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As she sits in the hall, clad in the dove white that she's only worn twice since she escaped the facility as a child, she can't help but reflect upon her life—cathedrals tend to have that effect.
Of course, when she thinks back to their childhood years, it's always them five, running through the halls. They sprinted as a group, heels skidding on the polished floors, and for a moment, all was well. She recalls the feeling of the varnish scented wind rushing through her hair, the dull ache in her legs as they raced up the stairs, the feeling of her cold hands on her hot cheeks, sore from smiling.
They'd sit in the lunch hall, at the bench they had claimed as their own back in first year, and play stupid games—would-you-rathers, never-have-I-evers, and her personal favourite, truth or dare. Many a dare was delivered by her, with ridiculous specifications that earned her the fear of all her friends. It's her strongest childhood memory—the happiest memory of her life, honestly.
(Watching Bondman with her parents would have to be a close second. Unfortunately, Papa always fell asleep or muttered about the inaccuracies in his mind, and Mama required endless explanations until she understood the content, which did take away from the experience—or perhaps it added to it, really.)
Papa always warned her to be careful who her friends were, especially as she grew older and her Esper abilities grew to an extent where she simply had to tell him and Mama, clutching Bond like a shield as she knelt in their hallway, terrified, yet somehow not weeping. Now she suspects it was because she knew they would never leave her. Papa tried, once, but it lasted all of two nights before his wife had dragged him back to their small apartment, sweet smile failing to hide the deathly grip in which she held him to fend off his increasingly weak protests. They made him swear he would never again try to lave them, again and again until she heard no points of resistance in his mind.
They trained her with a single-minded devotion from then. Mama taught her how to protect herself and what she loved, when to run away, when to fight. Papa taught her how to identify dangerous people and how to manage any situation, little tricks to get past anyone. They both taught her to survive anything, and in that, she learnt how to live—yet the anxiety she'd hear pulsing through the house only intensified as she learnt more.
She always used to dismiss Papa's worries as silly, paranoid. They were, for the most part. The five of them were inseparable, the pillars of Eden itself by the time they were in their last year, Imperial Scholars with boundless influence over the rest of the students and even the staff.
It was a source of pride, for her, how much the small children adored her. When she had her short stint as an Eden teacher years later, they would rush up to her at the school gates, chorusing Anya, Miss Anya, and she would sit with them and listen to all their stories, marvel at all their creations, and cheer them up with 'peanut theatre', in which she drew faces on the unfortunate legume seeds and had them act out various dramatic epics (she kept at least ten anaphylaxis waivers on her at any given time for any new fans, and gave hand-crocheted penguins as an alternative reward).
In short, she did the things that most of these children's families never quite bothered doing, so even now, all these years later, she would occasionally bump into one of these children—at the supermarket, or at a park—they were always just as happy to see her as she was them, and would enthusiastically greet her as though she was a long-lost sister of theirs—their Miss Anya for eternity.
Through those years, she gained so many loyal followers that her friends jokingly referred to her as 'the mother duck'. She pretended to be annoyed, but really, how could she be? Their large, sparkling eyes and pearly-white toothed beams never failed to cheer her up.
She fiddles with her skirt now, awkwardly shifting. She's too old for lace, according to the ministers' wives' rules she remembers from back then. But really, she's Anya Forger, what did they expect—she went and wore that dress that was buried at the back of her wardrobe: layers of tulle and lace falling from a smooth clear white, which drift from the pew to the carpeted floor.
She hears his name from behind her, and doesn't turn around—which, really, takes an unreasonable amount of effort. Years of muscle memory, from Eden and beyond, are hard to overcome after all.
Of course they had fought as kids. But before long, somewhere between the childhood chaos and the heady scent of the exam hall, they were Imperial Scholars, their capes shields enough for the rush-hour hall traffic. And somehow, the two of them had become inseparable.
For all the time she spent with Becky, how much she adored and needed her, he was the one she could always talk to about everything. From her bursts of Esper powers or methods of finding one's purpose to the suspicious lack of peanut variety in her local milk bar, he would always listen, sometimes fiddle with her hair fondly, and somehow understand immediately. It was part of what made him such a good leader when he grew older, past the childish tantrums and the privileged filter—he had an alarmingly discerning eye. They called at questionable hours about equally questionable things. He brought her snacks, whispered bad jokes in her ear and reminded her that uncertainty was alright; she hyped him up when he was anxious and reminded him it was okay to feel too much. They were each other's safe harbour, and she always hoped he would be fine with that.
And for many years, it was fine. He fell in love with another girl, and of course she, the ultimate wingwoman, was the one who secured their first date. She too attempted to dabble in romance with safer, less risky people, and generally failed. They were thrown into the savage world of wildly competitive academic rivalries, all set against the backdrop of impending war; they dealt with insurmountable pressure in the later days of Operation Strix, and for weeks they were enemies again, for the first time in years. It didn't last, of course. He called her from a phone booth it had took him a concerning amount of time to successfully operate, she laughed at him, and all was well—between the two of them, at any rate. The secrets were extracted. He was only mildly irritated at his being 'used as a tool', to her great relief. And life was briefly normal again.
But then they graduated, and she couldn't help but start to notice things. Each time she praised him and met his warm amber eyes, he would laugh in that endearing, awkward way; his handwriting was always so neat when he copied out notes for her, so different from his usual scrawl; when she overheard his thoughts (she had sworn never to read his mind without his permission, but he was so loud sometimes), his affection for her would pulse out like a quiet, steady ebb and flow of the tide, and it was all so intense yet steady, so gentle and protective she wanted to hide.
She knew of his love; he knew she knew, and had resigned himself to happily staying by her side. She pretended her blatant ignorance of his constant adoration was because she felt nothing for him in return, because the alternative was too dangerous. To their friends, they were star-crossed lovers, fated and destined for a happily-ever-after. She immediately defended them, angry and worried for his feelings, yet he only laughed in that wry way that always tore at her, for some reason.
Of course she ran. She had no familiarity with his love, the all-consuming torrent the he hid so masterfully, under a professionally curated smile and his overly perfectly tailored suits. So she stood next to him, giggled and danced, said things that made so little sense they were practically fact, and pointedly ignored every time he stared a bit too long or stood too close.
But then, one year, the dreams started—always him, dying, over and over again. He was 'pruned' by Garden, arrested and tortured by the SSS, abducted by WISE 'for the greater good', shot by his brother behind his back, sent to war, and finally, one night, she cut his throat open herself and stroked his cheek as rivulets of blood danced mesmerisingly down the pale, perfect column of his throat. Each scene was so vivid she would wake up drenched, from sweat or tears or both, clutching onto her blanket for dear life, pure horror thudding through her veins.
She tried to be normal the day after her worst dream, but he caught her immediately, seconds after she sat down for their weekly coffee rendezvous. When she finally told him, seconds from bursting into sobs again, he only grinned. I'm not that easy to get rid of, Forger.
But he was, really. She wasn't even trained, and she knew, from the little tidbits from Mama and Papa—and, of course, childhood meetings with Nightfall—at least ten was she could kill him discretely within minutes. Yet all he did was pat her head gently, say that it was just a dream, and order another muffin, his expression serene, his face unscratched, his words laced with his love, tender and certain as ever.
And it was on that day that she decided she would never leave him for the rest of her life, and she would stop running away.
It came easily after that. They fell in love, so ordinarily Becky wailed about it when she told her, saying Anya, god, you two are really perfect for each either, neither of you have a single romantic bone in your bodies. She couldn't disagree. She was too busy, with her second career as a diplomat (she did adore languages. The drama she heard in their heads were definitely a bonus, though.); he was even more so, as a rising minister, set to head the very political party that was his father and brother's biggest rival—she refused to discourage him, no matter what Papa said.
They were two unfailingly pragmatic people, with their small, practical love, and really, she was happy. Besides, his soft, questioning eyes and the careful way he held her was more intimate, to her, than any of the soap-drama grand gestures Becky had named.
There were tiny things she knew she'd always remember. The way his eyes gleamed the most in the dim light of their room, that hazy amber alighting into pure gold. Their hands firmly intertwined whenever they watched movies (which was very often), his only slightly bigger than hers and constantly squeezing whenever he was scared or moved (once again, very often). The safety she felt in his company, the easy comfort of waking up with his head on the pillow beside hers, the sight of his polished shoes beside her tattered sneakers at the door—how could she ever forget?
The first time she whispered I love you back at him, he started to cry. She wiped his tears with her shirtsleeve and he took her hand, mumbling for her to say it again. She heard, in that moment, that nobody had ever said that to him, save for Demetrius when they were children, before their father had gotten to him. And so she said it, over and over again, until he was so used to hearing it he'd just smile. That was when she knew that she had at least done one good thing in her life.
One morning, they stood on their small balcony and drank cheap champagne on empty stomachs, laughing like children over nothing at all as the first hints of light illuminated the dusty middle-class suburbs of Ostania. He mumbled something about how one life with you isn't enough and she swatted him for being sentimental in such a cliché way. Really though, she agreed. So as the sun rose, she hooked her finger with his and shook, whispering that it was a promise and he couldn't go back on it now. His beam said it all.
And then, before she knew it, they were engaged, and his papers on the policies he was finalising decorated their table alongside pages worth of flowers, cakes and colour schemes. She had vehemently backed away from any wedding planning—after all, her agreement to make the engagement public and to host a 'decently-sized' (ridiculously, unnecessarily large) ceremony was already a huge compromise on her part. Now, she wishes she had planned it with him.
He was ever-so-busy, and then she had to go on a trip, translator to a celebrity whose name she could hardly remember now, only a week before. She was worried he'd be annoyed, but he just laughed softly, in that slightly absent manner, saying if it makes you happy, love, why would I protest? as if it were nothing. It was times like that when she felt the overwhelming urge to push at his walls, to hear his thoughts and exactly what he was thinking. But of course, she respected his boundaries, and it wouldn't be right for her to snoop without his knowledge. Now, she wishes she had.
The trip was extended, one day then another, and she finally yelled at her employer and took the quickest train home. It was only a day before the wedding. The next morning, she woke up characteristically late after scarcely four hours of rest in the elaborate hotel room, rushed through the procedures with Mama, and ran down the hall in that long white dress, with the large skirt billowing to the floor, her brilliant hair pinned up.
And it was there there, on the staircase, that Demetrius caught her. She said something about how he should be with his brother of all people, not wandering around the hotel, but somewhere deep inside, she knew something was wrong. His words were hushed, his face so tense she worried for a second he might pull a muscle. It was a betrayal to his party, yet he did it, with such determination she froze. Run, he whispered, finally. Please run, sister-in-law, and if you may, I would advise you to please stay away—as much for your own good as his.
An assassination plot she had conveniently been away to miss, a hundred spies unknowing in one chandeliered hall. She nearly laughed at the irony. The brother looked at her as if she were even more mad than he had thought.
So she ran. Still in her skirts, hair flying free, half blind as the familiar wetness fell down her cheeks. She saw him see her in the courtyard, his hair glinting in the sun, mouth half-forming the shape, the noise she knew so well, the very whisper she had woken against not a month ago.
Anya!
She kept running. Papa found her at their headquarters, screaming instructions in the control room. Mama followed not long after, blood—her coworkers' blood, she realised—staining her coat.
They withdrew, of course, but it was not without repercussions. She could never go back, for one. There was no more Becky, no more Emile and Ewen, no more quiet living in Ostania—and there was no more Anya Forger.
When she thinks back now, she remembers little of the years that followed. There were headlines, in the beginning, ever so many headlines, the 'crisis at Desmond hall' a common conversation topic whether within the nobility or the peasantry. The second son has gone insane, she heard. After his manic search for his runaway bride, he's never been the same. He's only gotten more good looking, though. She went home and screamed into her pillow, then curled up, her sobs echoing off the walls of her empty apartment.
Something has to change. At this rate, I'll lose even the scraps of sanity I have remaining.
So she, who had once prided herself for her spontaneity, voluntarily drowned herself in the steady, pulse-pounding routine that was the training to become Papa's protégé. And she excelled, top marks in her training, in her assignments, whether it be tailing foreign ministers or creating diversions.
It was on a stormy morning that she bumped into his brother again for the first time. They became confidants, an entirely accidental connection on her end. But he was so like his younger brother, and she found his silent companionship when she ranted ever so comforting. Really, she thinks, it was because she was so desperate to keep some sort of connection to her old life.
Slowly, they became closer, and he finally told her why he had become such a hollow machine of a person.
Years ago, he murmured, I was...Dami's elder sister, instead. You'll hear that Demetria Desmond was my twin sister who died during childhood. But Demetrius only existed shortly before her death. Either way, I did the procedures properly. Nobody outside of the family knows. But of course, Father found out about the 'ideas' I had, and nearly disowned me. That was the first and last time I explicitly disobeyed him, and I spent every waking hour regaining his favour.
His eyes were blank, yet finally she saw a hint of fear. He of all people knew how she felt, that overwhelming desire for his brother, her love, to live well. And so, finally, she told him her secret too.
A few years later, he willingly offered her a position as his assistant, something WISE was delighted about. The chōnan of the Desmond line, on their side? Agent Starlight was really a godsend, she heard the entire headquarters murmur in their heads, all while keeping their impassive appearances as always.
She had a fake name, a fake life, deep cover that she adapted to. She changed her appearance, and before long, was attending the same event that was hosted by as the man she had once adored—still adored, if she was being honest (which, naturally, she wasn't)—and she finally saw how he had changed in those five years since that day.
He had gained a gaunt quality in his cheeks, and his eyes were dark and dulled. Yet she understood the reason she kept hearing of his looks—the tired yet fluid way he carried himself and the straight lines of his profile carried a certain weight—he had, unfortunately, perfectly adopted the role of tragic, brooding love interest. His words were flat, yet there was a power to them that he had never had before. She heard his colleagues think, again and again: He has the potential. He's experienced a great loss, and he has nothing left to fear—it's that ruthlessness that will eventually make him somebody to fear.
She feared him, now.
She feared this man, who was so different to the one she knew. His mind was silent when she reached out. At least, she thought it was, before she enquired deeper and ran straight into the wall—no, the ocean—an endless chasm echoing, again and again: AnyaAnyaAnyaAnyaAnya. In all her years of being an Esper, she had never heard such an intense stream of thoughts. It was so loud her ears rang, her head throbbing to the pulse of his chant.
That night, she sat, numb, beside his brother, who quietly whispered that it would be alright. She quietly completed her mission, then transferred to another at first opportunity. Of course, she remained in contact with Demetrius, often meeting up at night for half-coherent ranting with a side of ham-and-cheese bagels.
And so time went on.
She carried on with her duties, completing missions that made Papa proud. She was feared by those who didn't know her and adored by those who did, even if the adoration was shown only through their thoughts. And really, she was a sight, in her rich-coloured clothes under her signature black coat, the pink in her hair faded to a light blush with age, permanently sporting combat boots that were splashed with neon-coloured paint, the dog (black, with golden eyes, who she suspected was at least half wolf and named Ceres) that found her and refused to ever leave her again firmly by her side.
It was strange, being here, with her pure white clothes, Ceres most likely torturing Demetrius's new assistant. She honestly hadn't expected him to keep the clause in his will, from a dare all those years ago—all guests attending my funeral must wear white. Yet here she is.
The funeral is over, the guests gone. There is quiet music coming from outside, the air a mid-September cold.
Quickly, she walks towards the casket, skirts flying behind her. He lies there, looking more peaceful than she has seen him for years. She smiles, lightly; adjusts the rose on the smooth, polished wood. Hey. It's a bit rude for you to leave so early, you know, but I guess it's fair.
She takes a deep breath to settle herself. You remember our promise, right? I hope it's nice there. I hope you're waiting. I hope you'll continue to wait for me. You see, I don't plan on following you any time soon...but I will. So I guess this is goodbye, Sy-on boy.
Demetrius approaches her from behind, in white that makes him look alarmingly sick, then gives her a tiny smile. What now?
Anya beams back.
"We keep living."