The exhibit was unassuming, for an object of such magnitude.
He wouldn't have noticed it had he not been investigating the Swords of the Cross with a keen fascination. Merely a small glass case that enclosed a pink crystal the size of a fist, with a plaque on which there was engraved a brief summary of the stone's importance. If he hadn't nearly tripped over it, it never would have caught his attention, situated among a series of other small displays that wouldn't draw near as much attention as the larger ones -- sculptures and mannequins reenacting scenes, weapons of far greater interest than merely some piece of rock. As though it wasn't meant to be noticed.
The Philosopher's Stone, engraved boldly on the plaque, caught his eye. He looked up again at the relative crowd, a daunting circle, in the vicinity of his target, and, finding the prospect distasteful, returned his attention to the smaller display instead. He'd spent most of his night pushing his way through crowds, finding himself wedged into a corner and surrounded by faceless grotesques that walked and spoke and the chatter and music hummed too loud and --
Parties had never been Vergil's thing, to say the least. And fascinating as he found many of these displays to be, he was in no hurry to put himself further into such a position. No, he'd...stick to these less extravagant displays. Besides, he knew, they often held facts of equal or greater interest to the larger ones.
And interest it held indeed. The Philosopher's Stone: in a few words, the plaque summarized a tale of unfathomable magic, and of death and the defiance thereof. It was disturbing, indeed disgusting, to consider -- humans sacrificed like sheep in the pursuit of such a goal. How many were laid upon the altar for the sake of a single soul? What sort of desperation had this man felt, fighting so hard that he would be willing to lay down his own humanity and the lives of any number of humans to regain what he had lost?
There was something about the thought that left him faintly sickened with something that wasn't Sou Fueki. As though he had heard this tale, or one like it, or one that brushed too close for comfort before. He could imagine the pain and despair as though it were his own, were he to lose a loved one, that which he held most dear and lived to protect and failed to protect, left alone with guilt and loneliness and little else. Perhaps because it was not so far off from the truth.
But that was not the only thing that caused an uncomfortable cold to come over him. On the surface, nothing showed, whether because of the mask that guarded his emotion as well as his identity or the force of habit that kept him from showing visible surprise, but...
For as many of these as he had examined, none had held on them the name of anyone he personally knew.
Haruto Souma read the plaque, cold and unfeeling, but nevertheless setting his stomach turning. Souma-san. Of all people, it was Souma-san who had fought this man and had prevented more lives from being lost...who had taken the single twisted shred of hope the man had of seeing his daughter again. The implications weighed strangely heavier, when related to someone that he knew personally.
What really happened? he wondered faintly -- and as soon as he thought it shut it out of his mind. There were a thousand possibilities to consider, a million reasons and ways of involvement that could be the case -- perhaps he was no more involved than to stop the use of innocent lives like rags, as the plaque would imply at a glance. Perhaps... But for all the what ifs, all the unthinkable possibilities, there was a single fact that remained: it was none of his business. Someone had known, once, a few...personal details of his own, ones he would never have divulged willingly. ("That's the story, isn't it?") He recalled his outrage with burning clarity, for how dare he speak of --
...It wasn't his place to know this. It wasn't anyone's place to know this. But all the same, his eyes lingered on the plaque and its unfeeling words, and on the cold stone.
