It’s weird, he thinks, or rather, it feels weird. Yet, it should not. There should be nothing strange about it at all. There never was before, so why should now be any different?
Yet it is, somehow. All the same, it is nothing but a mere echo, disregarded, yet regarded.
On an emotional level, it demands no special attention, because to feel anything about it would be wrong. That is how things have always been, and that is how things shall always be, for one who walks the path he chose at the mere age of six.
Back then, it was chosen out of ignorance, certainly, for it was ignorant then to assume that knowing that which no one else does would imply positives and adventure as it was always told in children’s stories, when those stories did not exist to frighten children away from danger.
Such was far from the reality, but in order to meet reality, fantasy must be broken. His may have been broken more sharply and drastically than most of his age, but he wouldn’t necessarily say he regrets it. Hard though the task may have been, he’s learned to take pride in knowing more than his peers all the same, no matter if knowing what others do not means facing the ugly truth head on and standing firm without flinching.
Yet all the same, its a curious thing, the oddity of it. The source of such oddity, though indeed unusual, is not unknown to him. No, the Junior Bookman is always aware of where its roots lie, no matter if the Name chooses to act in denial or not, but as he has done before, and will do many times again, those roots will inevitably be torn from their foundation.
True, that even such an echo should exist at this point is an anomaly to the natural order as the Junior Bookman knows it. Then again, for any Name to have existed for such a long span as near three years is likewise anomalous, and so it only stands to reason that a divergence detrimental to his task would develop.
Regardless, the divergence is possible enough to remedy.
Thankfully, though still not perfect by the end, the last Name took at least some semblance of appropriate steps to find his path and fall in line again, and that small favor made the job of transitioning easier than the Junior Bookman had once thought the task would be.
Of course, this may have yet not been quite so possible had events transpired differently, had the 49th Name been allowed to continue to stray off of his path. Ironic, then, that this should finish what began then, but the mere coincidence of that means nothing.
Those events, and the events now, though related, were not directly responsible for one or the other. Yet all the same, perhaps they are humorous. He does not think the previous Name would agree, or at least the one that came after the 48th, before the 48th took his place until the record could be finished, but that mattered little.
No, what truly mattered at its core, that he came to know the moment of conception, was that the 49th failed. Only in his last moments, only in stepping down and allowing the 48th to resume what he could not, did he truly realize his mistake and act in a manner acceptable to his position. He could not handle the task, so he removed himself, even if in removing himself, there was little room for any other option.
For where one failed, so too did the other, in a manner previously unrealized and opposite the failure of the 49th. Where the 49th succeeded, and the others before failed, was in realizing that though it more easily enforced that there were to be no attachments, to hate all that humans were was its own breed of bias.
In that way, there were no true Names ready to rank themselves a proper Bookman, but he realized these flaws. Through the Name that was “Deak”, who was the last remaining Name before himself, and was there in that pivotal moment of realization when “Lavi” ceased to be, he could surmise where each had their own faults, and by extension, he could appreciate the true gravity of how difficult his task would be.
True, though the Junior Bookman had lived in this manner for thirteen or some years, as the youngest of the Names, and having few previous Names to draw experience from, Haye could honestly say that what he would need do was intimidating.
Intimidating, surely, but then war is Hell, and the Junior Bookman has survived worse. More than that, he has adapted, until such becomes normalcy, and though moments of quiet are a good reprieve, such peace can be paradoxically unnerving when one is used to the din.
Somehow, though, he does not believe that such disquiet will last. Not with how events have chained together and become firmly entangled. He, too, isn’t sure exactly how much he hasn’t been snared beyond what would be acceptable in most instances, but then this war is nothing like any other that the Junior Bookman has previously recorded.
And in such musings, he realizes too, that he is anomalous in the way of Names as well, for it is indeed a rarity to have two Names responsible for recording the same war, even if in this instance he has gone from one side to the other.
Such is what inspires the tickle of uneasiness he knows should not exist, but it does all the same, because the previous Name was involved. He fought, and he bonded, and he ached, and that is the most unusual of all.
And while on this side, as a mere human, he may not find a need to fight… to look for enemies in every crowd, he may still come into contact with faces who knew the previous Name, and they will have questions, and they will feel things, exhibit emotional reactions that the Junior Bookman has thus far been able to avoid in previous records in all but a few rare instances.
And that may become a problem.
However, that problem is neither here nor there, a bridge he may never need cross, although he suspects such is likely.
What he need concern himself with now is that his body still needs rest, his chest still aching from the blows that the Noah – this Name’s allies – delivered when Bookman and the previous Name were held hostage, and filling gaps in his knowledge of the Family of Noah that were previously impossible to fill.
Such finds him quietly studying some texts Bookman was able to obtain, though what they have managed to barter for is unsatisfyingly sparse. Where the Order has always kept lengthy documentation of their activities (though difficult to get access to), the Noah keeps near none, and talking to many of its members is little better on account that their Noah memories are fractured from the attempted slaughter committed by the Fourteenth many years prior.
Often, it seems, from what subtle hints Haye can gather, Bookman knows more than they do. That was, after all, why he and Bookman were captured in the first place. However, though Bookman did make arrangements to share his knowledge, so that their line might continue to exist, Haye knows the old man well.
Bookman is still keeping secrets, even from him, even from the Demon Eye Noah who can delve deep into one’s mind, and that, perhaps, may be for the better that he does not know. Though well trained in his mental barricades, as the Noah of Dreams once showed, they aren’t enough of a safeguard.
When he’s ready to know, Bookman will tell him. Until then, its best if he keeps his head down, listens, and observes.
Since arriving in this place he had heard this word more than the rest of his life combined and it somehow managed to still make him feel sick every time. There was no such thing and people that thought otherwise were delusional. Not that he could really expect anything less from those sheep.
That’s all they were, sheep.
Okay so there was notable exception to this less than flattering view of the human race as a whole but the boy didn’t even know where that singular person was and had no real hope of ever seeing him again. And that was perhaps the worst part of this, the rest of it he could deal with because honestly, he didn’t care but as much as he tried he couldn’t convince himself that he didn’t care whether or not Crevan was still a part of his life.
Such was the musing of young Rafe Faolan, the boy currently wandering down a hallway in a seemingly endless structure. He didn’t even really know most of the layout himself but then again, he didn’t really care about that either. It did at least make it easier to sort of evade the other people that he shared this space with…mainly Road because she liked to play games that were more annoying than anything else.
Others said they were painful…sadistic…but Rafe was in the minority on that one.
But then again he was a masochist so there was that.
This part of his personality had developed more as a self-preservation thing than anything else but it seemed to be a permanent addition at this point.
I wonder where all those pains in the ass are…
This was the thought that went through his mind as he continued his aimless walking. He wasn’t aware of anything that was currently going on, he was more or less being left to just get used to the place. As the newest member of this so-called Clan of Noah he really didn’t know anything except that for whatever reason these people wanted him around. Not fool enough to think that it was because they cared in any way for someone that they had just met Rafe knew that it was instead because they thought that he could be in some way useful to them.
Rafe knew that it was because of the strange powers that had made an emergence after his father pushed him over the brink from which there was no return. That was what had brought those strange people to him in the first place.
But that didn’t mean that he had any idea what they could want with that or even how he could use them in the first place.
All of this was vastly confusing to him.
Unassuming in appearance the boy, who was a mere eleven years old though he looked even younger than that because of his living conditions up to this point, had messy mahogany hair that partially obscured his right eye piercing eyes that were a gray-blue in color.
In his other form he had dark gray hair and chilling gold eyes.
And those weird marks across his forehead.
Rafe had no way of explaining any of that and at first he had chalked it up to a hallucination or something along those lines. The product of a mind that had been pushed far beyond its breaking point and was now somehow separated from reality. Actually that was still how he felt about the situation in general, on some level the boy was still waiting to just wake up and discover that he was actually in an institution somewhere.
A murder and an insane one at that but not a part of some war against a God that he didn’t even believe in.
Actually everything that he had heard since his arrival in this place seemed to substantiate the fact that he was completely insane at this point and trapped in his own mind. A mind that was producing the weirdest dream that was possible. A dream that was perhaps meant to further torture him with the only thing that he wanted and the one thing that he could never again have.
The brother that he cherished.
Crevan was the one good thing in a life that had been marked with torture and tragedy. The one thing that had been keeping his fragile mind together. A fact that was proven by the fact that his mind shattered the moment that this stabilizing force was taken away from him.
His mind flashed back to the day when those strange people dressed in black had appeared as he and his brother were walking home from school. They had shown absolutely no interest in him but with his brother…oh there had been interest all right. So much so that they snatched the smaller boy up and whisked him away, saying something about him being chosen.
Rafe suspected that this was because of those strange wings and the claims that his brother was an angel that went along with their appearance.
Whatever the reason his brother was gone after that and that was yet another thing that his father had blamed him for. Not that the man cared one bit about the other boy on a personal level, he just didn’t appreciate the fact that his favorite victim had been taken away from him and that Rafe himself had been unable to prevent that from happening.
A stupid thought really but then that man had never had a rational thought in his life.
As far as Rafe was concerned anyway.
I guess maybe I should be grateful to my own insanity…at least in this twisted dream world I was able to get some revenge against that bastard. I’m gonna be disappointed when I wake up and realize that it wasn’t real but for now it’s such a lovely memory.
Probably one of the single best ones that he had.
Which made it even more of a shame that it was just a hallucination conjured up by his shattered and depraved mind.
Rafe stopped walking at this point, his gaze sweeping his surroundings and then his face fell slightly as he realized that he had no idea where he even was. “How the hell does someone even manage to get lost walking in a straight line?” he grumbled as he looked around, shaking his head and then walking over to a random door. If walking in a straight line didn’t work then he’d just open doors until he found…something.
He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.
A cure for insanity maybe.
As if such a thing existed.
“As long as I don’t get impaled by a candle I’ll be doing good,” Rafe muttered, shaking his head and wondering how the hell his mind had conjured up a girl with powers that were reminiscent of a deranged birthday party or something. That was one of life’s greatest mysteries and he was thinking that once he figured that one out he would be one step closer to regaining some semblance of sanity.
Which was why he wasn’t trying too hard to make sense of it.
Sanity was overrated and he was just fine without it.
“Anyone home?” he called out as he stepped inside, his voice that of a child but it still managed to have a cold edge to it that wasn’t really something one would identify as a child-like trait. There were many such things that marked Rafe as different from other children, his eyes reminiscent of those of a soldier rather than those of a child that was meant to be innocent.
Innocence was something that he lacked in every way imaginable.
“Also, if you plan on impaling me, try to make it fatal this time,” he added as an afterthought, a shadow passing over his eyes as he spoke these words and remembered the last time that he’d walked into a random room that had turned out to be so much more than that.
A yawn breaks internal musings and recollections, the Junior Bookman setting aside his reading with the pages facing down and spine slightly risen as a result.
Rough fingers – hands calloused from a life of many things; of writing; of scrambling over the shattered terrain of battlefields; of fighting back when he had been Lavi the Exorcist – raised to his face to massage the pits of his eyes.
Eyes, plural, as he took a moment to raise the eye patch he normally kept in place, more relaxed about uncovering it with no one around. Even when he was back with the Order, or rather, when the previous name had been, it had been off-limits even to the nurses.
Bookman secret and all that. No one was allowed near that eye. Why? Well, that’s his secret also.
The rough, circular motions and pressure felt nice, his normally visible eye aching just a touch, and his unused eye appreciating the stimulation.
Eye patch put back in place, he rested his hands on his lap and tilted his head back, single eye going to the ceiling tiredly. It was so quiet. Even Gramps was nowhere near at the moment, just him and the soft flicker of candles lighting the room.
He wasn’t really complaining, per se. The quiet was nice, in its own way, even if his mind stayed alert for the sound of battle, out of conditioning if nothing else. He couldn’t quite relax, especially not here, where the echoes of Lavi told him to be wary, that this was a den of enemies, but he droned it out, pushed it to the back of his mind.
Bookmen don’t have enemies. They have acquaintances, and there are sides, but a Bookman, or Junior Bookman, in his case, doesn’t choose sides. They’re neutral. They’re only observers. Friends and enemies implies bias, and that is not what he is or can be.
Yet – that echo reminds, intrusive and unwanted – others won’t see it that way. Those higher up in the Order, such as Central Administration and Head Chief Komui Lee, had known early on that he and Bookman being a part of the Order was a temporary arrangement, albeit longer lasting than most involvements before had ever been. They were always meant to move on, perhaps when the war ended, if it ended at all any time soon, or whenever Bookman deemed it necessary.
The second, was, of course, more of Bookman’s own reasoning than any defined agreement. After all, the Black Order isn’t very good about letting people leave, but Bookman is old, and experienced, and smarter than anyone else he knows. It wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted them to be more involved than they had already been. They know how to disappear.
However, be that as it may that the Order understood that they, as Bookmen, would inevitably leave at some point, he was sure that it hadn’t been in their intentions to allow it had they thought that he and Bookman would have traded sides, as they would see it.
The higher ups then would have problem with it. They wouldn’t be convenient allies anymore. They would be a hindrance. They would be enemies now. Yet, all the same, could they really be blamed for the position they were in? Or would the Order have just expected them to accept death for their cause?
He snorted faintly at the idea, that bringing a small, mirthless smile to his face.
Of course they would expect he and Bookman to die for that. They’re humans. They’re arrogant and selfish. The thought forms, and too late does he try to shake it away, realizing he’s already started to fall back on Deak’s failed, flawed, negative bias. He can’t do that. Sure, it isn’t attachment, but its bitterness, and that has ties to emotions he shouldn’t have.
It doesn’t matter. Circumstances are what they are. Why feel anything about them?
But the matter does not solely concern those of high authority within the Order. There are also the Finders, who are numerous, and the Exorcists, who know him best.
Allen is one he does not have to worry about being tied too closely now… last he heard, Allen had left the Order, gone AWOL and suspected to even possibly have become the 14th already. At least that was what the Order suspected. He knew better, from what the other Noah had told him, but the most important thing was that Allen had broken ties. Even so, the association still existed. Would Allen merely avoid him if they saw each other, or would Allen gravitate towards him? Would he think that the Junior Bookman was still Lavi and be glad to see him alright, since he and Bookman had gone missing first?
In some ways, that may be to his personal benefit. The Noah wanted Allen, or more accurately, the 14th that he served to vessel for. Allen coming to him would help him fulfill what the Noah wanted of him and Bookman in exchange for keeping them alive. They would have less need of information, when the real article was in their grasp. Yet, as would be natural of most, Allen would be betrayed, and if he lives long enough to confront Haye about that, it could be a real headache.
Then there were others. Yuu Kanda was especially troublesome. He had not been a particularly friendly sort, but Lavi had been close enough to him that Yuu Kanda had seen him for his fakeness. He was perceptive, but he hadn’t cared enough to explore it very deeply. And there was Lenalee Lee, whom Lavi had undeniably felt something for, deeper than any Bookman ever should, deep enough that it had destroyed him in the end. And there had also been Aleister Krory the third, whom Lavi had been responsible for bringing to the Order. And so, so, so many others.
Lavi had created a mess of things, but then, even Haye wouldn’t have thought things would play out as they had. It was strange. It wasn’t normal for them. It had been unpredictable.
And yet, still, Haye was the one who had been left to sort and pick up the pieces. How annoying. Why couldn’t the 49th Name have just done his job the way he was supposed to?
Haye sighed aloud gustily, sliding to the side to stretch out on the couch. At the very least, it was soft, and comfortable. Much moreso than most things at the Order had been, according to Deak’s recollections. There were a lot of perks to being among former pseudo-enemies whose double lives dwelled in aristocracy. Certainly it could have been worse. They could’ve lived in a cave or something, some dank, dark hole in the ground like so many folk tales painted villainous monsters to be.
…but were they villainous? That was a matter of perspective, he supposed. Calling them villains, just because they did things most wouldn’t agree with, was simply Othering. It wasn’t as if the Order was innocent of doing horrendous things to people. Things that even the Noah found disgust in, ironically.
He closed his eye and decided that maybe he would simply drift into a nap, take a break from writing, and just thinking overall. His head was beginning to hurt, and it had been some time developing that the silence had started to lull him.
He could feel himself start to drift, a euphoric state of bordering the cusp of sleep, when he thought he heard a sound. Unconsciousness was so very, very close, and his brain tried to ignore the sound in favor of sleep, but habit had his ear strained to listen again.
Then comes a voice. Its one he doesn’t recognize, oddly youthful, yet hard, in its own way, and the words imply knowledge of the Noah. An Akuma? No, probably not.
Idly, he couldn’t help but huff and crack his eye open, debating his course of action. He could always ignore it, go back to sleep like he had been planning, and play dead if they tried to rouse him. Sounded like a great plan.
Then again, he was curious about the voice, and the person associated with it, and while amongst those who perhaps weren’t enemies but undeniably dangerous, it would be best to know who and what to expect, right?
Not that he could do much, without Tettsui – his hammer – but he was still a proficient hand-to-hand fighter and even better at dodging blows. Given the choice, he preferred to run over fighting anyway.
Hair somewhat messed, he sat up and regarded the boy through a single glassy eye, taking in his appearance… startlingly young, brown hair, grey-blue eyes. Something itched at him, some kind of familiarity, and maybe he was simply tired, but he couldn’t place his finger on exactly what.
Blinking and stifling a yawn, he posed a question first.
❝ I don’t plan on impalin’ anyone. Anyway, can I help you wit’ something? ❞
