rob Leonid of everything precious to him and then slowly, slowly introduce him to a death he would find no solace in, no peace. Edward would send him to a hell ten times more painful than anything he could experience in the afterlife before ending him.
Leonid would beg for mercy, and Edward would show him none.
His fist clenched in resolve; he had a goal. Yes, he would fulfill Sigmund's wishes, yes, they would break the chains and free the moon. Of course they would do these things. But Edward's goal, Edward's purpose...was to torment the Dreadknight to his dying breath. It was dark, perhaps, but it was justified. Sigmund probably wouldn't have approved; he'd have encouraged a quick, clean death, always the knight of white, always the purest and surest. Always the best.
Sigmund.
The Liberator.
Edward would be what Sigmund couldn't be; he would help destroy the chains with the Force, and Sigmund's name and legacy would carry on with them and bask in that glory and reverence, and everyone would praise him. But Edward...Edward didn't care if he sank into a world of immorality, twisted and dark, so long as he took the Dreadknight with him. His goal, his purpose, the meaning of Edward's life -now that his Lord, whom he'd pledged his life to, was gone- was to end the life of his Lord's killer. It wasn't noble, it wasn't self-sacrificial and it wasn't in any way clean and righteous.
But it was his.
"Forgive me," Edward whispered, and he felt tired. "Forgive me, Lord Sigmund."
His hand throbbed.