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[byglossss]

I've read somewhere that Levi hasn't seen Isabel and Furlan in nearly 20 years, I did my calculating, and its probably only 10 years, but the point is that he probably struggles to remember what they looked like.. and I ought to write something to make myself feel better after being hurt like that so please enjoy this hurt/comfort scenario.

"Who do you want to start with? Isabel or Furlan?"

The warm sunlight was seeping through the curtains of the spacious room where you were sitting. Levi is resting in his wheelchair, and you were seated in front of him, holding his hands gently. A small frown was placed between his thin, sharp eyebrows, his eyes were holding a look of distress. Levi has woken up from a nightmare this morning where he saw the people he cared dearly for as faceless figures. As if he forgot what they looked like. He was in a bad mood ever since then.

"I don't know," he answered shortly after. You met Levi after the war ended. He came along with Onyankopon, Gabi, and Falco to London to spend the rest of his life peacefully, away from that torturous island. He entered your small pastry and ordered a cup of tea, tried cinnamon rolls for the first time, and he liked them. His visits became more frequent. You were no Eldian, but you wouldn't mind being with one. Especially if it was him. That grumpy, short-tempered, and height, yet soft-hearted man. You were his first in everything, he was learning how to live with you, all over again. And now, he's learning how to be vulnerable without fear in front of you.

"It's okay. Take your time," you assured him with a soft smile. You were a well-known painter, and you were famous for your accurate and detailed portraits. You offered Levi to draw them, so he can look at them whenever he misses them. But the problem was his hesitation after that nightmare he had. What if he doesn't remember them well enough? What if they're lost and drenched in the blurriness of his subconsciousness?

"Furlan. Let's start with Furlan." his grip tightened on your soft palms. He made up his mind determinedly, he wants to see them again. He'll do whatever it takes to see them again now that the chance is given to him.

You wasted no time preparing the canvas and brushes. Everything is ready now.

"What is the brightest thing you remember about Furlan?" you asked, combining two colours.

"His hair.. his hair was dark blond. He had bangs that hung over his forehead in between his eyes.."

"Great." you started moving your brush in swift strokes. "how about his face?"

"it was more of a long than round face. We all were skinny and wrinkly, pale, sick looking."

"and?"

"And..." levi squeezed his eyes shut, and a small grunt fled his soft lips. He was trying hard to bring back the picture of the past, but that memory.. "no.."

"Take a deep breath. It's okay," you assured him and held his hand. He looked at you, then blurted "they got eaten." you weren't familiar with such a phrase, and he lived it for almost half of his life. That said a lot.

"I'm sorry, I might not understand how terrifying and painful that was, but it's over now, no one will face what they had to... what you had to." that was all you could say to him, and he was grateful nontheless.

"Can we continue?" levi asked. Clearly feeling better.

"Sure. Do you remember what his eyes looked like?"

"his eyes were sleepy, they were light grey, blueish even."

"like yours?"

"Lighter."

"I see."

It went on for hours, and with time, Levi seemed to be enjoying teasing his dusted memories. He was caught up in so many responsibilities and materialized as the strongest that he didn't only never went to those old times with his old friends, but also forgot who he was. He told you funny stories about them, Furlan and Isabel. They were dear to him in a way that Levi couldn't explain, not to himself even.

"It's already sunset but we're almost done," you said smiling at Levi, who was now drinking a warm cup of tea. His gaze softened upon hearing you. He was excited, he couldn't hide the gleam in his eyes.

"Here. Furlan Church and Isabel Magnolia at last," you said, turning the painting back to him. It's complete, and they were there, his old friends.

"It's... Them." Levi hesitantly reached out to touch the wet painting, you had to warn him. "Be careful, the paint is still wet." There are a lot of emotions swimming in Levi's narrowed sharp eyes that are now softer than ever. They're right in front of him.

"What do you think?" you asked and nervousness was visible in your voice. He was so still you couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Levis's hand reached yours and squeezed it tightly, his words failed him, but he managed to form a sad, yet thankful smile when he lightly whispered "Thank you... For letting me meet them again."

You couldn't help but feel tears in your eyes. You kneeled and hugged him, now sniffling before whispering "thank you for sharing your memories with me."

You stood up brightly and chirped "Well then, we still have some more to meet, would you like to continueue tomorrow?"

"I'd love to."

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Tales Dark and Grim

I. Scarlet Roses

It was a dreary day in New York City.

Gray storm clouds fill the sky, foreshadowing the heavy rain that will undoubtedly pelt down any minute. The clouds block the sun’s light and any trace of blue. A depressing sort of mood hangs in the air.

Not surprising, seeing as it is a funeral. 

An honest-to-goodness, classic, movie-stereotype funeral.

A crowd of people, dressed appropriately in black, stand huddled together in a graveyard. The men wear black suits, and the women wear dark dresses with their hair down or pinned back in a simple bun.

Some carry black or navy-blue umbrellas at their sides, obviously seeing the dark, gathering clouds.

Some are sort of wandering around, looking at the other gravestones. Some are standing slightly detached from the rest of the crowd, as if uncomfortable. But most are gathered around a single, freshly cut gravestone. The crowd stands around the headstone, blocking the name and time of life and death from view. 

A group of six people stand closest to the grave. Assumingly the deceased’s family. The first is a woman wearing a black hat to match her dress has her face in her hands so as to stifle her sobs. The second—a man with a somber expression in his black eyes—stands next to her, one arm around her shoulders and one out to shake people’s hands.

The next pair is boy and a girl around fourteen—twins from the look of their shared blonde hair and blue eyes—stand to the right of the woman. They both have tears in their eyes, and look as if they are trying not to.

The fifth person, a sniffling boy around six, is clinging to the skirt of the sixth person. He looks like a miniature version of the twins, only his hair is like his father’s, deep brown.

The sixth person is an eighteen-year-old girl who, out of the four children, is the sole inheritor of their father’s coal-black eyes. Like her father, she does not cry, but instead stands stone-faced, staring at the grave. She carries a white rose in her right hand, the other holding the hand of her brother’s.

Her dark hair falls on her pale face as she studies the stone. It is rectangularly shaped, jutting out of the ground at a perfectly straight angle. It has that glossy, fresh-grave look to it, smooth and unchanged by the weather.

The grave reads: SETH WILLIAMS 1969-1987 

In Egyptian mythology, Seth is an evil, murderous god who killed his brother Osiris so he could rule over Egypt. It was fitting, yet ironic, the girl thought.

Her twin brother had not been a good person. Not at all. He was sick and perverted.

Their parents knew nothing of it, but she knew. The dark-haired girl knew of the terrible crimes he had committed. He had never killed anyone, but he had done things worse than murder.

Theft, domestic violence, rape, and God knows what else.

Seeing her family cry for him made her sick. Of course, it was her own fault. The girl hadn’t told anyone about what her twin brother was really like, behind closed doors.

Especially to her. 

And she didn’t want to hurt them any more than they already were.

So she kept her mouth shut, instead taking out her frustration by clutching the stem of her rose, forgetting about the thorns.

They dug into her skin. She cringed, letting go of her brother’s hand to pull out the thorns. 

Her hand was bleeding, thin scarlet lines streaming out of her wounds. It hurt so much, the flower nearly slipped out of her grasp. She caught it just in time, by the head.

Adjusting her hold, she saw that the petals were stained red. Despite herself, the girl’s lips curved into a small, grim smile.

They reminded her of something.

“No!” The man shouted, scrambling backward as fast as he could in his black suit. He tripped over his own feet, falling to the ground. he let out another scream of terror as the girl came closer. She was holding a six-shot revolver in her hand.

“Hey, hey, R—rose, c—ome on—you’re not really gonna—you—you—”

The girl tilted her head to the side. “N—n—not g—gonna do what?” She said, mimicking him.

He raised his gloved hands toward his face. “Hey—look—it was…just—just a joke, Rosie—c—come on, Rosie. It was just a joke." She stared at him coldly with her onyx-black eyes.

"You let your friends sexually assault me, Seth,” She spat, her eyes burning with almost manic anger. He stammered something unintelligible. “And then left me in the middle of the street,”

“I wouldn’t call that a fucking joke,” She growled, stepping closer. Seth backed up as much as he could, but his back hit the wall. Rose came closer, pressing the barrel of the gun against his forehead. “You know what would be fun? How about a game? I think you’d find it as fun as I thought your little joke was.”

“R—r—r—rose, l—let’s talk—let’s talk about this!” His voice went up a couple of octaves as she pressed the revolver harder, indenting into his skin.

“Talk?” She growled, her voice like acid. “It’s too late for talking, Seth. And don’t act like you don’t deserve this. You walk around in that stupid suit, acting like God’s gift to the world,” She scoffed. “More like his curse from hell. And I know all about those girls you’ve raped yourself." 

"I—I—Rose, please, don’t—”

“Now about that game…” The girl looked him up and down. “How about a little Russian Roulette? That’ll be fun. How about if it doesn’t land on a bullet, I’ll give you three seconds to run. Then we’ll try again. Really, the odds are in your favor. I only have two bullets—”

She was cut off by the door flinging open. 

“What the—” Rose shot the man. One of her brother’s friends. The very one who had held her down when she’d tried to run away. No witnesses. 

Suddenly, something collided with the side of her head. Crying out in pain, she nearly dropped her gun. Seth had made a break for the open door. He ran out the door as fast as he could.

Rose got up and calmly walked out the door, watching him run through the hallway. She raised her arm, took aim, pressed the trigger, and spun the revolver.

Seth jerked in pain before collapsing to the ground, blood seeping his wound and thoroughly soaking the white rose in his suit pocket. The white petals were dripping red.

Nobody heard the bang of the gunshot, seeing as no one alive was left to hear. 

Rose couldn’t help but smile.

“Looks like I win,” she whispered to no one in particular.

Seth Williams was found dead in the Williams’ family manor, along with his best friend Justin Thompson. The police were unable to find the culprit, and decided that there had been a break-in, judging from the look of the broken window on the side of the mansion.

Rose Williams was the one who found the bodies. She had come home from a friends house—which was verified by Alison Ames—and found her brother and his friend dead.

No one even dreamed of otherwise at reading Rose’s hysterical interview and seeing her teary-eyed newspaper photo. And no one knew of the six shot revolver, with four bullets left, that lay hidden in the stuffing of Rose’s mattress.

Yes, four bullets left. You didn’t really expect her to give her brother any chance to live, did you?

Rose wiped her bleeding hand on her black dress, the dark color hiding the red stains. She walked over to the shiny black coffin that stands not far away, ready to be buried in the six feet deep hole that awaits it. 

She threw the bloody rose on her brother’s coffin.

A beautiful metaphor, she thought.

The once-white scarlet rose. Perfect for her. Just like the flower, Rose—oh, this was too perfect—was no longer pure. She had killed her brother.

She had killed her brother, and had the audacity to place a rose on his grave. Red roses symbolize love, which she had anything but for her brother.

She took one last look at the bloody rose before walking away.