He had failed her test. It was inevitable û he was different, now. The voice might be the same, he might move, slouch - hell, even cry the same way û but how he spoke and what he did was based more on the personality than the body.
She tried to pretend he was still the same, even after her little test was over. It pissed him off. She had no right to be disappointed. She had set up the ritual, had dragged his then-lifeless corpse to the garden, had brought the body back to life û and she hated him for becoming someone else?
Hypocrite. She had been the bleeding body on the ground, once. She had taken the test, and she had failed, too. She knew that the ritual they had both used wasnÆt true revival.
------------------------------------
He could only dimly remember the past. Flames, cries of lust, pain, sadness. The sound of flesh being ripped apart, souls torn asunder by uncaring hands. Words, æhotÆ and æcoldÆ, pain at their very mention.
A fleeting sense of love û maybe happiness, too?- but he couldnÆt quite grasp at the thought, couldnÆt quite make it concrete.
What was concrete was his surroundings. Dying grass, withered flowers, the trees scared with marks, bark blackened from fire. The waterfall û he thought it was supposed to be clear, crystal blue û was putrid and muddy. Dead fish were floating in the lake.
What was concrete was the woman in front of him. She looked like two people û the first girl, from the further-past, and the woman that came later, with the brown hair and the golden eyes.
But that was in the past. And he couldnÆt make any real connections with his memories û they werenÆt his, in that sense û so what did it matter?
The woman in front of him was the woman in front of him. No more, no less.
------------------------------------
Another failed test. But at least this one had no emotional strings attached to it. Instead of failing because he wasnÆt someone else, he failed because he couldnÆt weaponize his Song. That was fine. It had only been a month since he was reborn, so it would take time for his soul to create something usea-
ôYou used to be able to do this.ö
A low mutter, coming from behind him. He heard it, of course û and she knew it. A small, yet melodramatic sigh after his small twitch proved it.
He walked away, angered, disgusted at her. She was always so obsessed with who he was.
------------------------------------
He was on a bed. His back was propped up by a pillow, so he could look at more then just the ceiling.
The woman was there, right beside him moonlight illuminating her figure and the bowl she was holdingû the only things he could see well in the dark room.
A pause from thinking û she had been pushing a spoon gently against his mouth. He opened it, and a warm, savory liquid was splashed into his mouth. It tasted good.
Why did this scene feel so familiar? A faint memory began to appear, but it was still too foggy, too immaterial, to hold any meaning.
It carried on like this, for a while. He opened his mouth; she filled it with soothing liquid. She was smiling, eyes sparkling with delight, but she never said a word.
Until the bowl was empty of soup, that is. One last gulp, and she put the bowl and spoon on the nightstand beside them. Then, she said û
ôAre you feeling better, _____?ö
It was confusing. He could see her mouth open, knew she was saying something, but he couldnÆt make out the name. But, he knew that it wasnÆt his name. So, why -
The memory came back to him. It was of a time, a while ago. It took place in the same room - the same bed, the same walls, the same ticking clock. The bowl and the wooden spoon were placed on the nightstand, it was night, and the moonlight went through the window, still illuminating her.
But she was in the bed, and he was sitting in the chair.
And the words she spoke in his memory were the same as those coming from his lips.
ôThatÆs not my name.ö
------------------------------------
He hated her. He hated her, he hated her, he hated her he hated her hated her hated her hatehatehatehatehate-
A deep, long breath. A drink of ice cold water.
An argument, today. ItÆs been a year, and sheÆd still been dreaming about who he was. He had screamed at her, because she never saw him. Whenever she looked in his direction, her eyes would glaze over and sheÆd pretend he was someone else. It was frustrating. It wasnÆt fair-
He was angry, irritated, frustrated û and sad. Why sadness, why disappointment? ItÆs been a year, he should be used to it, if not apathetic û
- And if he was supposed to be used to it, why get angry at all?
------------------------------------
The memories were becoming clearer. He could see who he was, could see how she wanted him to act.
And she did want him to act like before. She kept on using the name he could not hear, kept on doing small, supposedly meaningful things that would have used to make his heart soar.
A hug from behind, lingering on a wordÆs last syllable, here or there û his memory told him that he would have been putty in her hands, before.
But now, all those things did was piss him off. He wasnÆt the same person as the man she wanted by her side, the one who held her, protected her, saved her, when she was drowning in a sea of questions, all revolving around she was.
He was drowning in that sea, as well. He was legally dead. He had no one, except for her.
But instead of holding him, protecting him, saving him, she dressed him up in old, un-fitting clothes, still in love with a shadow.
------------------------------------
He was glad that the tests were over. He was glad that she had finally, after so many years, given up on comparing him with the image in her head.
She was still disappointed, though. She spent her days grieving her loss. The tears never seemed to stop.
He wanted to help her. He wanted to make the tears stop, make her smile again. He wanted to make her happy, like how she was in the very beginning.
But, that was impossible. He had failed far too many tests to pretend now. To attempt to cheer her up now would be too little, too late.
àAnd, really, he didnÆt want to pretend. It might have been selfish, but he would rather she cry over who he was, instead of caring for someone he wasnÆt.
àYes, it was selfish. But he had put up with her selfishness for years û he was allowed to be selfish.
Besides, what was another failed test?
------------------------------------
It was too much to deal with.
She had asked for him to pretend. She had hoped that æthe real himÆ would come back.
He did try, for a time. He wrapped his arms around her when she needed a hug, kissed her on the cheek to show his affection, whispered meaningless nothings into her ear.
But, he always had to hesitate, to consciously decide to perform the action. And she hated that.
After weeks of this, she screamed at him.
He was never caring enough. He was not loving, affectionate. He wasnÆt him, and she hated it.
She screamed at him, and ran away. And he was left û in pain, crying, wondering - why he was given an impossible test.
She tried to pretend he was still the same, even after her little test was over. It pissed him off. She had no right to be disappointed. She had set up the ritual, had dragged his then-lifeless corpse to the garden, had brought the body back to life û and she hated him for becoming someone else?
Hypocrite. She had been the bleeding body on the ground, once. She had taken the test, and she had failed, too. She knew that the ritual they had both used wasnÆt true revival.
------------------------------------
He could only dimly remember the past. Flames, cries of lust, pain, sadness. The sound of flesh being ripped apart, souls torn asunder by uncaring hands. Words, æhotÆ and æcoldÆ, pain at their very mention.
A fleeting sense of love û maybe happiness, too?- but he couldnÆt quite grasp at the thought, couldnÆt quite make it concrete.
What was concrete was his surroundings. Dying grass, withered flowers, the trees scared with marks, bark blackened from fire. The waterfall û he thought it was supposed to be clear, crystal blue û was putrid and muddy. Dead fish were floating in the lake.
What was concrete was the woman in front of him. She looked like two people û the first girl, from the further-past, and the woman that came later, with the brown hair and the golden eyes.
But that was in the past. And he couldnÆt make any real connections with his memories û they werenÆt his, in that sense û so what did it matter?
The woman in front of him was the woman in front of him. No more, no less.
------------------------------------
Another failed test. But at least this one had no emotional strings attached to it. Instead of failing because he wasnÆt someone else, he failed because he couldnÆt weaponize his Song. That was fine. It had only been a month since he was reborn, so it would take time for his soul to create something usea-
ôYou used to be able to do this.ö
A low mutter, coming from behind him. He heard it, of course û and she knew it. A small, yet melodramatic sigh after his small twitch proved it.
He walked away, angered, disgusted at her. She was always so obsessed with who he was.
------------------------------------
He was on a bed. His back was propped up by a pillow, so he could look at more then just the ceiling.
The woman was there, right beside him moonlight illuminating her figure and the bowl she was holdingû the only things he could see well in the dark room.
A pause from thinking û she had been pushing a spoon gently against his mouth. He opened it, and a warm, savory liquid was splashed into his mouth. It tasted good.
Why did this scene feel so familiar? A faint memory began to appear, but it was still too foggy, too immaterial, to hold any meaning.
It carried on like this, for a while. He opened his mouth; she filled it with soothing liquid. She was smiling, eyes sparkling with delight, but she never said a word.
Until the bowl was empty of soup, that is. One last gulp, and she put the bowl and spoon on the nightstand beside them. Then, she said û
ôAre you feeling better, _____?ö
It was confusing. He could see her mouth open, knew she was saying something, but he couldnÆt make out the name. But, he knew that it wasnÆt his name. So, why -
The memory came back to him. It was of a time, a while ago. It took place in the same room - the same bed, the same walls, the same ticking clock. The bowl and the wooden spoon were placed on the nightstand, it was night, and the moonlight went through the window, still illuminating her.
But she was in the bed, and he was sitting in the chair.
And the words she spoke in his memory were the same as those coming from his lips.
ôThatÆs not my name.ö
------------------------------------
He hated her. He hated her, he hated her, he hated her he hated her hated her hated her hatehatehatehatehate-
A deep, long breath. A drink of ice cold water.
An argument, today. ItÆs been a year, and sheÆd still been dreaming about who he was. He had screamed at her, because she never saw him. Whenever she looked in his direction, her eyes would glaze over and sheÆd pretend he was someone else. It was frustrating. It wasnÆt fair-
He was angry, irritated, frustrated û and sad. Why sadness, why disappointment? ItÆs been a year, he should be used to it, if not apathetic û
- And if he was supposed to be used to it, why get angry at all?
------------------------------------
The memories were becoming clearer. He could see who he was, could see how she wanted him to act.
And she did want him to act like before. She kept on using the name he could not hear, kept on doing small, supposedly meaningful things that would have used to make his heart soar.
A hug from behind, lingering on a wordÆs last syllable, here or there û his memory told him that he would have been putty in her hands, before.
But now, all those things did was piss him off. He wasnÆt the same person as the man she wanted by her side, the one who held her, protected her, saved her, when she was drowning in a sea of questions, all revolving around she was.
He was drowning in that sea, as well. He was legally dead. He had no one, except for her.
But instead of holding him, protecting him, saving him, she dressed him up in old, un-fitting clothes, still in love with a shadow.
------------------------------------
He was glad that the tests were over. He was glad that she had finally, after so many years, given up on comparing him with the image in her head.
She was still disappointed, though. She spent her days grieving her loss. The tears never seemed to stop.
He wanted to help her. He wanted to make the tears stop, make her smile again. He wanted to make her happy, like how she was in the very beginning.
But, that was impossible. He had failed far too many tests to pretend now. To attempt to cheer her up now would be too little, too late.
àAnd, really, he didnÆt want to pretend. It might have been selfish, but he would rather she cry over who he was, instead of caring for someone he wasnÆt.
àYes, it was selfish. But he had put up with her selfishness for years û he was allowed to be selfish.
Besides, what was another failed test?
------------------------------------
It was too much to deal with.
She had asked for him to pretend. She had hoped that æthe real himÆ would come back.
He did try, for a time. He wrapped his arms around her when she needed a hug, kissed her on the cheek to show his affection, whispered meaningless nothings into her ear.
But, he always had to hesitate, to consciously decide to perform the action. And she hated that.
After weeks of this, she screamed at him.
He was never caring enough. He was not loving, affectionate. He wasnÆt him, and she hated it.
She screamed at him, and ran away. And he was left û in pain, crying, wondering - why he was given an impossible test.