Work Text:
He was smart. At least, everyone important told him he was so he must be. He was also good, he always stayed behind the lines, never spoke out, shut his eyes tight and covered his ears whenever his father's voice grated (screamingscreamingscreaming) painfully against his ears.
He was smart and good and very, very, very good at waiting. Theodore was an expert; he had strategies.
Count: one...two.
Count: one...two...three.
Count: one...two...three...four.
Count and count and count and count and count until he lost track of what exactly he was counting to (and wasn't it all a waste anyways? All humans die, the lines on our faces the ticks and the grooves the tocks...tick...tock...tick...tock...said the clock as his father chanted words that did not belong to him to creatures that belonged to nothing.) He was so, so, so good at counting (count: 96...97...98).
Theodore had learned math at school ("arithmetic," his father had said, his face so, so high, his cold glare focused on the Sign nailed to the kitchen wall, beside the clock that ticked and tocked.) It was his favorite subject, and now, in eighth grade, he already knew what he was to be when he was grown. A mathematician. His Brothers laughed and laughed when he told them, but Theodore couldn't wait for university, for the Great Future, for the Undying Beyond. Math had made sense from the beginning of the universe. It will make sense till the end.
(Count: 117...118...119).
Father and the Uncles gathered tight in the small clearing under the watching moon. Theodore can see their black robes swish around their ankles, and see the moonlight cast silver onto the peaks of their hoods.
The moon stains everything, Theodore noticed. It is merely a reflection, and yet, Theodore as seen more paintings, poems and writings about it. He supposes that he cannot judge the moon, wanting to steal even a fraction of something else to become more than craters and a cold, barren surface. Seems quite excusable to him. He had always been rather similar himself. His Brothers named him "soulless" and "empty", but what's the point of having a 'soul' in a soulless world? Theodore has never really seen the point. His father never did either, he suspected. Perhaps that's why he joined the Order.
The Order. And the Order was what it was and always will be to Theodore. The Order of the Fallen Star was simply a command, a direction of force in any given direction. For Theodore's entire life, the Order was to acquire the Blackstone ("by any means necessary," usually meant to speed up the pendulum swing of the clock). To achieve such a gift didn't come without its costs, however, and Theodore's ears and eyes were already sore from how tight he was squeezing them closed. Screaming echoed in trees. The screams that sounded familiar.
(Count: 130...131...132).
How long had it been since he's focused his wandering eyes and ears on the moon soaked meadow? (Count: 133...134...135). How long had it been since Uncle Jacob had heralded the Blackstone's arrival, his cloak billowing around his bloated, reddened figure, his silver hair white in the teasing of the moon? (Count: 136...137...138).
Theodore's eyes darted up under his eyelids as if he could watch without seeing (observe the blood cascade from - COUNT: 139...140...141). Listen to the orchestra of screams without hearing (hum along to the tearing of lips and cheeks into - COUNT: 142...143...145).
His Brothers would die today. His Uncles could die today. His Fathers would die today.
His father would die today.
Theodore opened his eyes.
Count: 1...2...3...4...5...