Archive of Our Own ^beta

    Descole finds himself standing in the Azran Sanctuary. Odd, he could have sworn this place crumbled days ago. But Descole finds himself unable to question the nature of the Azran despite all his years of toil and uncertainty. The walls feel familiar yet distant, as if he’s not really standing here in the sanctuary. He can’t even say he recognizes most of the writing on the walls. But the writing is there, despite that imminent confusion. Perhaps he finds himself back roaming these walls for a reason. Why else would he be here? Though, he cannot recall why he’s here. In fact, he can't even recall coming here at all. Is he alone? It seems to be the case. It’s eerily quiet. In spite of these circumstances, Descole doesn’t remain idle, choosing to walk around the old decrepit ruins. If he’s here without means of a way out, does he have much of a choice?

    Things seem relatively normal. Well, as normal and ordinary as an Azran ruin can get. Descole has spent quite a long time roaming places such as these, even before he decided to seek his brother out. He runs his hands along the semi-familiar walls, tracing the carvings and runes delicately with his finger tips, committing the patterns to memory like he’s done dozens of times before. The lone sound of his heels clicking against the damp stone floors echoes throughout the open rooms of the sanctuary, ringing in his ears. Descole is used to solitude, but something about the cold, empty space of this place unsettles him. Perhaps it’s because he died here. Or perhaps it’s something else. Something that the man can’t quite put his finger on.

    Walking along, Descole retraces his steps. He knows he’s been here before, but the layout feels somewhat different. For the most part, the man just wanders, walking from room to room. Occasionally he’ll come across a familiar puzzle or two; ones that he would have solved alone if it weren’t for his brother. Descole sighs and shakes his head. Why was he thinking of Hershel now? Things were over. Descole has no reason to even ponder that man ever again. They’re done, Descole used him and fled. He has no family now. And yet, thoughts of Hershel continued to pop into his head for the past several days. Descole wrinkles his nose; it seems he spent too much time as Sycamore being friendly with the others. And yet, a part of him enjoyed the time they spent together. Regret pangs through Descole’s mind, a common emotion. Was he really feeling regret for this? Of all people to grow attached to. Layton’s stupid group really had grown on him…

    Descole wanders upon a familiar puzzle, but this one makes him grimace. If he remembers correctly, this was where he almost died saving the boy, Luke. The fact that he had done such a thing surprises him even days later. Maybe if he was still assuming his Sycamore persona, he would feel less shocked about his own actions. But no, as his broken, despaired self, Descole, he saved Luke’s life. And to make matters worse, he almost paid with his own. He can see where he was hit and fell; the floor over in the corner stained with blood and singed fabric from Descole’s cape. Memories of being held by his younger brother flash briefly through his mind. Descole thought for sure he would die in his brother’s arms, but it seems fate had different plans, letting him live if only to be killed minutes later. Descole shakes his head with a shudder, leaving the room. If he keeps thinking about what happened, he’s sure to further upset himself. Descole is very skilled at getting himself worked up over trivial things such as Hershel. Unfortunately for Descole, his troubles tonight would not cease so soon. 

    Descole thinks he’s alone this whole time. He is, alas, mistaken. Descole walks into the main chamber — the one where he briefly lost his life all for the sake of humanity. But this room isn’t empty. Standing over by one of the crystals that caused this whole mess is Descole. Or rather, who Descole used to be. Desmond Sycamore currently seemed to be looking over the old ruins just as Descole had been, though he looks less… agitated about it than Descole was. He stands there for a moment just watching himself. He can’t tell if Desmond has noticed him yet. If he had, then he was actively choosing to ignore him. Annoyance twinges through Descole at the thought. Desmond always was good at ignoring him, pretending he doesn’t exist. Descole walks over to the professor, heels clicking against the tiled floor. When he’s only a few feet away, Desmond finally looks up from whatever he was looking at. 

    Descole and Desmond stare at each other for a long moment, auburn eyes meeting auburn eyes. Neither of them say a word, instead having what seems to be a silent conversation. Until Desmond decides to speak up, that is. “So, you’re here too. I should be surprised, but I’m not.” Desmond’s eyes rake over Descole’s form, taking in the view of his more unsightly self. Desole huffs in response at the comment. He can’t help but agree. If Descole was here, it would make sense that Desmond is, as well. “Pray tell, what are you doing here?” Desmond continues. Descole thinks about his answer for a moment. He’s not entirely sure. One moment he wasn’t here, and the next, he was roaming the familiar walls of the Azran ruins. Maybe Desmond was in the same situation, but part of him thinks — no, knows, — he’s here because of Desmond. And for one reason or another, the two were searching for each other. “The same reason you are here, too,” Descole answers finally after a beat of silence. He says it almost automatically, as if the answer was a predetermined dialogue option in their game of life.

    Desmond nods with a small hum that seems to echo off the walls of the cavernous ruins. He understands the mutual reasoning. “Why are we here?” Descole asks when he watches Desmond look back towards the old carvings that decorate the walls of the room. “In the ruins?” Desmond confirms, making his other self nod, “I’m not sure. But you always find yourself in places like this, I’m sure. I suppose one could call it luck that we find ourselves here of all places.” Descole can’t help but scoff in agreement. He thought everything was over, and yet, here they are. In this blasted room where the 5 family members found themselves dead and reborn. “It is rather… unfortunate. I hoped to leave the Azran behind.” Descole grits his teeth in annoyance. It seems the Azran and Targent will continue to haunt Des, even in dream. 

“Even after all this time, you still blame the Azran,” Desmond comments more like a statement than a question. He can see that look on Descole’s face. That familiar look of anger, hatred, and despair that he tries to keep hidden behind his mask. But of course, if anyone was to recognize it, it’d be Desmond. Descole curses under his breath. “Of course I do. They took everything from us. From me. And yet I always find myself back here… tormented. What luck I have to find you, too.” Descole wrinkles his nose. Even if he is seeming somewhat civil at the moment, he finds no pleasure in having to speak with Desmond. That fool.

    “You still hate me,” Desmond points out as Descole practically hisses those words. “What does that say about yourself? You can’t separate the two of us.” Descole bites his tongue. He knows Desmond’s words are true, yet he doesn’t want to admit it.  Denial is one of Descole’s greatest skills, after all. “Of course I still hate you. You ruined everything. I’m not like you anymore. I never will be. Desmond Sycamore is dead to me.” Descole takes a breath in attempt to reign in his rage, but looking at Desmond only makes it worse. “You are nothing like me!” Descole starts shouting as his anger rises. “I will never be you! Never again! You foolish, disgrace of a man!” Desmond has to take a small back as Descole shouts at him, his other self getting too close for comfort. “You keep saying the same thing over and over as if things will change. I will always be here.” Descole crosses his arms over his chest, his expression hardening. He’s not looking at Desmond anymore, but he can feel the irritation radiating from his other self. “You wish so desperately to be rid of me. I will always be here. Every time you put on that mask, every time you grieve, every time you look in the mirror and see our father’s eyes in our own, I will be here. Every time you find yourself in these ruins, every time you think of them — think of Layton-” 

    Descole cuts him off at the mention of their family. Of all things to bring up… It’s definitely a low blow. “Do NOT bring them up! You have no right!!” Descole lurches forward, his hand tensing next to his hip. Desmond sees what he’s holding himself back from doing, but he doesn’t back down. “I have every right. They were my family too.” Descole scoffs. “It’s because of you that they’re gone! You weren’t strong enough! If you had just- just-”

    “Just what? Joined Targent? The people who took our parents and our brother?” Desmond almost can’t believe the suggestion. “They are the ones at fault; not I.” 

    “You try to shift the blame yet you’re too blind to see what you’ve done!” Descole lurches to grab the lapel of Desmond’s blazer, gripping it so tight his knuckles turn white as the fluff around his neck. “It’s because of you! Your cowardice, your foolishness- They could still be here!!”

    “They’re GONE, Descole!” 

    Descole has had just about enough, drawing his sword from its sheath around his hip. Desmond’s breath hitches, auburn eyes widening as the cool steel glimmers in the low light of the ruins. “It’s your fault they’re dead! I lost everything because of your mistakes!!”

    Desmond’s breath strops for just a moment. Pain shoots through him radiating from his abdomen — searing pain he hasn’t felt in a while. Descole holds the now trembling Desmond close to himself, rapier stabbed through the professor’s stomach all the way to the hilt. Blood drips onto the floor and soaks through the dense material of Desmond’s suit. His breath comes in short, shaky pants, strength cut down suddenly. If it weren't for the sword lodged between his organs, Descole’s iron grip on his suit blazer, or the rush of adrenaline and dread, he’d be on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Somehow, he remains standing. For the moment, at least.

    “Because of you, I lost everything,” Descole reiterates. “I won’t allow for your mistakes to hurt anyone ever again.” Desmond almost scoffs at that if doing so wouldn’t hurt so terribly. His mistakes? He turns his head away so he doesn’t have to look at the monster currently holding him uncomfortably close. Desmond speaks again, his voice trembling with the effort to speak. “My mistakes are nothing… compared to your choices.” Desmond takes another shaky breath through his mouth, Descole’s eyes narrowing on the man as he speaks. He didn’t expect to hear him do such a thing while being impaled by his sword, and here he was, continuing to slander him. Descole was getting tired of it. But before he has the chance to bite back, Desmond continues. His head snaps back to look at Descole, eyes wide with a sudden burst of rage. “You are dooming yourself to the same narrative!! All you know is destruction!! You are just like-” Descole cuts the professor off.

    “ENOUGH!!!”

    How dare he. How dare he make that comparison. Irritation blinds Descole in that moment, Desmond’s words affecting him far more than he’d like to admit. In a fit of fury, Descole’s grip on the handle of his sword tightens, and he proceeds to violently yank his sword out of Desmond’s body with a defined KASCHINK. Desmond lurches forward as the steel is pulled suddenly from him, a pained gasp escaping his lips which is pulled through his teeth harshly. Blood gushes from the fresh wound in his stomach, making his knees go weak. Descole has to tighten his grip in order to keep his other self from crumbling like a mound of wet sand.

    “Do NOT compare me to those vile bastards that call themselves Targent!! You wretched, disgusting excuse of a man has no right!! I am nothing like those fools . They took EVERYTHING because of your mistakes!! I do what I must to keep my own legacy alive. You know nothing! Nothing of the reasons I have for the way I am!” Descole almost has the nerve to throw Desmond down to his feet right now. The man won’t last long, regardless, not with a wound like that. Desmond is losing his ability to remain conscious rapidly. He knows he only has a few moments left like this. 

    “I know exactly what I’m talking about. Must you forget.. We’re one in the same..? I know your pain — our pain. You think- You think you’re so alone… but… It’s pitiful, really. How much of a monster you’ve become… You are like them. But you’re… blind…” Desmond’s voice continues to weaken, swallowing and huffing between words. The bitter taste of copper fills his mouth, reminding him of his soon fate once more. 

    Descole scoffs at Desmond’s words. As if Desmond knows what he’s talking about. But… Despite Descole’s constant denial, something about his other half’s words tug at the corners of his mind. Damnit, how could he be so thought provoking? He’s supposed to be the one in control here, not Desmond! Descole’s grip hardens on the lapel of Desmond’s blazer before he drops him. Desmond crumbles, letting out an anguished grunt as he hits the hard floor. He can barely support himself, hands and knees now messy with his own discarded blood. An attempt is made to sit up, but it's rather fruitless. Descole stares down at himself with a disapproving look in his auburn eyes which are shrouded behind his physical and metaphorical mask. 

    “You have no right to speak of me in this manner. You pathetic… sniveling… coward. You know nothing of what I’ve been through; of what they took from me. Revenge is the only thing I know anymore, and if you can’t see that, it is your own fault. It was their mistake to trifle with me. And to think you’d have the gall to compare us…” Descole wrinkles his nose in utter, pure disgust, as if just the suggestion was enough to make him physically ill. Desmond lets out a cruel, hollow laugh, which confuses his other half. He was laughing? Now? When he’s on the brink of death? And Descole didn’t think he could get any more foolish… and as if to counter that exact thought, Desmond reaches a hand to grip onto the fabric of Descole’s trousers, pulling himself up just enough to speak clearly in his final few moments. Descole’s face remains stoic, watching the other man closely as he begins to speak again. 

    “You really are a fool, Desmond…” Desmond wheezes out, now trying to pull himself up further. The most he can muster is to grip onto Descole’s leg as if it would save him. Descole stares ahead for a moment, mulling over their conversation. Anger burns beneath his now seemingly calm demeanor, a contrast to his previous yelling. 

    “That is not my name”

    Desmond can’t respond this time, having run out of witty remarks along with his energy. His will to survive seems rather unwavering, though. Descole raises his sword again, hovering the tip of the blade only inches away from where Desmond’s back faces up to him. He glances down one more time, noting the way his body shakes, soaked in that sickly red liquid. His face is pale, eyes wide with fear and pain among sadness and regret. Good, Descole thinks. Regret. Descole looks away again before his grip on his sword handle tightens once more. His hand shakes.

    Desmond lets out a cry of anguish one final time before going limp at Descole’s feet, still clinging to his leg. Disgusting, Descole thinks. The man sighs, pulling his sword out of Desmond’s back with an uncomfortably loud squelch, sheathing the bloodied blade at his hip. His eyes look down at himself a final time. 

What a disgrace.