Almost a fairytale.Author's Name:
Rieka De-Volka (aka ranty_rie
)Written For: dragon_fairiePairing or Character: Envy
, with Ed, Al, Dante and HohenheimRating:
For the anime, vague spoilers for the ending.Notes:
This one was hard
, considering the prompt was pretty vague. I hope it fits with the requester's wishes, as I honestly tried my best.
Almost a fairytale.
It starts rather simple, like all great things start; the spark of an idea that grows into obsession and then flourishes properly into madness. It starts with a sickly child confined to a room with boring, green wallpaper and a nightstand full of poisons. A father that leaves to find a cure that doesn't exist and a mother that mourns a death yet to happen.
And the child, alone in his room with green nightmares and poisoned brews, dreams.
Dreams are funny things, you see, lies and deceit are their siblings, but they don't suffer their untimely reputation. Dreams are hope distilled into the impossible and eventually consume a life in their making. It goes from lie to dream to deceit to death, in a cycle that's eventually immortalized by a poet and restarts with the next generation that grows up listening to the tale.
The tale starts like this, simple, a child, a mother and a father, but most importantly, a child. A child that silently dreams of being someone else, anyone
else. A mother that hopes to remain. A father that promises not to leave.
The child dies, the mother weeps and the father leaves; in his wake, he leaves a monster and the master of the monster, and that's how the story began.
It's a funny thing, how the simple complicates itself, twisting and turning and becoming something not quite like its roots. There's no child, no mother, no father. There's a monster with a thousand faces, cursed to forever be someone else
, paying eternity a sliver of self with each day and a memory of a dream - nightmare
- each night. There's a master - never merely a mistress - with a vision to cast the world into revolution; revolution is change and transmutation and yet the art of preserving the core.
So Master and Monster travel the world, one turning dreams into nightmares and the other weaving the tendrils for her next big step.
And the father? The father erodes with time and becomes a mountain of ashes in the dusty corners of memories. Becomes Him, who has no name and just one purpose.
It started simple, easy, it will not end that way.
It's a convoluted mess of cause and consequence, that's what it is. Because from the very basic principles - destroy, understand, rebuild
- the child was made Monster and the mother tuned Master. And one by one, the threads of reactions collapse onto each other and build castles that the foolish won't appreciate. Master works a masterpiece, Monster becomes a tool of revolution, the perpetual change of eternity made flesh.
Others join, others fail, because they didn't start simple, they didn't base themselves in a straightforward triad.
And from the ashes in corners, a man with no name joins a woman with a smile; in the eyes of a healthy, defiant child, he remembers he's Father.
Far, far away, plans to change the world are made. In his little microcosm of smiles and warmth, the father understands he is
Father. It's written all over the gleeful curve of a second child's smile. Mother, Father, Child, and he flees the dream before it crashes into a nightmare again.
Poor, poor Father, he never knew he didn't have "children" anymore; he had sons
The Monster is a deceptively beautiful mix of arrogance and ruthlessness, of carelessness and hatred. The Monster is Master's most docile tool, most faithful companion, because the monster is a servant as well. There's no stronger bond between them than the knowledge of their distance, and they keep walking together not out of some misguided sense of loyalty, but inertia dragging their footsteps along the path. Behind them, the endless rows of sacrifices in the name of revolution; ahead, the blood red brilliance of the unknown they have built with their deaths
There's no life without death, there's no life beyond death; there's only the abyss of not quite a second chance and the illusion of permanence while everything fades away.
It started simple, but it won't end that way. Twists and turns and chances and choice, and it is the Sons that will fight them. Sons who sinned for a mother and sought out a father, and instead found themselves. Sons who are not children, could never be children, who never started simply.
The End is in sight.
It started simply. It started harshly. It never started at all.
Mother and mother fall, both just the shell of the soul they were searching for. Monster and child perish in the golden light, coiled tightly within scales and hatred and wrath. Father merely walks away - away, away, away, there's nowhere else for him to head - and the silence reigns in the face of desolation.
"Sons" is a plural not fit to the lone individual left behind. "Sons" is a painful reminder for the still fiercely hopeful dream caught in the web, across the trap. "Sons" is a word Father might yet learn to pronounce.
It started simply. It started harshly. It's not over yet.