The Cruelty of Kindness [CLOSED/Weylin]

Weeks, months of suffering under his obsession had worn out Weylin’s body and mind to the point that it should have broken and had only been held together by feverish will. That had changed, however. Takua, an Arrancar of all people, had aided the Quincy in regaining something that resembled peace of mind. Vividly von Wolfenstein remembered how exhilarated and awake he had felt moments after unlocking his own shackles with the key he had held in his hand to begin with.

There had been little time to celebrate his newfound, or rather recovering, sanity though as a mere day after meeting the Primera his protégée Amelia had burst into the castle. Raphael, a friend and vassal, had been kidnapped by his mother. In a way Weylin had almost rejoiced at the occasion. It had been years since he had had something as simple as that as his mission and goal: rescuing a friend. As was the norm with these endeavors though things had quickly gone south. Jennifer, Raphael’s mother and a talented Quincy in her own right, had dabbled with powers beyond her limit and after battling the first Quincy to force Vollstaendig, to mimic his own ascension, he had had to put her down.

Despite the speed in which they had mounted their rescue though it had been too late for Raphael. He had been altered, changed irreversibly by his mother. Based on the ground work Weylin himself had established in his friend’s body Jennifer had used all her skill and research to turn her own son from a Fullbringer into a Quincy. Naturally it had left Raphael scared in body and soul. And in a way this was Weylin’s fault because without his research, without his prior support to Jennifer, she would have never been able to force her son through a gauntlet that had changed his very self.

Battered and bruised von Wolfenstein returned to the castle and began to take inventory.

Under the influence of Obsession he had held several meetings with the purpose of furthering Erasmus’s agenda and the outcome of those had been less than ideal, had only served to alienate what few friends and allies he had left. And yet the goal of ousting Markus was one that was still worth pursuing. How should he go about it though? Weylin was undecided, but also weary and felt like he could sleep, for the first time in many weeks.

With a heavy thud the castle’s double door closed behind von Wolfenstein. Nobody was home but Weylin did not mind. Not only had he grown used to loneliness but welcomed it even as an old friend, preferring it to the cacophony of thoughts and feelings that had assailed him for too long. Moreover it would serve him well in sorting his thoughts.

The White One stood in the entry hall and relished the silence. Peace of mind, quietness. All of it had been denied to him for so long that he enjoyed now more than ever.

Moving up to his rooms Weylin’s thoughts began to carry him away from reality, revolved around Erasmus, Takua, Jennifer all the way down to Markus. Only when he had reached the bath and a groan of pain had escaped his lips von Wolfenstein returned to reality. Facing Jennifer in her angelic state had taken a toll, even on him, and albeit she was neither in Erasmus’s nor Adimus’s league she had still packed a punch. Shedding jacket and shirt Weylin inspected the wound. It would heal but could do with a little sewing.

An hour later Weylin sat at his heavy oaken desk. A soft knock at the door heralded a visitor whom he had felt long before she had reached the castle. Slowly the door was pushed open and inquisitive green eyes scanned the room. A tint of sorry darkened the emerald shade.

“Weylin?”

He looked up from his papers, the hint of a welcoming smile lingering on his face.

Marie’s eyes widened in disbelief and there was a heavy thud as her bag hit the floor. She entered with hesitating steps, looking Weylin over multiple times in search for a clue that what she had just witnessed had been a fluke. White shirt, jeans – no gloves. His hands rested peacefully on the desk as the tall man stood up and the peaceful smile on his face almost moved Marie to tears. She hadn’t seen it in so long she had all but forgotten that Weylin was capable of one.

“By God…”

Quickly Marie crossed through the room, met Weylin just as he had rounded his desk and hovering on Reishi she brought her face eye to eye with his. Small hands cradled von Wolfenstein’s haggard face, caressed his cheeks and held it steady so that Marie could peer into his differently colored eyes. They seemed so clear, gone was the fog that had lingered in them. And one was the stranger that had stood in the man’s place for weeks on end. Before her stood Weylin von Wolfenstein, of that Marie was sure.

“Welcome home?” Weylin tried, his hands resting on her hips in an uneasy fashion.

Marie Becker was a member of Cecania’s ‘Hand’ and a headstrong woman who had set her mind on dating the younger German many months ago when they first had met. Their relationship had started off very one sided with Marie doing the heavy lifting. However, as the Quincy’s mind had deteriorated she had been there, at his side every step of the way and to which extend Weylin owed his current situation to her he was not yet sure. Perhaps without the caring woman he would have been off much, much worse.

As Weylin peered into Marie’s eyes he saw her relief. She too must have aged vividly under his behavior but now the youthful energy that was her hallmark had returned. And yet the Quincy felt a sting.

Her hands were warm, comforting, and as she pressed her body against his Weylin gave into the embrace all too easily. It felt like love. His soul needed some love. But did he reciprocate her feelings? Had he ever?

A hand caressed the back of his head in a distinctly motherly fashion, draining what little resistance he had built up with every second and as Marie lifted her head to tilt it softly to the side Weylin found himself doing the same. Closer and closer their faces came until at last lips met.

White, everywhere there was white. And it was cold. Weylin opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by ice and snow. A blizzard howled amidst ruined city and in the far distance von Wolfenstein thought to hear the cries of monster as they moved in on him. Weylin turned to run but stumbled after three steps already, his legs giving out due to the extreme cold. He hit the frozen pavement hard and as he stemmed his hands against the ground to stand back up he lost pieces of skin to the frost. Cold wind whipped at his face, causing the blood to freeze over immediately. Slowly and with every step von Wolfenstein lost the movement of his limbs to the frost. The scream of an unholy beast sundered the sky. Panic began to rise. As quickly as he could Weylin ran, trying to lose the predators in the maze like city but try as he might, he could feel them coming closer. Then, turning a corner a sharp pained pierced his chest and frost crusted lips formed a silent ‘What’.

Weylin opened his eyes and jolted into an upright position. He was drenched in cold sweat, his heart raced and he fought for breath like a drowning man. Differently colored eyes scanned the room, his body tense and ready to strike. A moment passed, and then another. At last Weylin’s breath calmed and burying his face in his hands he wiped at his eyes. “Just a nightmare.”

Wearily Weylin left the bed, trying his best not to feel anything at the sight of Marie whose desire to be with him had been so great that even in her sleep she had edged as close to him as she could. He failed and guilt mixed with the bitter taste the dream had left him. Carefully Weylin pulled a blanket over her and headed to the window. Opening it he peered into the night, the cold wind drying the sweat whilst serving as a reminder of the icy hell he had dreamt of. How long he had stood there though von Wolfenstein did not know, but eventually a cell phone rang.

With furrowed brows Weylin watched as Marie began to twist and turn, her hand searching the bed but whether for him or her phone the Quincy could not tell. At last she sat up and peering through sleep crusted eyes found the phone on the nightstand. Mumbling half asleep von Wolfenstein could barely make out what she was saying but the shock that jolted her body half awake moments later disheartened the Quincy. Ill news. He could feel it. Read it in her body too.

Absentmindedly Weylin played with the pendant around his neck that held his daughter’s image. Over and over his slender fingers traced the intricate pattern as he waited for Marie to ready herself. Von Wolfenstein wore his clan’s uniform. Whatever the reason was that Cecania had called them so abruptly, it was official; that was for sure. Hesitatingly Marie stepped to him. She too was clad in her uniform, but instead of pride and a lust for life that normally dominated her entire Reiatsu she felt more like a beaten dog, or one who was about to be beaten. But whose wrath did she fear?

Wondering about that question Weylin reached out with his mind and scanned the realm. It didn’t take long to find Cecania. Not only did he know her well, but in a way it felt like she was calling out to him. Blue light illuminated the two in Germany and through the wonders of Ginto they were spirited away to a place half a world away. When next von Wolfenstein opened his eyes he was greeted by the familiar crimson of Volker. However, Weylin’s gaze was immediately drawn to what the man cradled in his arms.

Only faintly Weylin realized how Marie’s nails dug through his jacket and into his flesh. Like in trance he too took a step and met Volker half way, eyes transfixed on what, whom, the von Galen coat shrouded.

”Birch.”

The name, a moniker the Queen of the Hand had bestowed upon him, elicited no reply. His face remained a stoic visage, but inside fear and dread began to tie knots into Weylin’s guts. Volker too seemed to struggle, von Wolfenstein faintly recognized, but seeing the man fight his own grief as he moved to pull the coat away almost made the German irrationally angry. The emotion began to course through the Quincy’s veins but before it could even spark the notion of moving a hand to do it himself Weylin’s subconscious had locked it away in a vault deep inside his soul. There was no use in being angry at the empathic giant. It was not his fault. He was just a pawn.

At last the coat slid down far enough to reveal snow white hair and an all too familiar face.

Strange, Weylin thought, surprised by the clarity of his thoughts. When the death of Liora had reached him he had been inconsolable. Freely emotions had flown through his body and ran rampart with his strength. Now, however, he felt dull. Cold. Removed. Weylin knew it shouldn’t be this way, knew what it was supposed to feel like, but in the end all his emotions went straight into the vault.

Kasumi.

Why had she been here? Where was Ichiro?

He wasn’t dead. So why was she?

More and more thoughts began to race through his mind, were caught, trapped in the vault but the longer Weylin stared at the lifeless body of his ward the harder it became for the vault to keep up and slowly but surely things began to spill over, to tint the grey cloud that was Weylin’s mind with a myriad of violent colors.

Liora’s face. Her grave. The pitying looks of the men and women. Their whispers. Erasmus. The taunting words he had spoken at her grave. The loneliness. The hate. The sadness. The rage. The thirst for revenge.

Kasumi when he had first met her. The smile on her face when he had given her a home. Hebi. Her love for pancakes. The look in her eyes when Kiriko, he and her had eaten dinner together. The way she had left her clothes all over the castle, claiming it was too hot – or rather, not cold enough. How at ease she had seemed when he had hugged her goodnight. The pained look on her face after losing an arm. The rage and injustice he had felt. The pride at how she had coped. How she had made him promise to cook dinner for Kiriko and her when it was all over.

She was supposed to be with Ichiro. Save and far away from the fighting.

How could this have happened?

Weylin could feel his heart bleed.

Why you too?

His legs threatened to buckle under the weight of the world.

He stood there seemingly frozen in time. On the inside though, a storm was brewing. Weylin wanted to scream, to shout, to cry, and as the meaning of the nightmare dawned on him, even laugh. A sick feeling spread through his body when he saw the way Kasumi’s body moved around in the other man’s arms.

Don’t smother her, Volker, Weylin whispered on the inside, wanting nothing more but to cry, yet his eyes remained woefully dry.

She doesn’t like it when it’s too warm.

Don’t you hear me, Volker?

Kasumi likes the snow.

2338/50= 46

Dead.

Couldn't erase the heartbroken girl who had prayed to God, weeping, clutching the rosary in her hand as she begged for forgiveness in the Cathedral.

Retaliation for a life too soon lost.

A nameless child.

Are all Quincy like you-- German?

Judgment.

She could have been.

She didn't even know the little girl's name.

Not Maiko.

Not Sumire.

Of responsibility to him, and to her people.

"Draw, and allow me to put an end to your suffering."