Description: In which a life is rejuvenated, a passionate bond is forged, and a dating sim path is officially chosen, amidst the drifting peach blossoms of a new Southtown spring. (Warning: This particular simulation has one only save slot.)
What is to be done?
The days have passed too quickly, the miasma encroaching upon the horizon deepening and darkening. Though the sun is no less bright than it ever was, though the sweet fragrances of spring have emerged and intertwined, borne by scattered blossoms, still it has seemed impossible to move forward, unfeasible to take any meaningful action. Despite the warming weather, many are bundled against the cold, not knowing or questioning why. The shadows grow longer, and--
He has made no progress yet.
Alma Towazu does not know how much longer he can wait.
His friends and allies are dispersed, his organization running at a low hum, his volunteers slowly depleting as some of them begin to succumb to the strange illness spreading amongst the mighty and talented of this world: what only a few of them know as the Taint of the Orochi, come to purge humanity of all who might defend it from demonic infestation. The Radiant Angel and Scarred Beauty of Southtown is one of the privileged few who knows the truth of these matters, due to his connections with Adelheid Bernstein and his erstwhile nemesis Seishirou Ryouhara, of the weakening boundaries of Hell's Gate, of the dangers that lurk ready to spring forth. Yet until he knows the location of Orochi's minions, until he knows who he may face in battle, he cannot act. Even when his own subordinates are targeted, their lives ruined, as Zach Glen's has been -- and those who were the victims of his wild surge -- there is nothing Alma can do.
He has not felt so powerless since his parents perished.
Family--
Jiro is dead. Mimiru is gone. His parents passed on long ago. His sworn friends have their own dire tasks to face. Alma's close-knit ties, the carefully crafted boundaries of his self, his seemingly invincible faith in his ideals-- strangely, despite his many trials, even more so than when his very soul seemed as though it might be ripped from his body, Alma has never felt so challenged. No--
He's never felt so alone.
Seated upon a simple park bench in the light, casting crumbs amongst the fallen blossoms, gazing at the gathering sparrows through warm hazel eyes and ruby-tinged blond locks, the phoenix's scarred visage hardly seems melancholy. But even for one of his long-practiced self-possession, his eyes are a little too inscrutible, his bearing a little too straight, as though straining against a hidden burden.
Alma Towazu is tired-- he's tired of this.
And there may be nowhere else left to turn.
Elisabeta's work in Southtown has both been very loud and very quiet. The young dancer is out of place a lot of times in the world of Southtown, the nitty-gritty streets not the ones back home in Portugal. The Dancer has her family; the burning coal flame of her father, the flickering candlelight of her mother, and the unknown flames of the Phoenix known as Alma Towazu.
Rumors have circled widely of a woman, ripe in youth, seeking the Scarred Angel; but her reasons have been for her own. In as such, Elisabeta has found both a wall and a path in her way, the wall being the way her father would encourage the Valente girl go down, the other path being the one that makes her touch her throat, where a line of Ace-styled white cotton bandages wrap around her throat.
Pain - not for herself, but for the man that helped cause the cut, cross her face, even as her bells jingle. Her eyes seek the certain tint of ruby-tainted locks; and the hazelness of the eyes that peer out stoically. Yet, Elisabeta pauses with a loud jingling of her anklets' bells.
Alma blinks once, at last stirring from his reverie. It is hardly the sort of blissful contemplative state that he is wont to indulge in. It is true and pure fatigue, a rare moment in which the flames of his passion are banked, his energy lower than he could have ever imagined before.
Yet that ethereal fairy-tinkle--
It calls to him, somehow; a world other than one enveloped by shadows, the chill of which only he can feel. Raising his head, the once-beautiful hero, now veteran of years of battles despite his youth, gazes at the young woman who has emerged onto this springtime panorama, the birds about his fleet fluttering away, a rippling zephyr between them that bears a few stray brown feathers, fluttering to join the falling blossoms.
Alma smiles, his eyes soft.
"Good afternoon."
His voice, rich and gentle, unweighed by his concerns. Indeed, the merest moment of human contact seems to alleviate some of the tension of his current state. Strange. Why has it been so difficult to achieve this? Is there something special about this woman? Searchingly, his second sight, roused from its stupor, examines her vibrant aura. Indeed, she seems particularly spirited, and yet--
Is that all?
"Would you--"
Without exactly knowing why, but always trusting his instincts, the psychic in the tailored suit gestures to the space on the bench beside him.
"--like to join me for a moment, miss?"
Still smiling softly, Alma's gaze lifts to the peach trees above.
"The blossoms have grown lovely."
These trees deny the darkness, he thinks to himself. But then, perhaps the planet will live on well enough, even if humanity is eradicated. Perhaps that is inevitable.
Perhaps that is even the point.
In an odd moment, he wonders if he will have the opportunity to ask Orochi himself someday -- for all its absurdity, perhaps the most optimistic thought he has had in some time.
Elisabeta as a ethereal fairy makes more sense than it should.
As Alma comes back to life, so to say, with the birds flittering off, Elisabeta finds herself drawn to him as his voice so reminds him eerily of another males' so close to her. This couldn't be. This can't be. Why -- ...
"Good afternoon." She says softly, before smiling faintly at his gracious offer. "Thank you."
Her voice is a bit rougher than it should be; and there's a slight breathing problem as well. Oh, Elisabeta, who did you have to bribe so to get out of the hospital before your doctor wanted to let you go. She tilts her head as he mentions the blossoms, and her hands clasp together, and she looks down at them, biting her bottom lip.
"Yes. A blossom. Like the one I seek to find."
Alma moves aside slightly, giving the young woman room to seat herself beside him, still smiling gently as he gazes at her sidelong. With his spirit dimmed, he finds himself more soothed than stirred by her presence. There was a time not so long ago when encountering a person with detectable fighting spirit would lead him immediately to seek to challenge them, to clash soul against soul, to feel out the boundaries of the self between them. Now, he is grateful for a simpler way of life, a less radical mode of communication.
They sit in silence momentarily, watching the bright blooms above.
"You seek a blossom?" he murmurs. "I see..."
His gaze tilts toward her, though his face does not, before it slips back to the colors flitting through the air. "There are millions of blossoms in this city," he says softly, "scattered far and wide. It can be very difficult to find one in particular. But--"
His smile widening, the self-possessed youth stretches out his hand.
"--sometimes, if you simply reach out--"
The delicate flowers drift, wreathed in sunlight.
"--one will fall into your grasp."
As if on cue, a peach blossom settles into Alma's hand-- and then slips right through his fingers, causing him to blink in surprise. A moment of silence follows, before the scarred beauty begins to laugh, light and mirthful, his hazel eyes sparkling for the first time in weeks. "Well, sometimes," he chuckles, the otherwise mild-mannered youth grinning at his newfound acquaintance.
Fire and fire. Alma and Elisabeta. There's a reason once 'Beta starts showing her stuff, that they will quickly become a dangerous team... if Seishirou doesn't end up enticing her away. Cough. Speaking of. She flits her black eyes from his hazel ones, watching the peach blossom fall through his finger. She stifles a soft chuckle, shaking her head at him.
"Well met, Alma Towazu."
It is not a question of who he is. It is a simple statement, and the tenacity she has of declaring it makes her own aura brighten, then fade down to a calm burn. She's found him. Finally -- and she's shy, now. Her black eyes flit down to her hands, even as she shifts slightly.
Alma is silent for a moment, his gaze searching.
It's not as though he's unrecognizable. Far from it; he's quite well-known in Southtown, if recently somewhat elusive. But the way in which she speaks his name, her tone and her demeanor, suggest to him far more. One does not need to be an empath to get this sense. One need look only into her dark eyes--
"We have not met before," he says softly, his cheek tilting towards her, his eyes meeting hers intently, his smooth brow faintly furrowed with thought, "but I feel as though I know you."
How strange. He hasn't felt like this in--
"What a beautiful thing," he murmurs, "to be found like this." Framed by blossoms, his gentle smile returning, he extends his hand toward the young woman's own, Alma's features warm and open again at last.
"Whoever you are, stranger..."
Taking her folded hands in his, his smile widens.
"...well met."
"My name is Elisabeta. Elisabeta Cecilia Valente." She murmurs. "Niece of Josephina Towazu."
Her black eyes search for his hazel ones, and she gives a soft hum and watches him for a few minutes, even as her head tilts to follow his. She doesn't want to miss his expression when she does this revelation.
Her cheeks redden as their hands fold together. "It has been a long time, cousin."
Cue orchestra.
Some have seen Alma startled. Some have seen him uncertain. But few have seen him shaken. And even fewer--
"Y... You..."
--have seen him weep.
The otherwise restrained and composed young man's body stiffens in shock, his eyes widening more than ever, his frame shuddering briefly as he stares straight into the depths of her eyes. No, he does not doubt her, not even for a moment; doubt does not enter his mind. But slowly-- slowly, surely-- his entire world-view, the entire paradigm under which he has operated for so many years, begins to rotate, begins to grindingly readjust.
Alma is not alone.
He is a man of faith, yes, who upholds ideals he cannot prove, who maintains bright convictions in defiance of an uncertain world. But he is not often a man of hope, with an eye towards a particular future. What he grasps now is a thread of hope, unfamiliar to a man who has rarely, if ever, felt alone since the passing of his parents, who only now seems truly adrift.
He releases her hands, only to embrace her.
"Elisabeta..."
They have met before? Does he remember? Does he only believe that he remembers? Does he wish to possess those memories somewhere deep within his breast? It does not matter to him now, as Alma, in a rare display of unabashed emotion, silently sheds warm tears, holding the young woman close, gentle for all his intensity.
"...You've come."
The letter he received-- it had lain on his desk, the only piece of paper never replaced or removed, hinting at a forgotten world, once he could not imagine was real. Distant family-- what could it mean? What if it were simply a feigned intimacy, with no true meaning behind it? That he could not bear. Perhaps he had even been hiding from it, with the threat he faded a convenient excuse. A cowardice Alma would normally never tolerate within himself. Yet this--
"Thank you... for finding me."
This is more than he imagined.
He pulls away, though his hands continue to clasp at her arms. Though his eyes are bright and his cheeks damp, still his smile is full and heartfelt.
"I do not intend," he continues, his voice unbroken despite his great feeling, "to let you go, now."
Well, you'll have to let her go eventually, Alma, it's going to be awkward to walk around like this.
"You'll have too, eventually; what would my papa say if he saw you clinging to me?" Elisabeta says. Her voice is normally warm and throaty, and she's attempting to not cry herself; this creates a half-high pitch voice mixed in with a series of soft hiccups, her black eyes shining as she watches him, snuggling faintly up against him for a few minutes before she pulls back again, staying in his grip.
"Pardon me for my hurts. I wish I could be whole when we finally came together."
Her voice falters, her minds eye burned with that image of the man who wielded a sword at her- and she continues on to explain. "But I came across one who knew of you, and claimed our blood was sinful ... he was dressed, well..." She gives an accurate if not stylish description of Seishirou. Her fingers reach up and stroke the front of her neck, even as her head falls, cheeks red with shame. "I ... lost my temper, a bit. My passion made me cut myself on his sword." She admits, softly.
"I was so scared. That I wouldn't find you. That I'd lose you. My mother... she already lost yours. She didn't want to lose the face that was the one that reminded her of Josephine. My father will be furious though." She says with a weak laugh. Then she finally loses her firm, stubborn hold and starts crying softly.
Alma laughs despite himself, his smile only widening through his tearful eyes. "You're right," he murmurs, mirth briefly outbalancing emotion. "What would they say... our family."
Our family.
"No, I..." Gently, the psychic reaches up to trace the bandages about the girl's throat. "You have nothing to apologize for," he continues softly, "for I myself have been made whole by your presence." What a smooth-talker-- but Alma would never say such a thing unless he meant it, and under any other circumstances, could hardly imagine himself speaking such a thing. He has felt whole for so long, even through his most desperate struggles, thanks to the bonds he's forged with his closest friends. Now that even those seem to fray in the face of this deepest darkness--
The fragments of his self truly have been restored.
"You... were hurt... because you were looking for me?"
Alma has taken responsibility for a great deal of suffering, indeed, has through his efforts /been/ responsible for it; for his efforts he has paid the price. He can bear that knowledge as well; though his brow furrows and he lowers his head, as though accepting the weight of the fact that already he has brought his beloved cousin pain, the light now swelling within him cannot be dampened. No-- these responsibilities are opportunities, to continue to champion what he values most. And indeed--
"You... you mean..."
As reality inspire ideals, so ideals work their ways upon reality.
"Ryouhara... attacked you?"
The intensity in Alma's eyes is now something altogether different. His breast swells briefly as he inhales deeply. He is not a man easily stirred to anger; passion, yes, righteous fury, even, but rarely raw rage. Rage was something he saw in Jiro. But this-- "You met the man who scarred me," he murmurs quietly. "We have cooperated on some matters since then, but this-- this is intolerable." He will not jeopardize the world, or the fight against Orochi, but-- now he knows for certain.
"I will protect you, Elisabeta."
Alma cannot live in peace until Ryouhara is destroyed.
Though his eyes are serious, even almost grim, the light in them does not fade, and he holds her gently as she sobs, his grip never tightening overmuch. "Well," he at last adds, far lighter in tone than before, "I will take responsibility for this for you, and explain it all to him... when I meet him," he finishes, his smile returning.
Yes-- once they are all together.
"Elisabeta! I told you not to contact him! Whatever will I do with you! Why is your skirt so short! Are you still a virgin, at the least, my only heir to the family fortunes?" Elisabetas' voice mocks her father, even dropping an octave or two to match it. After a few secons, she looks up at him, even as his fingers gently stroke over the bandage on her neck.
"I am sorry it took this long." She murmurs again, face flushed. "I didn't want you to be bonded to a family member, but-- there was something. In the rumors I heard, as I worked my way as a fighter in the ranks of the Portugal undergrounds. I knew we had to meet." She whispers, even as his passions of flame start building, even as he holds her tight.
"Ryouhara? Is that his name? We did not speak of that." She hesitates. "I ... hurt myself. He was going to walk away. But I cut myself on his blade. To prove that sacrifice is more than a theme, it is a thing that can be willingly done." She rolls her thumb across his skin, biting her bottom lip. "It is my fault. Do not protect me." She states, boldly.
"Please."
Alma is laughing again.
"Incredible, that you should be a fighter as well," he murmurs, shaking his head in wonder. "Your flame burns so brightly, Elisabeta. Meeting you is a blessing beyond compare. This is more than I deserve, but--" Still shaking his head gently, he affectionately brushes a lock of hair away from her bandaged throat. "It may have been what I needed."
He pauses, however, at her answer, faintly startled. He wanted to reassure her, to let her know that already, she has his undying loyalty, that these moments were all that were needed. Alma, of all people, is able to forge connections within moments-- to make promises he knows he will keep.
But--
"...I understand."
His eyes are soft, but his expression is serious again.
"You are a strong woman to have come this far," he continues softly. "The choices you have made are your own. Though I feel bound to you-- I will not hold you back from anything. No-- I want only to support you. But I will not stand between you and your responsibilities... and I will not patronize you."
At last, he smiles again, ever so slightly.
"But please, allow me to be of service."
And his eyes warm again.
"It would... make me happy."
"Papa couldn't keep me completely well-behaved." Elisabeta admits with a giggle, even as he affectionately makes sure that's taken care of vocally and physically. "I never let him know I wore fighting clothes under the full-sleeved dresses; he'd probably have died of a heart attack." She gives him a small, almost shy smile.
"I -- ... you do?" She says, even as she listens to her, shaking her head briefly. "Clearly our mothers are the ones with the common sense in the genepool." She mutters dryly. "You sound /just/ like mama, and Aunt Josephine from what I was told of her." Fathers: Not that good for the Towazu-Valente family tree(s). She brushes back another lock of her hair behind her ear.
"Making you happy is something I would be proud to do. But... what he offered me." She gives a soft, almost dreamy sigh. Oh. Uh-oh. "To learn the value of sacrifice. I don't get scared, but he-- he scared me. His words, they flamed this--" She presses a hand over her heart. Oh god.
SIM OPTION B CHOSEN: NINJA!
"... it enticed me. Why must you two be fighting?" Goddammit. Are those heartbubbles over Seishirou?
"Er, that's..."
Alma /did/ just say Ryouhara was the man who scarred him, right? He did just say that. Just checking here. His expression softens thoughtfully, carefully contemplative as he chooses his words.
"...that's a... fairly long story."
But perhaps there will be time for it yet.
Yes-- if he has his way--
They will have all the time in the world.
(PROTIP: Sim Option B suggests they will not.)
PROTIP: Telling her not to pick an option just makes Beta more likely to pick it.
Log created on 21:50:59 04/23/2011 by Alma, and last modified on 02:54:43 04/24/2011.