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The thumping of the train moving on its tracks rattled Twilight’s - no, Loid Forger’s - eardrums, lightly bounced him and caused the walking cane at his side to tip over and fall to the floor, giving it the freedom to roll where gravity and energy forced it. The light shining through the window, dim from the impending rain, made for a somber feel, as if jazz music was to be playing in the background like the score to one of the film noir shows the blonde man’s wife so frequently watched on television. She did always say that jazz and rain were always a complementary mix, add to that a spy with a track of emotional detachment and trauma and you had the perfect recipe for a perfect drama. Jazz and rain were truly a fitting mix for a near faultless spy - Twilight.
But, according to a certain Mrs. Forger, that mix did not belong to her Mr. Forger - no, not any longer; not ever really - because Twilight no longer existed, had stopped existing at some point during Operation Strix. Whatever was left, whatever iota of that blank canvas still stubbornly persisted had changed, evolved to what his agents now called Advisor - the appointed overseer of Ostania and Westalis’s newly founded allied intelligence agency. Loid Forger, however, was his own man, a separate entity almost entirely. Loid Forger had his own job as the co-CEO of Franklin & Forger Bionics, and he had his own family, something Twilight never had. Loid Forger had his own tunes, ones with low singing and soft instruments, ones that lulled children to sleep and brought comfort to those who heard it, made them forget the true dangers and evils of the world and steered them to see the softness in everything around them. That music was the accompaniment of Loid Forger, the very opposite of his being prior.
He wondered what her accompaniment would be - most likely the same as Yor’s. A score of notes that were light and beautiful like that song both of them had sung to him in the past, a harmony that made him think of home, a place he couldn’t wait to return to after being away, somewhere with a giant, skinny dog and a variety of red, green, baby blue, and purpley-pink eyes and hands, a pair of graceful, loving ones and four sets of smaller ones, ranging from small to tiny, all reaching out to embrace him when he arrived back from his leave - that would be her song. She would need no other, as nothing else would fit her.
How long had it been? More than twenty years? Since even before he had taken up his first falsehood?
Perhaps his old man had been correct all this time - maybe he was a coward, too afraid to even face his past, petrified of what rubble waited for him in Kielberg. Would she still be there? Had someone tossed her out like some kind of trash? Like someone meant to be forgotten in time? Her remains had to be somewhere, right? Not that he would know the difference between hers and a stranger’s if she had been found and moved? Perhaps it would be for the better if she wasn’t there. Or maybe it wouldn’t be. He would much rather remember the sight of dry bones than blood and brains and mangled hair and crushed limbs. It may serve to bring those recurring night terrors to rest, along with the resentment he’s held for himself since leaving her.
Has she been watching him since she passed? Watched how he has grown, how he has suffered, how he has loved? Does she know his newfound family as well as he, having been in the stars long before they had even entered his life? Was this trip worthless after all?
. . .
No, it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Yor knew it wasn’t. Franky knew it wasn’t. Handler knew it wasn’t.
It was necessary.
For closure.
For rest.
For peace.
“Sir,” a young, feminine sounding voice called out from beside him. His soft eyes (gone was the invisible wall that blocked his emotions from escaping through them for so many years) and face were thus pulled from the affixed point outside the window he had been blankly staring at for who the hell knew how long.
The girl, joined by five of what he assumed were her friends, seemed to maybe be around university age with similar green eyes to his eldest daughter’s. He smiled politely up at her. “Ah, hello. May I help you?” he asked accordingly.
His pupils went down to the object in her hands as she raised it, smile fading. “I hate to assume, but is this your cane? It must have rolled into the aisle, and we wanted to return it to its owner.”
Loid looked at it for a second, not being able to stop his mind from remembering a time where he would have caught it before it even fell. He let out a small chuckle, accepting that he was that man no longer, accepting that he no longer had to be aware of every one of even the most acute details around him. “Now, I wonder what would give you the idea that it belongs to me. Do I really look that old already?” he joked, knowing full well that anyone who spared even a glance at him would notice the peg that replaced his leg.
The girl blushed, looking a bit worried, and stuttered a bit. “U-um, n-no, sir! Of course not! I-it’s just that, er-,” she stammered helplessly.
Loid laughed. The young lady may have had the eyes of his daughter, but she seemed to have a personality closer to his wife. “It’s alright. I was simply joking. That is my cane, yes. Thank you for bringing it back to me. I can walk well enough without it, but it’s always nice to have in the case that I fall or need something to lean on and have nothing to do so.”
The girl nodded understandably. “I’m sure it can be difficult. I’m glad we were able to help,” she smiled. He could see the eyes on his leg, intrigue shining in them. It was something he had gotten used to in the past five years.
The veteran looked at the group for a second, seeing the sympathy and interest in their young, innocent faces.
“You all are welcome to sit with me if you’d like. Some of you might have to squish though,” he invited the group. The teens looked to one another, unsure for only a moment before nodding and joining him - two sitting on the seat he was on and the other four making themselves fit on the seat facing towards him. The seven of them entered light conversation, something Twilight likely would have never done with strangers without having a reason to.
Loid learned that he was right in that they were university students. They informed him of their trip to study abroad in Westalis, all having different reasons for it but all being the same amount of anxious. He found amusement in their nervousness, not because it was embarrassing or something they should be ashamed of, but rather because they seemed to treat Westalians as a big mystery, like they weren’t going to even compare to Westalians in terms of class and talent. It made him happy that the prejudice that existed so heavily not even half a decade ago had nearly completely vanished and was now replaced with a bit of envy and excitement to learn.
He reassured them that Westalians were much like Ostanians, that they were the same as them, just with slightly different cultural interests. He told them that nervousness would only take away from the fun they would have there, and there was truly no reason for it to begin with.
They were a good group of kids (well adults technically but kids to him), polite and eager to listen. They asked him only a couple of questions, pertaining more to Westalis than himself - something he was thankful for. The students allowed him a chance to escape his previous thoughts, allowed him a chance to see what his hard work during Strix had brought about.
He soon felt the train slowing to a stop, and he stood up. “I hate to end this conversation so early, but it seems that this is my stop. I did enjoy your company. I hope we all meet again someday,” he announced with a bow of his head. He noted what looked to be disappointment present on the students’ faces. “In fact,” he added. “I’m sure we will. I sometimes make my way to Berlint University to talk to students interested in foreign affairs, so if that interests you then I will surely make time to engage in another discussion with you all.”
“That sounds wonderful! Ah, it seems we forgot to ask for your name, sir,” the girl who brought him his cane, Clove, realized.
“Ah, my mistake. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier. I am Dr. Loid Forger.”
“Wait, you’re the Dr. Loid Forger?!” one of the boys, Benedict, exclaimed. “The one that was granted with a Cross of Honour a couple years ago?”
The older man let out a slight laugh and nod. “Yes, that would be me.”
“Anyway, I must be going now. As much as I enjoyed chatting with you all, I do not want to miss my stop and be away from my family longer than necessary. I hope to see you all again,” Loid bowed, beginning to make his way out of the train. “I also hope that you enjoy studying here.”
“Ah yes, we will! Thank you, sir!” Clove nodded her head to him before he could no longer see her. He exited the train, slightly unbalanced from having to sit so long.
The train station where he got off was mostly empty, but he assumed it was likely a lot better than what it was. This station was the closest one to where the bombings dropped all those years ago, closest to Kielberg. And if he had learned anything from his years of spying and war and psychiatry, it was that people tended to stay away from tragedy as if it were the plague, whether or not they had personal ties to that tragedy mattered not. It was all the same in the end. A tragedy was a tragedy.
However, it was when people faced those tragedies were they finally able to learn. It was when people faced those tragedies were they finally able to grow.
And for him, it was finally time to face the ones he had pushed away for over two decades.
Thus, the former spy made his way to find a cab, barely managing to push down the violent pressure of emotions boiling in his chest.
He had to talk to her at least once - just one time would be enough - as Loid Forger and no one else.
— - - - - - - - ✶✸~♪~✷✶ - - - - - - - —
Perhaps the thunder behind him was fitting. Perhaps the raindrops that were slowly gaining pace the longer he stood there had their own purpose as well. Perhaps it was best that Kielberg had been cleared of the atrocities that had plagued its citizens three decades ago, the only reminder being a huge gravesite that was placed in the middle of the former town square.
He couldn’t find her name. Or at least, no name popped out at him as hers. He had read through the long list at least ten times, studied it to make sure he didn’t miss it. But, it seemed that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t recall what her name actually was, couldn’t recall anything about her besides the way she used to hold him and the way she died.
Did he truly deserve to be there? Would a mother truly want a son who no longer had memory of her face, of her name to even visit her? Would she forgive such a terrible thing? Could she forgive it?
He felt water, unlike the droplets falling from the sky, start to run down his cheeks, salty and bitter and imbued with regret. He sniffled when he felt his nose begin to run. His thumbnails dug into his index fingers, a barely successful attempt at keeping him from breaking down and getting sick.
“Hey, Mom,” he finally choked out, a rumble from the clouds above him failing to drown it out. The rain fell harder.
“It’s been awhile.” His tears fell harder, nails digging deeper into his skin. “I, um-,” he sounded pathetic, “I just…I just wanted to catch up, tell you how things are going, you know.”
Loid could barely see through his flooding eyes, barely acknowledge his left foot growing cold and suit growing drenched.
“I, uh, I have a family now.”
“A…a beautiful family - one that I wish you could’ve had the privilege to meet. I think you would’ve fallen in love with them faster than I did, and that’s saying something,” he chuckled humorlessly, waiting for an answer, an agreement, that would never come.
…
He fidgeted, fixing his sleeves, combing a hand through his hair.
More tears.
Flowing now, like a song.
“My wife’s name is Yor,” he started again when he knew it wouldn’t turn into a sob. “The only thing I could even begin to compare her to is a goddess. She’s perfect in every way. I think you would have adored her if you had gotten the chance to meet her. Not that I would have met her if I hadn’t lost you. Maybe, maybe things just happen for a reason, you know?”
…
His blue eyes closed, a deep, shaky breath leaving his dry lips.
More words.
Flowing now, like a song.
“I don’t remember your face anymore, but I feel like I get close to doing so every time I see her hold our kids. She holds them like you did me. She’s so strong, just like you. She’s everything I could only hope to be and more. She’s absolutely perfect, and it hurts me so much that you never got to meet her, that she never got to meet you.”
“...She really, truly does remind me of how you were as a mother, even down to how she spoils them. Shit, does she spoil them. Not that I can talk. It seems like I got most of my parenting skills from you rather than Dad, but I think that’s a good thing even though he might disagree. I’m still strict when I need to be.
…We, uh, we have four kids now - if you didn’t know. Four adorable kids - two girls and twin boys, one adopted and three biological. They’re the loves of my life I tell ya. I’d do anything for them. I already lost a limb for one,” Loid laughed, glancing down at his now wet wooden leg. He’d likely have to throw it out once he got home, the very reason he wore one of his cheaper ones rather than the prosthetic he normally wore.
“Anya, Leon, York, and baby Remi - those are their names. Anya, the oldest, is adopted, but she may as well not be with how she clings to me and her mother. Although, everyone claims she’s more of a daddy’s girl, not that I disagree. I swear it’s like the world collapses every time I give more attention to her siblings. She’s twelve, or at least that’s what her papers say. She’s really ten - like father, like daughter when it comes to lying about age, I guess.
Leon and York are our boys. Always getting into trouble, they are. They’re three yet somehow still outwit most of their babysitters.
It’s funny how Yor’s brother, Yuri, used to hate me, still does a bit, yet plays favorites towards Leon, who looks pretty much exactly like me. But don’t worry, his wife, Chloe, absolutely dotes on York when she’s over, so both get the same amount of love.
Then, there’s Remi, who just turned one last month - blonde hair and magenta eyes. If none of her siblings turn out to be heartbreakers then she’ll certainly be the one to do so. Everyone who sees her seems to fall in love at first glance. Yor and I can’t keep her for more than five minutes when we attend get-togethers with friends and coworkers. Someone always ends up taking her away, and we have to hunt her down just to get her back. Normally, her aunt Sylvia ends up being the culprit, but I guess it could be worse. It’s much easier getting her back from Sylvia than it is from Shopkeeper, who’s apparently been promoted to Poppy since he first met Anya.
…And of course, our dog, Bond, is there too, always ready and willing to distract the kids when needed. We certainly make for an interesting family, but what’s life without a little interest?
…You…you would…you would love them, Mom. You would absolutely love them.”
The wind began to pick up, the sounds of shaking leaves echoing through the emptiness of the former town. He could almost hear the same melody in the sounds around him as the one he remembered her singing to him on those uncertain nights when he was young, the one his wife now sang to their own children - as if she was there, there to calm him down with it, one last time.
O sweet prince of mine,
Beneath their silver shine.
He could almost hear her voice. He could almost see her face.
Through the flooding tears in his eyes, the ones he could no longer even attempt to stop.
The sobs began to leave him as the memories from his youth, no longer forced to the back of his mind as they had been for decades, played like a recording in his brain.
Sobs.
Memories.
Flowing now, like a song.
The cane he was now leaning on almost entirely was quaking in his unsteady grasp, barely managing to keep its shattering owner standing as he continued on with his words.
“Are you proud of me, Mom?” he asked.
“Are you proud of your son, Mom?” he begged.
“I-I just…I just want you to be able to…to just…to just be proud. Of me. Of being able to call me your son - even if I’ve lied more times than anyone else, even if I’ve killed more people than I could possibly keep track of.
I just…
I just…
Want you to not regret having me,” he pleaded, looking up from where his eyes had previously been pointed at the earth below him.
Kind, blue eyes with a soft, grateful smile.
And ghostly blonde hair that blew in the wind.
The cane gave out, bringing him to the ground. His hands scraped against the cement underneath him, sure to leave uncomfortable marks later, yet the man, the former soldier, the former spy made no effort to get back up. His leg was too weak. His body was too weak. His mind was too weak.
Finally.
After all this time.
He allowed himself a moment to properly mourn what he’d lost.
He laid there, pathetically, understandably , in the middle of the now cleared streets he once survived off of, wailing into the deserted area around him.
He was glad that nobody was there to see him in such a state.
Nobody except for her.
Because even then, when her son had become a grown man - one with his own family to look after - her tune still kept, still sung for his cries to drown to.
She was still by his side.
Her voice was still there.
Flowing now, as a song.
As it had always been.
And, it was beautiful.
So beautiful it was that it coaxed out the words he had come here to say in the first place, the words he had held onto for decades.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Everything’ll be okay.”
Those words. Those memories.
Flowing now, as a song.
As it will always be.