A Conversation between Friends

[StingyParrot 1595]

 

The other one had been prowling the shadowed edges of his consciousness for some weeks now, pausing to make a comment before fading from perception. His pragmatic side, Arakawa liked to think, and even though he knew full well it was a symptom of his encroaching madness, he welcomed it, if only to have ‘someone’ to speak to. He’d considered, when he was still an Artificer, making a Manifestation bearing his own personality, but had found the idea distinctly unsettling at the time. Now, though, it felt logical, something that troubled him.

 

Really, though, it’d be a lot easier without him around, you know. And all the others. The flash of a dark smile registered somewhere in Arakawa’s subconscious, and he sighs. Always it chose to appear when he was tired, or alone. He was both now, sitting alone in his clan’s hall, a bowl of cold soba before him. “No.” he says aloud, uncaring whether Ryuma had chosen to visit at the time, or if Hinote happened to be wandering about to hear him. “I won’t. Besides, we - I have to keep up appearances.”

 

A rippling chuckle. It was similar, if inverted and uncanny, to Atticus’ laughter, Arakawa reflects. You do like to say that, don’t you. Keep up appearances. What is left to keep you from fulfilling your potential? Your old mentor is dead. You lead a near-empty clan. The arguments cut deep, for they were the ones that Arakawa directed at himself. “Leave.” he says suddenly, his emotions held tight beneath a grip of steel. Mostly tight, at least - the soup in front of him freezes over, the bowl splitting with a crack. “I won’t abide you any longer.” 

 

He debates leaving the room to find someone he can verify is alive and real. Hikari is away doing his job. What’s yours? A glorified clerk? A pet mage for the Stratocracy? You know how much you hate being bound, fettered. Besides, I won’t leave. You want me around, even if you pretend you do not. Best of all - I’m not a Horror. All I want is what is best for you. Honeyed, tempting words. Smog threatening to extinguish whatever he had left of a morality. 

 

Arakawa huffs, melting his soup and draining it without regard for the little pile of noodles he was supposed to have dipped in the liquid. They follow soon after, though, and he debates having another meal. Why was it still speaking?

You dally. Take up your staff, liquidate your assets. Freedom is but a Skim away. Knock on the right doors, send the right letters, and no one would miss you. You’d have free reign then. Kill whom you please, take what you will. Further yourself. Atticus won’t mind, up in the Skies as he is. He wouldn’t have seen this side of you, anyways, so -

 

The Voidstalker slams his fist into the table, and a crack appears below his hand. Not on the table, but rather the false fabric it presented itself as. The rip in reality widened, starry rifts opening around the room, from which emanated deep thrums, bass chords plucked from Creation’s strings. A blink, and they were gone. Arakawa lowers his head, his fingers curled into trembling fists, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Casting around, he found himself at his writing desk, and he curses quietly. 

 

This had happened before, though only once - at least that he remembered. While it spoke to him in his study, it had bought time to walk him to an aviary, pen a letter, and send it off, releasing its hold in time for him to loose a spike of flame at the fleeing bird. The answer had come soon later, and now Arakawa looked down at what it had made him write, in his usual neat script.

 

The paper was incinerated and the ashes scattered to the wind. Not long after, the magician cut open a rift to travel through.