Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 42

"Kassidy isn't even my real name."

Those words sounded drawn out, an unmatched rhythm beating behind them, tinged by a reckless freedom—or perhaps, a prison—brought on solely by a breaking point, a place where care had packed its things and left without goodbye, where reason and otherwise sound logic had made their last efforts. It was a shattering truth hiding beneath an exterior made solid by the numbness only felt through the acceptance of the fact that no more could be taken, no more could be endured.

The man in my arms spoke those words without hesitancy, and yet they were fringed with a faint request, perhaps the final ounce of strength or confidence being surrendered with them. There seemed to be nothing left, only the product of a battle fought too furiously, too viciously, burnt out and lying in wait for the end to come, and somehow still entirely determined to continue, a slave in shackles he'd locked onto his own hands, forced to trudge on while having completely given up, an endless cycle of the pursuit.

My arms froze around him, but not in horror—not yet, I suppose. Rather, it was confusion, almost a wary bewilderment, maybe even shock. What on earth could he mean, not his real name? He was Kassidy, was he not? The same man I'd met at the phone store over two months ago? The same stoically plagued, solemnly sworn individual who had been made to grow up far too fast? Perhaps he was having an epiphany, some inner realization of self—or on the contrary, some inner, more intense loss of self, a result of the boundless mission he'd used to assign himself meaning and purpose, but now it all had crumbled down unforgivingly around him as he neared the conclusion of impossibility, of failure.

This part of him struck me as similar to Chrollo, in a way, the only difference being that Chrollo hadn't been given an identity to begin with. Upon reexamination, though, it seemed that the two of them were more like paradoxical opposites—Kassidy, or whoever he now believed himself to be, was born with a home, a loving circle of trust and a stable environment, from what I knew, but it was sooner stripped away from him, cursing him to a life of vengeance, and such was the valor of his resolve that he based his entire perception of purpose on it, only to see it slowly tear down, ripping away his last facets of self, leaving him without identity; Chrollo was born without identity, a meaningless acceptance of fate permeating any belief he might've held, and he poured himself into studies of humanity, the idle structure of it all, if only to gain some understanding of what his purpose might look like. His pain was almost always unspoken, silent, but it wasn't despondent like Kassidy's—it was lost. But I could see in Chrollo, in his progression with the Troupe and with me, that he had surely come to terms with a sort of belonging, a set in stone purpose finally assigned to him. Where Chrollo had been without, Kassidy had been within, and as Kassidy fell away, Chrollo earned a place.

Similar, and entirely opposite.

But why did that realization elicit such a fearful quake in my heart, and the pit of my stomach? As if there might have been some previous, inherent link between the both of them? There couldn't be—Chrollo's path of death was too turbulent for a decimated soul such as Kassidy's, an innocent with a fragile hope for morality, something I understood as a construct, but something he clung so relentlessly to.

"Kassidy isn't even my real name."

I couldn't decide for myself if he was speaking metaphorically, like he so often did, or if I had truly been caught in the facade he'd built around himself. As I looked down upon his fragile form, so overcome with hopelessness, and yet fully hopeful, I couldn't find anger or resent or even an entitlement to the truth; I could only find compassion, a raging urge to put aside my inner fears and comfort someone I cared for, someone who'd helped me in dark times, someone who deserved better than a reproach and a storming walk away.