[The guards begin to approach again, and in desperation, Asch glances back at Luke, hoping those words were true enough to get them both through this. But what he finds isn't determination, or resolve, or the sort of calm that he himself knows that he possesses. The ability to kill without feeling much of anything at all. He'd learned it long ago, after all, even if the memories are still fighting for clarity, even if a part of him still believes that it's all a dream.
The replica - no, Luke, his name is Luke now - is afraid. Distressed, upset. About to cry.
The replica is feeling what he's feeling, but without the ability to bury it, to push it aside until the job is done.
And that right there is the push his mind needs to free itself from the illusion, the recognition of his life, the truth, however miserable and pathetic and empty it is. That's his life. That's his reality. Not this. All of this is just a beautiful, heartbreaking dream.
This, like everything else, has to be taken away from him.
His hand lowers again, the sword dangling from only a few fingers, and he bows his head, stepping towards his mother. She reaches for him, and without hesitation he buries himself in her embrace, eyes closed, arms wound around her. He feels her hand in his hair, stroking like she used to do when he was sick, until the duke found out about it. He indulges in that comfort, trembling against her.
He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to do this.
"It'll be alright, Luke," he hears her murmur gently in his ear. "You're safe now.
I love you."
And then she screams, brief and piercing and ending with a blood-choked cough, because he's thrust his sword up into her back, right through her heart.]
1/2
The replica - no, Luke, his name is Luke now - is afraid. Distressed, upset. About to cry.
The replica is feeling what he's feeling, but without the ability to bury it, to push it aside until the job is done.
And that right there is the push his mind needs to free itself from the illusion, the recognition of his life, the truth, however miserable and pathetic and empty it is. That's his life. That's his reality. Not this. All of this is just a beautiful, heartbreaking dream.
This, like everything else, has to be taken away from him.
His hand lowers again, the sword dangling from only a few fingers, and he bows his head, stepping towards his mother. She reaches for him, and without hesitation he buries himself in her embrace, eyes closed, arms wound around her. He feels her hand in his hair, stroking like she used to do when he was sick, until the duke found out about it. He indulges in that comfort, trembling against her.
He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to do this.
"It'll be alright, Luke," he hears her murmur gently in his ear. "You're safe now.
I love you."
And then she screams, brief and piercing and ending with a blood-choked cough, because he's thrust his sword up into her back, right through her heart.]