Chapter eight, in which talks are had and Allen isn't doing too well.

- o0o -

To the Earth

- o0o -

Three months, eight hours, and eleven minutes. That is what they get, no more and no less, before past foes and grievances finally catch up with them. And catch up they do, turning up on their doorstep in a sense that is not only figurative but also literal.

And it's not the Earl either or even the Order for that matter, though Allen finds that a connection to the latter is far more likely than a connection to the former, going by the priestly attire if nothing else.

In the end however, it is not a question of who but rather a question of what, seeing that though sentient and masquerading as a human being, it is anything but human though decidedly humanoid in its appearance. However, it is not an akuma either; not even an evolved one. Rather, it is the complete opposite. Rather, it is‒

He forcefully dispels the thought, because it is an unneeded distraction. It is an unneeded distraction because he needs to retain focus unless he wishes for either of his pursuers to catch up.

He is after all on his own now, and being completely on his own is tougher than he remembers it being. Then again, considering the fact that he hasn't actually slept for more than a couple of minutes at the time during the last couple of days, he finds that his capability of thought has been compromised and that his memories are nowhere yet everywhere at once, surrounding him like a freaking kaleidoscope of general unpleasantness.

It proves very distracting after all, constantly being reminded of that which has come and gone and shall never return.

He thinks about it often, but often finds his ability to feel much for it compromised by the mounting exhaustion; compromised or greatly enhanced, as he had come to discover on occasion. Besides, it isn't only his thoughts and his emotions that are beginning to get fucked up, and the sheer escalation of things worries him a little, though he remains undecided in regards to whether he ought to worry more about his sanity or about his continued livelihood.

After all, in the absence of sleep, his dreams are left no other choice than to seep into times of wakefulness, occasionally even going as far as to manifest as grand hallucinations that he ‒ given the opportunity ‒ will spend hours conversing with, though said conversation have an obvious tendency of turning one-sided after a while.

"He was old," the spectre of Mana tells him, hovering over his shoulder as he remains slouched on the pew in the abandoned church that has once again provided him with sanctuary. "He wouldn't have lived for much longer anyway, so it's alright."

It isn't. It really isn't.

He pulls up a knee, drawing it closer to his chest and cradling it, keeping his eyes firmly shut though his senses never stop scanning his surroundings. "You're telling me not to avenge him?"

Phantom fingertips brush up against the side of his neck. He does little to suppress the shudder that it brings about.

"If you do that, you'll die," Mana informs him. "Dying is bad."

Dying is neither bad nor good, his mind privately argues. Dying just is. Besides, it is not death that is the problem; it is the circumstances surrounding it.

"He stayed with you for a long time, didn't he?"

Allen finds himself hugging his knee more tightly, keeping his eyes firmly shut though it does very little to discourage the talking delusion. "He was a bastard; a womanising, wine-drinking, debt-making, lazy, manipulative bastard. But‒"

"‒Run."

"He was also‒"

"‒Don't look back."

"Just run, you damned idiot!"

Cross had told him to run, and run he had; away, away. But he had also looked back, though only long enough to catch a glimpse, and then‒

He once again dispels the thought along with the images accompanying it, going over a quick mental list of things that he is far better off pondering. However, reaching no immediate conclusions, he opens his eyes and finds that his vision is full of red.

Travelling together and being rather inconspicuous at that, Allen had reasoned that they might call a tad less attention to themselves if they had matching hair colours, so that they could pass as father and son whenever such a thing proved convenient. And it had, on several occasions.

Even now, red hair serves him better than the white that had become his default, because though the colour also is rare in a sense, red is still far more common than stark white, which in addition to his general paleness and scarred features has a tendency to make him stand out like a beacon.

Admittedly, it would only last for so long, and he figures that his hair will look even stranger with some outgrowth. If he manages to live that long, that is.

After all, with his Innocence occasionally going haywire and his Inner Noah occasionally resting just beneath the surface, Allen isn't exactly confident. However, with some suppression seals in place, both issues have been dealt with temporarily, though obviously, it takes just a slight hint of his most dreaded pursuer's presence to cause a stir within him, but for very different reasons altogether.

After all, it is human nature to fear that which it does not understand.

Allen's Innocence has ‒ since that initial and most dreadful encounter ‒ acquired a nasty tendency to flare up, though not in his defence but rather in order to give away his position to the one hunting him, for he is hunted now as opposed to being the hunter, and if his suspicions are correct, then it is by something by which he has never expected to be hunted.

If the Innocence will not obey him, and will even act in complete opposition of his own will, then it is a liability. As such, there have been and there still are plenty of moments when Allen feels the rising urge to sever the treacherous limb from his body.

However, figuring that it has already spread its roots into other parts of him, he knows better than to do something so reckless. Besides, seeing that his left arm appears to be growing more sentient, it might even stop him on his own anyway before he could get on with it.

Potentially treacherous or not however, he also figures that he might need it when or if encountering enemies of the Noah variety. After all, his spells and seals are good, but they're not that good.

As far as the Noah issue is concerned, there are times when Allen finds himself wanting little more than to surrender the figurative torch to Nea and have the latter deal with it. However, there is the fact that the Fourteenth might not know shit about what the Hell is going on with the world and that Allen allowing the other to take control means that he himself and his memories and knowledge along with it will be slotted for erosion all the sooner. And with no one else but him around to fill in any possible blanks, Allen figures that he would ultimately be leaving the other to their death, which would be very uncalled for seeing that they had gone through such trouble to come back after dying the first time around. After all‒

Again, his thoughts trail off and he finds himself lifting his head ever so slightly.

The panes of the church windows are cracked or broken in places, but pale daylight still enters through them, though very little ‒ if any ‒ reaches the pew upon which he is seated, knee still cradled close to his chest.

The area seems calm, though there is the distant noise of traffic ‒ of civilisation ‒ nearby, intermingling with the sound of birds.

Up in the arched ceiling, using a small ledge as its perch, is a large long-eared owl, staring down at him with its rusty-orange eyes.

He doesn't even have to look in order to know that it's staring; even now, the weight of its intent gaze remains apparent to him.

One part of him ponders why such a normally elusive bird would choose to stay in such an urbanised area.

Another part of him wonders what he ‒ the current him ‒ might look like through their eyes.

- o0o -

He startles awake when he feels a sudden change in his surroundings ‒ a barrier being erected ‒ and he is on his feet with that realisation, cursing his own carelessness. He finds that he can't summon the Ark. But, truth to be told, he hadn't been expecting it either, so instead he cancels the seals on his Innocence, allowing it to flare up around him though he still holds off a proper invocation, knowing well that his body won't be able to handle a very lengthy one.

The heavy doors are pushed open to reveal a man; a Victorian gentleman wearing a tux and a top hat that is removed upon entry. With the later action, the shadows that had previously obscured the other's face disperse for the most part, revealing the monocle-wearing visage of a man who looks to be around the age of thirty but whose eyes and presence hint at a positively ancient origin. In his hand is a cane and he stops to lean against it soon after entering, the doors closing behind him with a sound that is decidedly ominous.

Finding that he is by no means oblivious to the identity of the newcomer, Allen reasons that he might as well cut the chase and get on with it.

"A barrier," he comments, his tone clipped.

"You would run otherwise," the Earl comments.

"You honestly think that it'll stop me?" he challenges, because it really wouldn't; there is a weak point in it, and he has just laid eyes upon it.

"Allen." The tone is short and chastising, like a parent intent on admonishing a child. "Even if you do manage to slip past me, there are others out there, waiting‒"

"For what?" he scoffs, shifting his posture slightly. "Waiting for you to come out with new blood on your hands or for me to come out so that they can finish the job?"

The response is immediate, even shorter than the previous one. "If need be," the Earl relays, nullifying his attempt to use magic to weaken the barrier further, and seemingly without much effort at that, which is obviously frustrating but still‒ "Must you make things harder for yourself, child?"

Even as the other approaches, Allen silently stands his ground, ever defiant in the face of danger.

Thankfully, the Earl stops a good metre and a half's worth of distance away and remains there, leaning against his cane. "You are weary of running," he declares, some amount of frustration leaking into his voice. "You are weary of running, just as I am growing weary of chasing you."

"Then end it," Allen deadpans. "Kill me."

He spreads his arms like a bird spreading its wings, which is truth to be told quite ironic with the feathers that are actually sprouting from his shoulder area.

"That ought to give you the time that you need," he clarifies, allowing his arms to fall back to rest along his sides. "Besides," he adds after an additional moment of thought. "It is the simplest and the most logical solution, is it not?"

The Earl ‒ having given him a very considering look during the previous moments ‒ finally tilts his head slightly, but makes no other move to get on with things. "I do wonder why filicide or fratricide seems the most logical to you," he finally comments, some amount of scepticism now intermingling with lingering frustration.

"It isn't," Allen deadpans. "I just said that it ought to make the most sense to you."

Now that brings the other to a pause, an almost pained look crossing their features as Allen moves to reclaim his earlier spot, figuring that it'll hardly make a difference if he takes a seat or remains standing in regards to whatever the Earl is planning to do with him.

"Do you hate me, Allen?" the Earl finally asks, and Allen ‒ having reclaimed not only his seat but also his earlier position ‒ regards him a tad thoughtfully, mildly puzzled by the enquiry to be completely honest.

Then again, that might just be the lack of sleep messing with him. Hell, maybe this is all just a very realistic hallucination thought up by his addled mind?

Either way, whether it is a dream or not, Allen reasons that he might as well be frank and honest for once, regardless of what awaits beyond that point. "I don't," he finally responds. "I could hate you for all the shit that I've been through, but that would be highly unreasonable. I could have just accepted Mana's death. You just offered; I could have declined, and I should have known better."

"So no, I do not hate you," he relays, actually turning his head to properly look at the man. "Even when I see the souls powering your akuma writhe in agony and gradually dissolve, I do not hate you. Even when I see people suffer and die at the hands of said akuma, I still do not hate you."

"Instead of hating you, I hate myself," he proceeds, deadpan despite it all. "I hate myself for seeing, yet lacking the power to do anything about it. I hate myself for having what I have and for lacking what I lack."

It is like he has been hollowed out in the meantime; that all emotions beyond frustration, tired ire and wry amusement have drained out of him through newly inflicted cracks upon his sense of self, leaving much room for indifference to expand its territory.

Perhaps there had been some sort of breaking point in the meantime, and that he had come to both break through it and to rise above it without taking much note of it. Then again, perhaps he had; perhaps he has just forgotten about it since?

Either way, it hardly matters, because it lacks relevance in the present, and in the present is the Earl, waiting for the continuation.

"I hate myself for being what I am," Allen relays, a hint of wry amusement crossing his features. "And I hate the world for bringing me into existence, but you‒"

He pauses slightly, wry amusement now perfectly evident. "You, I do not hate," he says. "Rather, it might be the opposite, because in this world you might actually be the only one capable of putting a permanent end to my existence."

The amber-coloured eyes ‒ slit pupils and everything ‒ narrow slightly as the man remains rooted in his spot, leaning more heavily against the cane. "Is that your wish, Allen?" he finally asks, frustration once again leaking into his voice, intermingling with what might've been regret.

"No," Allen proceeds to declare, once again deadpan. "I don't want to die, be it by your hand or by anyone else's. Neither do I want to end myself, unless I am left no other choice. My wish is to leave; for you to let me go."

His statement is met by dead silence, but he makes no attempt at further clarifications; he has ultimately said about as much as he intends to say, and there is little more to it.

Apparently, it isn't enough.

"And then what?" the Earl asks, eyeing him keenly with who-knows-what on his mind. "What would you do afterwards?"

Truth to be told, Allen hasn't really put much serious thought into afterwards, having had some serious doubts that he would even live to see it.

"I would try to find somewhere quiet, preferably away from the Order's and your reach, and probably remain there until the Fourteenth takes over completely," he eventually decides, because that is what sounds sound to him at the moment.

"Right," he then tacks on, considering the matter even further. "I would probably eat first, and maybe sleep, seeing that I haven't been able to do so for days now with you lot hounding me."

The Earl continues his intent observation. "You wish to rest?"

"Yes. In peace." Allen dips his head once, adding a "No pun intended" before any faulty conclusions can be drawn from his earlier statement.

The Earl tilts his head to the side, eyeing him keenly. "You are such a strange child."

"I am a child raised by one madman and led astray by another." Allen makes a slight hand gesture. "Go figure."

The Earl makes a similar gesture, dismissive.

In the moment that follows, Allen feels the barrier drop and lifts his head in response to look at the one responsible, asking "On what terms?" simply because there are always terms; there is always a catch, always.

In response, the Earl pulls out what appears to be a blackened bracelet, holding it out for him to take. "Insurance."

Allen remains seated, waiting.

"It can suppress Innocence," the Earl relays, keeping the hand extended but making no moves otherwise. "No strings attached."

There are always strings attached.

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not wish to see you killed," the Earl states, seemingly in response to his quiet distrust. "Neither did I wish to see you killed the last time around."

"Rabid dogs," Allen deadpans, rising to his feet at last. "They all need to be put down eventually."

"Yet you are neither rabid nor a dog," the Earl responds, waiting patiently for Allen to step closer.

Retaining eye contact throughout, Allen reaches out to take the proffered bracelet. Nothing really happens when he takes it, though he can feel the energy coursing through it as he steps back holding it. "I suppose not," he says.

The Earl looks mildly conflicted at that, though probably more by his actions than by his words.

Even after putting some distance between them, it occurs to Allen just how easy it would have been for him to get close enough to launch himself at the other, especially now that they stand before him without the outer shell that would otherwise have protected them from any attack of his.

It would have been easy, yes, to launch the initial strike. However, with his physical and mental state, he would probably not manage another. And, considering the opponent, even if one strike proved partially successful, there most certainly wouldn't be another. He knows as much, but still‒

He continues clutching the bracelet, restraining himself from acting upon the notion. After all‒

"Apocryphos seeks you, child."

There is a voice in his head, and it's the Earl's; an obvious invasion of privacy no doubt, but it is what it is and it is something negligible as far as the greater picture is concerned. There is a major piece missing to his puzzle, and the man capable of invading his head just so happens to be one capable of providing it.

He closes his eyes before voicing his question aloud. "What is he?"

"Something that we once fought; the protector of the Heart."

He remembers the initial confrontation; the escalation; the outcome. "Not human."

"Sentient Innocence, acting independently."

"Capable of controlling Innocence?"

There is an affirmative.

And people?

- o0o -

After his encounter with the Earl in London, Allen lands himself over in India, intent on clearing his head.

Cross is dead.

Timcanpy's done for.

Allen is alone, at least if one disregards the phantoms along with the presence growing steadily more pronounced within him.

"Don't stop."

"You have to keep walking."

"But where should I go?"

He goes to Agra, to Mrs. Urmina's place.

He doesn't tell her about Cross; about anything.

He leaves the Ark behind, abandoning it off in the far mountains after creating a gateway that'll bring him to Agra. There's little need to worry about the Earl after all. Quite frankly, there's little need to worry about anything. Well, anything other than the heat, that is.

Following his arrival, he spends the next couple of days in various states of fevered delirium.

At some point, he must have decided to take his leave, because when he next regains his senses, he in Shanghai being tended to by none other than Anita herself.

"Your hair's getting a bit long," she finally says, a comb in hand as she works methodically to untangle it once Allen has sat himself up. "Would you like for me to cut it?"

His white roots aren't showing yet, so there's really no need.

- o0o -

UPDATE:

This story is, as of May 29th 2018, to be considered

a) completed

or

b) abandoned

I had plans on continuing it way back when, but real life and other stories got in the way, and now... I doubt I'll ever pick it up again.

If anyone's interested in writing a continuation, leave a review or send me a PM.

- Hane no Zaia