Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ By the Book ❯ And often a lie is not a lie ( Chapter 11 )

Title: By the Book

Author: this thorn

 

A/N: Oh, how exciting! Another chapter. And, despite previous reservations, I wrote three Farfarello sections this chapter. Those would be the first, third and fifth. It might be hard to tell. Beyond that, please review! I've got a lot of things to do, so I've decided I won't work on Chapter 12 until I get 5 reviews. Egotistical? Of course.

 

Chapter: And often a lie is not a lie

 

 

One billion, nine hundred seventy-seven million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, seven hundred forty-three.

 

They scurry and run: someone rages, someone hurts, someone smiles, someone works: SLAM! then three.

 

“I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.”

 

And all things must first be born to grow.

 

Two hundred eighty-two million, four hundred seventy-five thousand, two hundred forty-nine.

 

And all things which start are born, following a star chosen long ago.

 

“Though I give my body to be burned,”

 

Forty million, three hundred fifty-three thousand, six hundred seven.

 

“It profits me nothing.”

 

They scamper and scurry: no one sees anyone and someone blames everyone: SLAM! then two.

 

“Suffers long and is kind”

 

Five million, seven hundred sixty-four thousand, eight hundred one.

 

“Does not envy”

 

Eight hundred twenty-three thousand, five hundred forty-three.

 

“Does not parade itself”

 

And knowing is the better of remembering, though both take time and strife.

 

One hundred seventeen thousand, six hundred forty-nine.

 

“Does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil”

 

And often a lie is not a lie.

 

Sixteen thousand, eight hundred seven. Two thousand, four hundred one.

 

“Does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in truth.”

 

And always, things change.

 

Three hundred forty-three. Forty-nine. Seven.

 

They hurry and worry: one rests and is content, one is restless and disturbed: SLAM! then one.

 

One.

 

“For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.”

 

 

Nagi screamed.

 

The sound echoed in the small concrete bathroom and the resulting cacophony throbbed in his ears.

 

“Shit!” he yelled, and winced.

 

Thereafter, he confined his cursing to viscous whispers.

 

He was hiding in the men's room - hiding from a girl - and far from pleased about the circumstances. To be truthful (and, as a result, ashamed), Nagi had never considered how to handle someone who wasn't discouraged by his glares and silence.

 

She had met him outside his first class, throwing up an arm to bar his way when he tried to ignore her. It was about her party. Her study party.

 

Did he want to come?

 

He attempted in vain to push past her.

 

There would be pizza and bowling.

 

He shot her a piercing glare that would have sufficiently cowed any other human being.

 

They'd do the project real quick on Saturday afternoon and still have time to go swimming.

 

He wanted nothing more than to strangle her but, despite his searing annoyance, he understood that murdering a girl in a crowded school would not go over well, no matter how much he knew she deserved it.

 

Thankfully, she'd chosen that moment to glance at her watch and, with a small squeak, ran off to class.

 

Only to reappear at lunch, completely recharged and ready to wheedle. Nagi hadn't given her a chance to get started: the moment she opened her mouth he'd run, dignity to the wind, for the restroom. Where, after one hearty yell, he stood alone, devising a plan of attack - or a plan of escape.

 

The girl was a problem. There was something unsettling about her persistence and Nagi suddenly found himself considering his classmate as more than just an innocent high-schooler. It was only the barest framework of a suspicion, but what other reason could she have for pursuing him so relentlessly? Nagi tried to scold himself for being paranoid, but once the idea took hold in his mind, he couldn't seem to shake the notion.

 

Nobody was supposed to know about his `gift,' least of all a complete stranger. Looking in the mirror, Nagi carefully schooled his features into a passably cold expression and tried to think like Prodigy, tried to make a decision.

 

He couldn't stay. He would go home. He would talk to Farfarello.

 

The madman could make his excuses to the principal and the girl would not be able to find him again before the `party.' He pursed his lips in a grim smile. Simple.

 

Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, Nagi threw a cursory glance around the empty bathroom before casually stepping into the nearly empty hallway. Almost everyone was still at lunch; he could leave unnoticed.

 

As though spurred by his relief, a sudden shrilled voice called from behind him.

 

“Nagi! There you…!”

 

“No.” He spoke clearly, without turning around, and left.

 

 

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a tall, tall tower.

 

The chamber was small and devoid of interest: the princess had long since outgrown the few toys that gathered dust near the stone walls. By day, she sang or recited to herself tales she had long since memorized from the thin storybooks in her room. And when the sun set, stealing her only source of light, she slept.

 

There was only one room in the tower, and the princess was forced to defecate in a bucket which she dumped out the window every morning, the knowledge of her waste in the grass spoiling her enjoyment of the view.

 

Her hair grew long and ratty with the years; the grime on her skin disguised the unhealthy pallor of a young woman too long indoors.

 

Her clothes were rags: a collection of her childhood gowns torn and draped to cover and protect her thin body from the cold that often found its way into the tower.

 

She was miserable.

 

Finally, one morning, she woke early, before her customary breakfast tray was delivered, and sat, eyes fixed on the door. The servant who soon entered with a plate in her hands and a rag about her face started when she saw the princess awake and watching her. But before she could comment, the girl jumped to her feet.

 

“You shall escort me to my father, the king,” she commanded in an authoritative, yet brittle voice.

 

The servant curtsied awkwardly with the tray and spoke from behind the muffling cloth: “Of course, if you'll follow me?”

 

The princess, stunned by the ease of her escape, followed the older woman closely, frantically trying to keep her rags from falling from her body as she walked. Suddenly she was ushered into a large room and the door closed behind her.

 

There was no time for surprise at her surroundings to register, for a tall, graying man in a light shirt and pants was already walking toward her. It had been many years, to be sure, but she knew immediately that it was her father.

 

“Shelly, sweetie! I thought I'd never see you again!” he exclaimed, a broad smiled on his face and his arms outstretched.

 

The princess backed away from his embrace, confusion and anger making her voice quake. “How long did you intend to keep me imprisoned? How long must I wither, waiting for my prince!”

 

Her father blinked deliberately, stunned by the ferocity in her tone. Then he smiled, sympathetically.

 

“Haven't you eaten yet today, honey? I know you told us to leave you alone, but I can hardly let you go hungry. Let's go raid the kitchen, put something in that pretty little tummy of yours.”

 

The princess took a moment to digest the words, feeling a vague inkling of something like fear. “What do you mean, `I told you to leave me alone?'” she bit out.

 

“What?” he replied, looking genuinely baffled. “You don't remember saying that all those years ago, when you stormed off and locked yourself in that musty old tower? You said you never wanted to see me again” - here his face fell - “even after I agreed to have your pony's stable moved into your room.”

 

The princess stared, not quite remembering, but somehow knowing his words were true. “Oh,” she replied, dazedly.

 

“Good!” said her father, his pleasant mood restored. “Now let's go eat and then we'll get you all cleaned up. Oh, and speaking of princes, Carter was just here - you just missed him - asking about you. He's been so worried. Here, take my cell phone and give him a ring. He kept asking if we'd locked you up there and I kept saying, `No sir, my boy, we're just waiting for her to come out.'”

(--written with my finger on the tower stone)

 

 

Matze awoke with a start, surprised to find the bright midday sun streaming into the bedroom. He blinked a few times, recognizing the room he was in, but only truly noticing it for the first time. The darkly-painted walls shimmered and the cream curtains billowed in a gentle breeze - he saw bemusedly that one set of curtains was hanging directly on the wall, without a window behind it. It seemed, in fact, that they were the only superfluity in the room: there were no decorations beyond the elegant wood furniture and bedside lamp. Still, it was pleasant, comfortable and, most importantly, it was becoming familiar.

 

The brunet pulled himself to a sitting position and stretched leisurely, feeling rested and alert for the first time since waking from the coma. The quiet was peaceful, and Matze was warm and content.

 

Then memory struck like a lightning bolt and his face flamed red.

 

Quickly Matze cast his eyes about the room, looking for any sign that Schuldig was still around. Upon finding nothing, he then directed his scrutiny to the bedclothes and nightstand, looking for any sign that Schuldig had been there at all.

 

Maybe it was just a dream.

 

Despite the explicitly clear images prancing through his mind, more vivid than any fantasy, all the evidence on hand seemed decidedly against the notion of a morning tryst with the elusive redhead. The room was organized to the point of being sterile, the only disturbance in the order of the sheets was that he himself had made with his abrupt awakening and, most disappointingly of all, Matze realized that he was still completely clothed.

 

The idea that he not only could not recall his past was disturbing enough but, with the realization that he was beginning to `remember' things that had never truly happened, Matze felt himself growing nauseated.

 

He was scared, suddenly and horrifically alone. He couldn't believe that the world he was seeing was real; not with everything spinning out of control, always just beyond his grasp. He wanted to talk to someone.

 

With frenetic haste, Matze tried to climb out of bed, but only became tangled in the sheets and panicked even more. His knew his struggles were working against him, but fear more than overpowered reason. In a flail of arms and fabric, he rolled and thudded onto the floor and began tearing away the cloying sheets without pause. In a matter of moments he was on his feet and running for the door - then stopped.

 

A tingling ache throbbed heavily in his nether regions, and a slow smile crept across his face even as his mind replayed the events of the previous evening. It had to be true. It had to be true and he was grinning like a fool.

 

He might have stood there for hours, exalting in both the memory of the early morning and the simple triumph of achieving the recollection, but his stomach growled loudly enough to shatter his reverie. With a sigh and a futile effort to suppress his idiotic grin, he pulled open the door and, for the second time that morning, froze in shock.

 

He could hear voices. More specifically, the voice of an announcer. Cheers and whistles that could only mean soccer.

 

Matze made a mad dash for the TV. Breakfast could wait.

 

 

A mouse was scamp'ring down the hall

I caught him in a hamster ball

Then nailed him firmly to my wall

And this is what he said:

 

 

Through the forest have I gone.

But Athenian found I none,

On whose eyes I might approve

This flower's force in stirring love.

Night and silence.—Who is here?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear:

This is he, my master said,

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound,

On the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul! She durst not lie

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the power this charm doth owe.

When thou wakest, let love forbid

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:

So awake when I am gone;

For I must now to Oberon.

 

 

A/N: Thanks to Mister Shakespeare for that last one.