[ Don Quixote is not sure what brings her to the chapel, when she finds her weary feet taking her there. Her head pounds from a faint feverish delirium that the blue light reflecting off the test tubes does little to ease.
There's a coffin and despite herself, she finds herself drawn to it. She has been alive for centuries, with no cloud of oblivion to dull her senses. This is a trap, something designed to break her.
Still, she inches closer until she reads the name set on the plaque.
Don Quixote.
Her gaze lifts up, and she sees him laying there, while hair sprawling out around him, his face eased into a serene piece, despite the golden branch piercing his chest.
A low, animal-like howl rips from her throat as she sinks to her knees, slamming her fists desperately at the coffin]
Father. Father. How could this be. Nay. This is not...this is merely another dream. A most unwanted dream. 'Tis not for mineself to be corrupted by this world's illusions and trickery.
[But the anguish is choking and in the silence of the chapel, blue water bubbling around her, her quiet sobs echo too loudly for her to notice anyone approach]
[ Ainosuke knows exactly why he's headed to the chapel. He's already seen who waits for him in the unbreakable glass coffin, and that no matter how many kicks he gives it or how many insults he hurls at it, nothing changes. It's masochism that sends him back and he knows it, but yet... He never did get closure with his father in life, so to see his face here, still and pale... It draws him right in.
Only that this time, there is someone in the chapel before him. He almost turns back around but.
Father.
There's a memory within him that sits wrong and false, and when he hears her wail that word, he knows what he must confirm. He walks over to the coffin with brisk steps and glances inside. He looks better when he is dead rather than dying, but his face is familiar without any right to be.
Ainosuke looks to Don Quixote instead, his expression dark. ]
[ The voice pulls Don out of her grief, and she lifts her head, staring.]
...and thou... you have my missing memory, don't you?
[Her eyes are wet, an almost red tint to them in the dull light. A strange feeling rises in her and she's not sure if it's relief or bitter despair over the situation]
[ Adam? Adam...? It frustrates him that this doesn't mean anything at all to him, as he is now, but he knows he must be. He can feel that he's been hollowed out, that half of him is gone, and that half... Adam. It certainly is a name he'd choose for himself.
Ainosuke inhales deeply and steps a little closer yet, peering down into the coffin. ]
... I must be, for I remember him dying in your arms. To love a father so... It's been sitting alien with me all along.
My father was my hero. He gave me life and a family. Your hatred for your father...I felt it deep within that memory. It was passingly strange. It was not until I arrived here that I truly understood how wretched Fathers could be.
[It sat at odds with her heart, which loved her Father for all his follies and his tragic failure to keep his other Children at peace. But that had been her fault too, hadn't it? She was the Sister who failed to heed or reach out to those who needed something else]
You called yourself 'Adam' and you had a love, and a love for 'skating'. Your passion was very moving.
[ Skating? Of all things? It feels absurd to hear it said plainly without any personal recollection thereof. He'd been hunting for it, longing for it, hungering for it - that bit of himself that explained why he was still alive, that lifeline that had gotten him to this point. Skating? That was it? All his existential anguish, all his longing for oblivion, kept at bay by skateboards? What a joke. What a miserable existence.
Ainosuke-- No, Adam is quiet for a long time. His eyes linger on the original Don Quixote in the grave, on the father that could drive Don forward through it all. That stranger whose dying form, so tragic and so dear, feels so familiar now.
He thought he'd be angry in this moment. He thought he'd feel a cutting rage, making him want to rip his memories back out of Don Quixote. Instead... he's jealous. ]
... he entrusted his dream to you, at the end. You held him, and he sent you forth, to continue your adventure.
[ Isn't it a burden? Isn't it a pain? Why isn't it? ]
I...[She closes her eyes. Even now, without powers, her blood screams at her for her act of filial impiety. How dare she turn against her Father, and raise her lance against him?] I wanted to protect them. Dante. My companions.
[She exhales softly, shakily]
I could not bare him lay waste to them, even as the call of my blood said I should not harm my Elder.
[She tightens her fists]
...but mostly, I wanted to protect his dream. It tore at me to see the man he had become, without the ideals and interest in the world he once lived with. He, who had spent many centuries, living for the sake to find peace between bloodfiends and humans, now allowing his other Children to hunt because he felt guilt for their suffering? That was the most unbearable part of it all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Week 2: Tuesday in the Witching Hours
There's a coffin and despite herself, she finds herself drawn to it. She has been alive for centuries, with no cloud of oblivion to dull her senses. This is a trap, something designed to break her.
Still, she inches closer until she reads the name set on the plaque.
Don Quixote.
Her gaze lifts up, and she sees him laying there, while hair sprawling out around him, his face eased into a serene piece, despite the golden branch piercing his chest.
A low, animal-like howl rips from her throat as she sinks to her knees, slamming her fists desperately at the coffin]
Father. Father. How could this be. Nay. This is not...this is merely another dream. A most unwanted dream. 'Tis not for mineself to be corrupted by this world's illusions and trickery.
[But the anguish is choking and in the silence of the chapel, blue water bubbling around her, her quiet sobs echo too loudly for her to notice anyone approach]
no subject
Only that this time, there is someone in the chapel before him. He almost turns back around but.
Father.
There's a memory within him that sits wrong and false, and when he hears her wail that word, he knows what he must confirm. He walks over to the coffin with brisk steps and glances inside. He looks better when he is dead rather than dying, but his face is familiar without any right to be.
Ainosuke looks to Don Quixote instead, his expression dark. ]
It's you. You have what was taken from me.
no subject
...and thou... you have my missing memory, don't you?
[Her eyes are wet, an almost red tint to them in the dull light. A strange feeling rises in her and she's not sure if it's relief or bitter despair over the situation]
...Are you..."Adam"?
no subject
Ainosuke inhales deeply and steps a little closer yet, peering down into the coffin. ]
... I must be, for I remember him dying in your arms. To love a father so... It's been sitting alien with me all along.
no subject
[It sat at odds with her heart, which loved her Father for all his follies and his tragic failure to keep his other Children at peace. But that had been her fault too, hadn't it? She was the Sister who failed to heed or reach out to those who needed something else]
You called yourself 'Adam' and you had a love, and a love for 'skating'. Your passion was very moving.
no subject
Ainosuke-- No, Adam is quiet for a long time. His eyes linger on the original Don Quixote in the grave, on the father that could drive Don forward through it all. That stranger whose dying form, so tragic and so dear, feels so familiar now.
He thought he'd be angry in this moment. He thought he'd feel a cutting rage, making him want to rip his memories back out of Don Quixote. Instead... he's jealous. ]
... he entrusted his dream to you, at the end. You held him, and he sent you forth, to continue your adventure.
[ Isn't it a burden? Isn't it a pain? Why isn't it? ]
Why did you kill him?
no subject
[She exhales softly, shakily]
I could not bare him lay waste to them, even as the call of my blood said I should not harm my Elder.
[She tightens her fists]
...but mostly, I wanted to protect his dream. It tore at me to see the man he had become, without the ideals and interest in the world he once lived with. He, who had spent many centuries, living for the sake to find peace between bloodfiends and humans, now allowing his other Children to hunt because he felt guilt for their suffering? That was the most unbearable part of it all.