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“Wake up from this dream and go to where you should be. Your gamble… is not over yet.”
The void is dark, cold, and empty.
Aventurine doesn’t realise just how unnerving it would be to brave it alone, until Acheron turns away from him, her pale hair swaying behind her and her firm red gaze vanishing from sight. With the loss of the very little warmth it provided, a chill runs up Aventurine’s spine.
Before she can venture any further into the abyss, he calls out to her, grimacing at the desperation in his voice that he miserably fails to hide. “Wait. Before we part…”
Thankfully, the Emanator slows to a stop, and relief surges through him. Though, the feeling dwindles when that eye pierces through him over her shoulder. Whether or not its scrutiny is intentional, Aventurine can’t help but lower his gaze, peering at his reflection in the rippling waters. He’s in such a pathetic state, but as much as he loathes the sight of himself, he’d much prefer it over looking Acheron in the eye.
After a beat, he decides that neither scenario is ideal, and turns to face the gaping black hole instead. “I need to ask you a question. Something I’ve been pondering the answer to for a long time.” For as long as I’ve lived.
There’s nothing but silence in the void behind him. Aventurine’s almost convinced of Acheron’s abrupt departure. It’s not like he’d be unaccustomed to it; one of his other colleagues would have done something in a similar fashion.
His suspicions are debunked when Acheron speaks once more. “I’m listening.”
As odd as it may be, Aventurine’s heart squeezes at the words. There are very few people willing to listen to him in this world.
He smiles wistfully, gazing into the black hole and wondering if, just maybe, it has the power to swallow up his worries.
He speaks them into the darkness. “Why are we born into this world if it’s just to die?”
This time, her response is immediate. Her voice cuts through the vacuum. “I don’t think this, and never have. Nor do you.”
He huffs quietly, folding his arms over his chest. The feel of goosebumps on his forearms startles him; he hadn’t even registered them. He can’t tell whether they’re the result of the relentless cold of the abyss, or Acheron’s unnerving ability to get inside his head. She’s perceptive, and this is something he’s come to terms with throughout their conversation.
“How can you be so confident of that?” he challenges, except there’s no real bite in his words. She’s right and he knows it – they both do. He asks this out of curiosity more than anything.
But to his surprise, Acheron hesitates for a moment. “You… may find this hard to believe, but you and I share a multitude of similarities.”
He huffs again, more incredulously, and turns to meet her eye. “Well, you’re certainly right about that being hard to believe. You’re… brave, resolute, unwavering. The epitome of strength. Everything I could only ever hope to be.”
Acheron carefully eyes him up and down. It’s a subtle action, yet he can’t help the waves of self-consciousness that follow her burning gaze. “And have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps, others may perceive you in the way you perceive me?”
Aventurine averts his gaze, letting her words pull him into thought, because no. He hasn’t. His charismatic display is merely that. A display. A flamboyant performance, which he has fabricated in hopes of fooling others just as he fools himself. And he’s only ever gambled on the fact that they take the bait; sometimes he’s surprised that they do. It must be one of the perks of the Mother Goddess’ blessing.
Acheron continues, “The Astral Express views you in high regard. During my time with them, it became clear that you’ve made a strong impression. Of course, it may not be positive in all aspects, but that’s just another part of your scheme, isn't it?” She steps towards him, and although his instincts scream for him to back away, he doesn’t go through with it. He knows she has no intention of harming him. “Like I said, you’re cunning. Always plotting, always strategizing. It’s impossible to predict your next move. Your performance has been nothing short of impressive.
“And yet you continue to doubt yourself. Despite your countless feats, you focus on your failures, and you internalise them. You identify with them. Don't you?”
Emptily, Aventurine laughs. “Get out of my head, Emanator. It’s seriously creepy.”
She shakes her head. “Your thoughts mirror my own, is all.”
Huh. Aventurine never would’ve reckoned it. Acheron is a stoic woman, with seemingly impenetrable resolve. To think someone like him – some pathetic fool – could bear even the slightest resemblance to an Emanator…
“Now,” Acheron speaks again, jerking him from his train of thought, “to address your previous question.”
With bated breath, Aventurine watches her. He’s ready to cling to her every word, desperate for a revelation.
Except she apparently has none to offer. Instead, she eyes his pocket with disconcerting intensity. “I believe you already have the answer.”
Aventurine furrows his brows, following her stare as it bores into his pocket.
Before his grand performance, he'd discarded all of his belongings. When gambling with his life, they no longer have any weight behind them.
All, except for…
Having registered what Acheron is referring to, he reluctantly fishes the scroll from his pocket. It’s light in his hands, and the detailed patterns carved into the gold are so heart-wrenchingly reminiscent of the doctor that had offered it to him. He traces the engravings with his thumb. As he does so, an inexplicable feeling builds within him, which he quickly identifies to be one of yearning.
Odd. Even after gambling away his life, he’s surprised he can still indulge in such sentiments.
“Open it,” Acheron urges. “Let’s see what your friend has to say.”
Pausing, Aventurine glances up at her questioningly. How could she be so sure that Veritas’ message holds the answers to his question? She knows him better than he knows himself. Could she have anticipated this meeting – this question – and thought to conspire with the doctor behind his back? Perhaps to taunt him?
Regardless, he eyes the scroll once more, and retrieves the paper from inside it. As he unravels it, he’s surprised to see so little writing on the page. Even he recognises that his question is by no means simple to answer. A couple short lines would likely mean nothing to him.
At least, that’s what Aventurine would think if the writer of these lines were anyone other than Veritas. Who else could have such a way with words, if not for the intelligent man with that beautiful mind?
His gaze lingers on the page, or more specifically, the last line of it, written in neat, elegant script.
“Do stay alive. I wish you the best of luck.”
Aventurine vaguely remembers the circumstances under which Ratio had given him this scroll. He’d been cursed with the Harmony, with the both of them under Sunday’s strict watch and selecting each word carefully to avoid suspicion.
To think that, underneath Veritas’ scathing words and mocking remarks, these were the words he’d wanted to say…
To think that, despite everything, someone wishes for his safety…
That Veritas wishes for his safety…
If Acheron was the one to liberate him from the IPC and the Harmony, slicing through his shackles and carving their brands from him, then Veritas is the one to grab his hand as he floats aimlessly through the abyss, and redirect him to the light.
That’s right. He has a purpose again, doesn’t he?
And that purpose… is simply to live. To live for the sake of living.
No more negotiations. No more obligations. Death is no longer looming over him.
All of a sudden, he realises that at this very moment, he is truly free. Free, and with a second chance at life.
The crushing weight lifts from his chest. He draws in a sharp breath.
And, at last, his walls crumble, and he cries.
He cries, and cries, and he lacks the mind to avoid soiling the paper in his hands with tears. He doesn’t need the note, anyway. Not anymore. Veritas’ profound words have already etched themselves into his brain, his heart, his soul.
So he lets it slip from his grasp, falling to his knees and clutching at himself. His body is overcome by emotion, and it's useless to try and stop the tears from leaving him. It's about time he let them go; after years upon years of trapping them inside, it's only fair. If he can be free, why can't they?
And besides, there's no reason to keep up the act. Not anymore – not here, where the only other presence already knows and recognizes every thought of his.
As expected, Acheron remains unfazed by his sudden emotional breakdown. She simply crouches in front of him and rests a hand on his head. It's an unsophisticated action, yet it provides Aventurine with more comfort than he'd ever thought he could experience. He'd never deemed himself worthy before, but now he decides that perhaps it'd be best to let this happen. A moment of respite, before his next gamble.
Until that time comes, he can set aside his facade.
These hands belong to an omnipotent warrior, and yet they are endlessly gentle as they coax him into an embrace. Aventurine melts into her touch, his shame and his self-preservation long gone. One hand rests at the back of his head as he sobs and hiccups against her shoulder. The other rubs mindless patterns into his back.
Her nimble fingers run through his tousled hair. “You are not alone, Kakavasha. You never have been.”
Her words and her actions envelop him in a warm blanket. He shudders into the embrace, clutching her tightly as if she could dissolve into the abyss at any moment. He's certain his grip on her could bruise, and yet she makes no move to pull away, or push him away. She lets him have this. She lets him take what he needs to from this moment. And he couldn't be more grateful.
She holds him until he no longer has the energy to cry. Until he is drained of his tears, until his throat goes hoarse, until his shoulders cease their trembling. Only when his grasp around her falls away does she pull back. She dispels the remainder of his tears with two clean swipes, and he can't help but lean into her touch.
It's been so long since he's let someone treat him like this. The walls he'd built around himself have always prevented him from doing so.
He'd never thought it could feel so relieving to let someone in. If only he'd known, then perhaps…
Perhaps things could have gone differently between him and a certain doctor.
A trembling sigh escapes past his lips, and he frowns down at his reflection. He's a mess.
Acheron thinks nothing of this, rising to her feet without a word. This time, Aventurine feels no need to stop her.
Her strides are long and confident as she moves past him, venturing further into the vast and boundless darkness. Aventurine watches her long pale hair trail behind her, and he realises that he no longer fears the abyss; what exactly is there to fear?
“Stand tall and make your way home,” Acheron says, not sparing a glance backwards. She seems to have full confidence that he will make the right decision. She… trusts him.
And when people place their earnest trust in him, he's never one to let them down.
He scrambles to his feet, watching her vanish into the shadows. He can't help but smile.
“I will,” he speaks to the darkness. “Thank you.”
But before he can journey into the black hole that beckons for him, he hears another set of footsteps.
Smaller ones. They belong to a child.
Drawing in a deep breath, he turns.
It appears it's time to say goodbye to someone else.