Chapter Text
It's a rooftop and a sunset. Two people tucked away from the rest of the world; amber light cast over a looming figure. The moment always written about in tragic ballads and sordid love stories; words that ignite a spark, before recognition sets in, as does flight.
Ena says, "I'll wait for you forever!"
The colours bleed away, leaving behind only a monochrome landscape, a gulf of flames. A shadow whispers, do you remember now?
Sunset melts into twilight blue, a remembrance of rusted chains and an expanse so vast, as the memories return.
("You came back," you said then, quiet wonder in your voice. "Why?")
But the words that had once been spoken, that had once been promised, they can't pass their lips anymore.
Mizuki laughs instead. "Ahaha... that's so silly, Ena. How could you wait forever?"
A smile that is practiced, the same excuses that comes so easily. Their fists dig into their palms, leaving crescent indents on pale skin.
Ena, illuminated by dimming sun rays on a lonely rooftop; waiting, even now, even if she does not remember, for someone who will always be afraid. But where does it start and where does it end?
When will it ever end?
Mizuki bows their head in defeat.
"...Thank you, Ena. I feel a little bit better now. I can't tell you right now, but..."
Liar. Liar. Liar.
A whisper, then a scream. They see flickers of a lifetime long gone, the glint of a knife under the midmorning sun — how it all fell apart.
(—and there is blood on the battlefield. Salty tears that remind you of your humanity, chains shifting heavily with every step forward. It's cold; the sort of chill that is insidious, seeping into the very marrow of your bones.
A condemnation. A punishment.
You turn back to look for direction. There is a man there, dressed in ceremonial white robes, a glimmer in his eyes.
"It's your duty," he says, smiling. "There is no running."
The gathering masses are looming shadows that whisper and point. How cruel. They stare at your pitiful, monstrous form, fear tinging their lips as they avert their sightless eyes; lowered gazes belying their choice of ignorance, their words poisoned with acerbity.
You know what comes next.
The response is practised, more sickening than the chains binding you down. Despite lacking the same tangibility, its weight is what still traps you here.
"I understand my duty, and I thank you for your mercy."
You do not speak to anyone there. You think instead of that quiet winter day, tucked away in that little alcove; the salt on your lips, the warmth in her eyes, even as you spoke of it — of duty.
But what is duty? Why do people die for duty, choose to succumb under the weight of it? For fear, for pride, for another sunrise they will never get to see?
The church bells are ringing. The stake which you have been sentenced to burn upon – it waits. You will die today. You wonder what comes next.
The Head Priest reaches out to grasp your hand; an act of false comfort. Even now, he feigns the image of benevolence. A person whom you had once loved and thought to be kind.
"You are alone, Lilith," he whispers by your ear. "No one is coming."
The setting sun casts an amber glow over the battlefield. A burning stake. Chains upon chains upon chains. You can't run. There's nowhere to go, no one who would want you.
You keep your silence – it's the only thing you have left; this splintering heart of yours, and the words that you will not speak, for they are yours, and only yours to keep.
A step forward, and the chains trail heavily around your cuffed feet. You're trembling. The whispers grow, an electric sensation in the air as the anticipation builds. You are going to die today. You will be gone, without ever being able to see another sunrise. You will never be able to see her again.
But—
"—Amia!"
An arrow flies across the battlefield; past the panicked masses, past the Head Priest, landing beside your feet.
A girl charges forward to entangle her fingers around your own. Wide-eyed optimism, unextinguished passion; reckless determination in her eyes as her hair loosens from its braid to fall into brown waves, and she leaps—
Freedom is in your reach. You reach out to grasp at the heart of it; buoyant, iridescent in the light — a dying hope that flickers, but is there all the same.
"Take my hand!" the girl exclaims, and the chains break free from the strength of your tugs. Your hands are bloody, and you nearly trip in your haste to flee.
"Devil!"
"It's a demon!"
There is a crescendoing violence in the air. Feathers flooding the streets as the masses begin to scream. The hatred bubbles over and spills at the seams.
You run. You both run. Clammy hands held closely entwined to an alcove safe from the fighting and the burdens of sacrifice and duty. Here, there are no titles, no boxes to fit in, no need for piety and repentance.
Here, you're just you. You're Amia, and—
"Enanan," you smile, and as your hands separate from her own, they come away bloody. The world is blurring at the edges. Blood pours from the wound on your stomach. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this.")
A shadow lingers, haunted by heartbreak, in the aftermath of it all. Even now, it waits, watching Ena deflate.
"Honestly, I'm not a patient person, but... well, if it's you, I'm willing to stay by your side forever. I'll wait until you're ready, Mizuki."
Tell her.
The guilt tears them up inside, but they cannot bring themselves to say those damned words. The world will never be kind to Mizuki, and dishonesty is the one thing they have left. But, all they want is just for Ena to be happy. That's all they've ever wanted for her.
I'm sorry, Ena.
I can't tell you.
That is how it all begins.
The chill of winter. Trembling hands. A human, a monster, perhaps nothing at all. The past, their future, colligating, tangling into something messy and complicated – something ugly.
You've never known the warmth of a full belly, not for the longest of times. Not since you lost your family. Your joints ache, and the wounds on your back are still wet with blood.
You take slow, ambling steps forward. Snow blankets the horizon, and the trail of red you leave behind is stark against white landscape. From a distance, its vibrant hue could've been mistaken for precious rubies and gemstones, sparkling under the midmorning sun.
But blood is not worth the same luxury as gems. And your blood, drenched with sin, is so filthy no one would ever even want it.
You're fourteen and hungry; starving for a family, for safety, for the freedom that you'd been promised at nine, when you'd been naive enough to believe in humanity. You're alone now, lonely and desperate. And you're hungry, so hungry, but the chains that bind down your feet make it impossible to take flight.
Your blood drips in increments, staining the ground. It's a reminder that you're powerless here, cursed to bleed dry in this very land you wish to be rid from.
"Hey, are you... alright?" A voice calls out, barely audible over the drone of the forest. Spring is arriving, and the faint chirps and crackling ice reflect this.
There is a stranger there. A girl. Brown eyes, long hair tied in an elaborate braid; a person that is unfamiliar, looking so much like one of them — the people you despise.
You bare your teeth and hiss lowly, warning her to stay away.
The girl jumps back at your aggressive snarl. She snaps indignantly. "Why am I getting hissed at? Don't you have manners—?" and then her eyes widen as she takes in your pathetic, trembling visage. "Wait, you're bleeding! Let me see!"
She storms forward, determination seemingly taking priority over any hesitation, even as she regards your aggression with wariness. She reaches out, and all at once, the mask of hostility you had adopted crumbles into pieces.
You back away hurriedly, slamming right into a gnarly oak tree. It presses into your back, right onto your wounds, and you bite back a scream.
The girl stops.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she says slowly, narrowing her eyes. Then, taking careful steps forward, she reaches out to place a hand on the wounds. You shudder at the touch.
"Who could have done such a thing...?" She is looking the lacerations trailing up your arm.
You pursue your lips. "...Who're you?"
"Ah, so the creature speaks," she murmurs dryly. "I almost thought you were feral."
"Who. Are. You."
"I'm not telling you if you're going to be rude."
The girl pulls her hand back to grab the pouch attached on her belt. It's medicine. Precious herbs and more rolls of bandages than you'd ever seen before.
"Here," she gestures vaguely in your direction. "Give me your arm and I'll bandage it for you. It's injured, right?"
You narrow your eyes in suspicion, and the girl rolls her eyes, unamused. Her hand is still outreached.
"Your arm. It's wounded. Do you want me to help you or not?"
You surrender your arm. The girl huffs out a faint, 'finally!' and sets off to work.
"Don't you... know who I am?"
"Am I supposed to?"
You draw back slightly, curling into yourself. Right. Right, of course she couldn't have known. She hadn't seen it yet. She wouldn't have been so kind if she saw—
"It's Enanan, by the way."
"Enanan...?"
"My name. You wanted to know, right? I'm Enanan."
You blink, caught off-guard. "Enanan, huh? Somehow... that really doesn't fit you."
"Haah? Are you trying to make me mad?"
Her annoyance is oddly endearing. You can't help but laugh softly. "Sorry, sorry! It's just... Enanan sounds like such a cute name, and you're... well— you're not what quite I'd expect for someone with that name."
Enanan scowls, but she releases your arm, neatly bandaged. "Since I'm actually feeling nice today, I'm ignoring that. Do you have any other injuries?"
You hunch into yourself warily.
"I don't have anything to pay you back with."
"Ugh, can you not make me seem so petty? I'm healing you because I want to, alright? I'm not that cruel to make you pay me back when you're already looking half-dead!"
"...Are you sure this is you being nice?"
"Hurry up already!"
You hesitate for a moment longer. Your back aches with a fierce intensity, aggravated by how you'd foolishly slammed into solid bark earlier. It's tempting, really, because medicine is so rare, especially for someone like you, and—
Enanan is waiting. You know, because you can tell she's staring at the lacerations on your shoulders that trail down your back.
But you don't move.
"I really won't hurt you," Enanan reassures, as though sensing the hesitation in your prolonged inaction.
Slowly, you inch forward, turning slightly to let Enanan see. Your heart is racing, and your hands are clammy with sweat. You shut your eyes, nails digging into the palms of your hands. You hear a sharp breath in.
"Oh..." Enanan's voice is soft, tinged with part wonder, part solemnity. There's no mockery, no disgust, nothing whatsoever. You don't know if she recognises you, and just what it means for you to be outside, away from them.
A gentle hand reaches out to touch your back, ghosting over the lacerations and raised scars. You can feel her fingers settling over your brand, and how they tremble faintly. But Enanan doesn't say a word, only reopening her medicinal pouch and silently layering your wounds with thick, herbal paste.
It's a comfortable silence, punctuated only by your occasional hiss of pain and Enanan's soft breathing. It's over as quickly as it begins; mundane and without any violence at all. It's nothing you had ever experienced before.
"You aren't scared?" you ask. You still haven't turned back to catch the expression on Enanan's face.
"Did the Church do this?"
The silence in itself is damning, but you don't say a word. Fear has closed up your throat, rendering you speechless. To admit would be to acknowledge in the institute's cruelty, in your own helplessness. And despite how kind Enanan has been, you aren't brave enough to tell her just yet, of your place. Your sin. Your duty.
Enanan seems to understand anyway, because she doesn't push, even as the mulish expression on her face betrays her curiosity. "Well, whatever, not my problem anyway. But if you're part of the Church, what are you doing outside? Aren't you supposed to pray at the cathedral... or something?"
Your back fully bandaged by now, you tug the shawl that you had previously slipped off closer to your neck, hiding your secret. You avert your eyes, cracking a wry smile.
"They let me out, once a week. Let me stretch or whatever. I think they're scared I might actually run off one day and not come back."
You can tell Enanan wants to say something, again. But she bites back her words once more and you don't push. It's not your business anyway, what this stranger thinks or feels. After today, you probably wouldn't see her again too.
"Well... What's your name?"
"...Why do you want to know?"
"You're lonely, right? It's pretty obvious," Enanan reaches out a hand earnestly, despite her brash words. "So let's be friends."
You gape. "You want to be friends? With me?"
"Do you see anyone else here?" Enanan snorts. "You said they let you out once a week, right? I'll be here too, gathering herbs and all. We can meet up and get to know each other."
"You're crazy, Enanan," you say incredulously. "Aren't I basically a stranger to you? We met in the woods, doesn't that raise any red flags? None? And after seeing... what I am, you still want to be friends? Aren't you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?" Something like fury burns in Enanan's eyes. "The Church? The townspeople? They were the ones cruel enough to do this. What reason do I have to be scared of you?"
And something warm flickers to life in your chest, sparking with a dangerous sort of hope, that makes you reckless and wistful.
Enanan looks away, muttering lowly. "Well, anyway. What's wrong with meeting in the woods? It's... homey."
It's so endearing. So endlessly warm and comforting, that it makes you smile, no matter how unwittingly.
"I'm... Amia."
It's the first time in a long, long while, since you've said that name. You reach out to grasp Enanan's hand.
Enanan smiles.
"Nice to meet you, Amia."
The start of the end.
The world as it is remains fundamentally unchanged, even as the memories rearrange themselves in the space between. Everything remains, but glimpses begin to peek through the crevices of the falsitudes that they'd adopted before.
Before, their dreams used to be dyed in grey. An empty sky over concrete floors and rusted fences. They would sit, cross-legged and bare foot, in this world with no one else but them.
It was a peace unable to be accorded in their daily life, where their every action would be scrutinised with a disapproving eye, when being just Mizuki only brought a sense of crippling entrapment and bitter self-loathing.
After. After remembering, after the memories had come back, even Mizuki's dreams hadn't been spared.
Their monochrome world began to expand. They sometimes saw visages of Enanan, and of people who were long gone. Flickers of red, the sound of chains; glimpses of moulted feathers, stark against the grey cobbled floors.
It makes them ache with a fierce sort of longing, a searing heat that spreads like fire lines down their back as they drown in the memories rooting them in place. It's always the secrets, the thought of: 'I want to tell her everything, if it's her, surely she'll understand.'
They're tired. The dreams take a toll on them, not only in an emotional sense, but manifesting also in the weariness that makes their body sluggish and their eyes burn during their routine nightcord calls.
Tonight is the same. They blink furiously at their computer screen, biting back a yawn. Double-checking for the millionth time that their mic has been muted, before leaning back to stretch their aching muscles, groaning lowly.
Then, Mizuki sighs, unmuting. "Is it alright for me to log off early tonight? I'm feeling a little bit tired."
And honestly, it's a bit of an inconvenient time to stop working – they're in the middle of adding an effect to the MV, but the steady rhythmic lull of the rain, coupled with their sleepless nights, have made it difficult to even keep their eyes open.
Ena responds almost instantly. "Eh? Are you feeling sick, Amia?"
A name spoken with such familiarity, yet none of at all; belonging to both them and a ghost now. Against their will, Mizuki flinches.
"Ah..." they laugh uncomfortably. "Don't worry, Ena! I've just not been sleeping a lot lately. Really, not everyone can sleep in all day and take night classes!"
"You're trying to get yourself strangled, aren't you, Mizuki?" Ena huffs, but after a moment, says. "Take care of yourself, idiot. Drink more water and rest earlier or something."
"Mn. We're mostly caught up with the deadline so it's fine to take a break. Good job for today, Amia."
"See? If K says it's fine to rest, then it's fine. Shoo, shoo, Amia! Go sleep."
Tell her.
Again, that quiet part within them urges gently. Familiar, a remnant of the distant past, someone still there, still waiting.
But they can't. They can't.
("I'll come back, I promise.")
The words refuse to leave. The incurably dishonest part of themselves, screaming to swallow it all down and never breathe a word about their secret; it lingers still, in this quiet space that brings them comfort, that makes the weight of the memories less painful.
Perhaps what was said about them had always been right. Duty, no matter how unjust it might have felt back then, no matter how she had once been so, so angry for them — maybe it was all right and fair.
Tell her.
(Liar. Liar. Liar.)
Don't you miss her?
"Hey everyone... I have a question," their voice is hardly audible over the drone of the rain. Molasses attached to every word, slow and syrupy, uncertain. "What do you think about Chosen Words?"
A silence blankets the room. It's the same solemnity always associated with the topic of past lives. Remembering is a common enough phenomenon that occurs, but really, it still only happens to the minority of the population. Often, it's hardly spoken about without suspicion, riddled with conspiracies and much debate.
It's... not something one would usually talk about. They know they're coming across as very suspicious, but they just– they need to know.
"...What brought this on, Amia?" K asks hesitantly, the same time Ena responds with a sharp, "Did you remember something?"
Mizuki smiles, and it feels brittle. The words leave their lips easily, practiced and light. "Haha, no, no! Don't misunderstand, okay? There's been that one really popular anime airing lately — y'know, the one about past lives? It was really interesting so I just got a bit curious about whether you guys ever wanted to remember your Chosen Words too! Unless..."
They make sure that the mirth in their voice features prominently, even over voice call. "...anyone of you have already remembered?"
More silence; their heart stutters in their chest.
Yuki's response comes a minute later, oddly hesitant, but she murmurs quietly, "I don't remember. And as for what I think about them... I don't know."
"K? Ena?"
"I don't remember anything as of right now, Amia," Kanade responds.
Mizuki almost deflates.
"Oh, that's alright, K! No stress, I was just curious, that's all."
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help," Kanade continues on apologetically, before taking on a more wondering tone. "But, well... I think that it's comforting at least, to know that not everything ends when you die. That there's always hope for a second chance."
Mizuki blinks. "A... second chance?"
"Mn. It's that sort of feeling — where even if you say goodbye to someone precious to you, you might meet again someday."
Ah.
Their chest feels tight, eyes burning from the unbidden tears rapidly welling. It's a kind response, one so distinctively K, that would usually make them feel comforted and heard, so why...?
Why does it hurt so much then?
"That's a really nice way of looking at things," they murmur quietly, and in an effort to stop themselves from tearing up further, they ask hastily, "Then, Enanan! What about you?"
"I don't remember either, Amia," Ena doesn't even hesitate, unmuting herself to sigh loudly. "Honestly, the odds of someone saying Chosen Words are so low! But I guess it would be nice to find out how different I would've been in another lifetime, or to know if the people around me now –my friends and family– were the same people I was with before."
(Tell her—)
There is an odd buzzing in their ears, and they shut their eyes, swallowing. Ena didn't remember. Of course she didn't, they'd known it all along. But Mizuki can't really remember what they respond with next. Some sort of cheery joke, a playful jib here or there.
A miserable feeling dwarfs over their chest as the world closes in on them. It's easy to remember, in moments like these, just how alone they are.
"Then, I'll log off now then. See everyone tomorrow!"
"Ah, hold on, Mizuki!" Ena interrupts.
Mizuki laughs, a little too loudly. "Yeah?"
"Rest well, alright?" Ena's voice comes across as a petulant whisper, but nonetheless sincere.
"Ah..." They soften, unable to bring themselves to tease Ena for her uncharacteristic display of concern. It's oddly endearing, even as the words settle like a chain around their shamefully bowed head.
"Don't worry, Ena," they say. "I'll get a good night's sleep tonight!"
All that remains is the silence between; dreams tasting of warmth and honey, a rooftop dyed crimson from the setting sun as the battlefield ignites with a gulf of flames.
The calls ends.
Mizuki cups their hands over their eyes, willing themselves to stop remembering, to stop looking. Stop. There is a hand outreached, clasped around their own, a desperate plea, but Enanan is gone, and so is Amia.
That familiar snowy landscape from before, feathers against a backdrop of white as they had laughed and felt free, even with the chains settled over their pathetic, cowering form — it was all gone now.
Duty and sin. Punishment and repentance. Even now, they're still running.
Even now, Amia still lingers, waiting, waiting—
Tell her.
Liar.
("You are alone, Lilith.")
And if you could take it all back, return to those awfuller, more peaceful, simpler days, you would haver never said your name. You would have never wanted hope.
Not when it came with such a heavy price. Not when—
|| enanan • Today at 09.23am
hey, you up?
i know you were tired last night, but if you're feeling up for it, there's a cafe that opened near the station recently
|| enanan • Today at 09.25am
[enanan sent a picture.]
wanna go?
|| amia • Today at 10.15am
mmmmmm
i jst woke up gimme
a min
|| amia • Today at 10.20am
okay
im
awake now!!!! and actually coherent :P
|| enanan • Today at 10.21am
when are you ever though
|| amia • Today at 10.21am
rude!!!! ena's always so mean to me >:(
but ohhh a new cafe?
and it has pancakes, nice :)))
sure!!! let's go!!!!!!!!!
|| enanan • Today at 10.21am
do you always have to be excited about the smallest things
alright, 1pm at the station?
|| amia • Today at 10.22am
1pm works! don't be late enanaemon >:))))
|| enanan • Today at 10.31am
[enanan has sent an emote!]
don't push your luck
They meet Ena on the sidewalk of Scramble Crossing, wringing their hands nervously in anticipation. It's the first time they've met since Ena's confrontation on the rooftop —outside of nightcord meetings, of course— and they can't help but feel anxious.
"Ah, Mizuki!" Ena greets, before seemingly double-taking at the sight of their face. "Don't you look a bit pale? Did you get enough sleep last night?"
It's almost like a parody of what happened before. Before, after; in the confines of Mizuki's mind, the rooftop is the crossing point of two lifetimes, of something fundamental shifting into place. It's funny how it feels like everything has changed, yet really, nothing at all. They're still keeping secrets, still lying — it's just hard to tell where Mizuki ends and Amia really begins.
They laugh. "Haha, this again, Ena? I'm fine! I'm fine!"
Ena's eyes narrow, but their smile doesn't budge. They've played this game one too many times to waver in the face of the slightest suspicion — impending mental breakdowns aside.
"Well," she says, rather unconvinced, but seeming to make an effort to respect Mizuki's unspoken wishes. "If you say so, Mizuki. Now come on, already! We'll be late if we dawdle any longer!"
"Ehhhhh? And whose fault is that?" Mizuki snorts. "Enanan somehow still managed to arrive late even though she got up on time."
"Ahhhh enough about that already! I said I was sorry, right? Let's go, let's go!"
Ena turns to walk off hurriedly. And watching her visage, Mizuki can almost see flickers of the person she'd been once; brown hair curling around their shoulders, tied in an elaborate half-braid. Eyes that glowed when the sun hit in just in the right spot, that no amount of filters could accurately replicate.
"Mizuki, are you coming or not!"
"Yeah! Wait up, Ena!" Their steps are unsteady and hurried as they chase after Ena's distancing figure. They're always running, always trying to reach out to something they can't keep, even as Ena turns back to smile prettily at them.
Wouldn't it be easier to just tell Ena? All of it; their memories, their past, their secret? Enanan is smiling at them, and it's so nostalgic, and—
But — No. No. Ena is not her.
She'd been gone for a long time now, and she would never come back. Mizuki shudders. They made a choice before, already. It'd be for the best, to never tell her, never let Ena remember.
It's easier because this way, Ena would be happy. In a lifetime where Enanan had never met Amia, perhaps then she could finally be free.
Why... did they ever choose to get close again? When all it meant would be goodbyes and separation, and they would be alone again. Even after all this time, the simpering, pathetic monster that is Amia still longs to keep Enanan close. Even when Mizuki was just a liar—
(It's all your fault.)
The crowd begins to thin as they stumble into a smaller street, away from the bustle of the station. Ena blinks, squinting at the neon sign illuminating the name of the cafe.
"Is this it?" she asks.
Mizuki nods. Their head is fuzzy, lungs constricting with the weight of it all; missing someone who is no longer there. It's so unfair to the person that lives on now, that is waiting, still.
Focus, Mizuki. Ena is watching you.
They step forward to hold the door open for Ena, cheering boisterously. "Yahoooo! Looks like we finally made it! Let's go!"
Ena's patient eyes crinkles with amusement as she shakes her head fondly, with a faith and belief Mizuki doesn't deserve.
They both share a smile, and just for a moment, just a bit, Mizuki thinks: let me keep this for just a little while more.
So they swallow down all the words they don't say, averting their eyes from the flickering visages of forgotten ghosts. Tucked out of sight, along with the feathers that they once tried to rid themselves of, before; names upon titles, shackled chains, and a Father that whispers, you won't ever be free.