An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Did he imagine it, perhaps? The hesitance in his brother’s actions, how he swells with certainty like a tide, but in the face of family he falters like a wave crashing towards the open shore? Memory is a choice. He remembers Victor telling him this early on. What he tries to will back into life or murder into oblivion. He remembers it well, for his brother said it with his back turned to him, as the guards settle him on the carriage, with the face of nameless relatives he has never seen or heard of before. But if he were God, he would see. He would see the contrast in his actions, the ashes in his gloves as he swipes it to cover a thumb-print over William’s cold cheek, and calling him the Angel’s Warrior for braving the Devil’s challenge last night. He would see how he would often take his right hand behind his back to curl it into a fist, trembling not because of the chilly Autumn air, but because there was a killing to be made in remembering. William wants to ask what it is Victor remembers, but he is only seven, and the world ended where his brother began. The chaffinches, unaware of the eldest son’s struggle and the awe in the youngest brother’s eyes, continue to chirp their song into the air, a melody of gratefulness of a home, to a tomorrow. The tree, perfectly transformed and given the chance for a rebirth, stands still in the wake of its' own death. Who, or what did he have to murder for this to memory to survive?
Both a gift and a collaboration with @tehcherrya! Thank you so much for constantly listening to me and my yapping, and it was also a pleasure having to met you! (I'm still editing this, Christ, my eye keeps twitching whenever I see something)
