a/n; drabble, dark!allen, angst. kind of like a companion to 'ivory' though only in the sense of how it's written. enjoy, and leave a review on your way out? standard disclaimer applies.
The days became shorter, the nights became longer, and the nightmares became more intense.
When he saw himself, he saw nothing but a shadow that was once someone who had a meaning. The pale tone of his skin that was once defining was fading into an unmentionable white that wasn't natural. The pallor, the sick, sick pallor was disgusting and he hated it.
The more he looked, the less he saw.
The longer the nights became…
The more he hated that which he fought for.
He laughed inwardly at those who called him a traitor – because of a Noah, which they had never even met and he wanted to destroy the Earl anyways – because perhaps, in his mind, he really was a heretic. No, not because he was hosting a member of a rogue clan that thrived off of pain, and torture, and blood. But because truly, the Vatican was losing a lost war; it was a desperation now, and they could call him sick and twisted for not hating Neah, but he could throw it back in their faces as they created half demon, half humans for the sake of winning the so called battle of evil, for treating their saviors as weapons and empty vessels and nothing more.
'God will forgive us,' they say. 'We are doing this for the good of humanity.'
Sorry, but they can take their lies and so called redemption and shove it up their –
I fought for Mana.
He was fading away. His eternal struggle for the damned souls was the only reason he kept going.
I fought, because I wanted to be forgiven.
But the more he looked, the less he saw.
But there was nothing to be forgiven. So I fought for Mana.
If they knew what he really passed through his tainted mind, what he saw and thought of when he pictured the Vatican and Central and their religious actions that were righteous – lies, it's not righteous, it's their excuse – then he'd be executed on the spot. And what he found amusing, a sick twisted way of looking at the center of the Vatican, was that execution had ceased to be a punishment.
Let them do their worst.
He would no longer bow to those who wished to berate him for what he did, for what he made his job to be. Their unmentionable creations had ceased to affect him, instead urging him to fight for what was right. No longer did he see himself when he caught glimpse of his reflection; he saw who he had become, and what he was bound to accomplish.
'There's a third side to this war.'
'It's our turn, now.'
I'll put an end to this war.
The more he looked, the less he saw; Allen Walker wasn't 'Allen' anymore –
Allen Walker was the final piece of the millennia of mourning, the last side and the final weapon in a war of blood and hate and tragedy.
"It ends now."
His friends say goodbye.