Silent Depression

The red-haired boy continued to lie in the mud even after the large boy got off of him, steaming with anger at Them.

"Not you--" Ambrose started to correct Owen before stopping himself short. The damned italics again . . . Things just kept getting worse. He attempted to pull himself out of the mud, making a sickening SPLORGCH sound when finally free. As he stood up, boy didn't even bother to wipe the ground-liquid like Owen did; the damage was done, and the outfit was ruined. He would have to change once reaching the castle.

The castle . . . Ambrose thought he had gotten away from that. The entire reason he was out at this hour was because of escape. Now, his mind turned towards going backwards. What was the point of Luppa's death, then? It was as if he was going in circles. He was going in circles.

Sorry, darling.

You have nothing to apologize for, he replied to Disaster mentally, sighing while proceeding to take off his ruined shirt. It was all his fault, if anything. For once, They didn't have to do anything. To Owen, he said carefully, as to not have italics once more: "I'm fine. Shall we continue, or stop so we can clean-up?" Ambrose didn't have a preference to either.

Needless to say, Owen was a little unnerved by the rather ominous voice that Ambrose had adopted, but he didn't respond. Not him? Was it... Oh. Yeah, he understood, at least, he thought he did. He did find himself pulling a rather disgusted face at all that mud. It definitely hadn't been there before, and Owen couldn't quite understand it. Maybe he'd missed it before...

At Ambrose's question, he did stop to consider. Truth was, he didn't really mind all this mud. He could live with it - it happened often. Besides, he could clean later. And he did wonder if Ambrose would think less of him if he decided to abort the lesson just because their dlothes got a little dirty, of all things.

Although, he did find that he was getting a little tired, but he could go on for a bit more... And he already had a plan.

Idly, he crouched down, scooping up some of the mud in his claw, he shrugged indifferently. "I dunno... I think we should just... head back, for now."

After a pause to allow the words to sink in, he'd suddenly raise his arm, and try to toss the glob of mud directly at Ambrose's face, hoping to catch him off-guard. Regardless if it hit his mark, he'd lunge forward from his crouching position, to try and coil his arms around Ambrose's waist and tackle him to the ground once again.

Ambrose nodded at the large boy's words; he wasn't as bothered at the mud as annoyed-- Oh, come ON, Disaster teased his favorite candidate. You liked those clothes-- don't lie!

He didn't have to answer that. Scoffing a little in embarrassment, Ambrose turned towards the large boy, about to ask what was taking him so long in starting to leave--

BAM.

Several snickers from Above followed the impact of the mud ball, including a rather giggly, Classic! The liquid mud dripped over the pale face and down from his nose . . . the rather ticked-off pale face. Ambrose wiped the brown from his face, getting down into the mud (his clothes were already ruined beyond repair) and molding his own ball of earth. Oh, it was on.

"I suggest you run," Ambrose proposed, hefting-up the new weapon and smirking like the devil. A rather angry devil, mind you.

A grin spread across his face as the hit from the mud made contact. However, it took merely seconds for it to dissolve again, and there was a resounding sense of 'You shouldn't have done that.' Seeing his own weapon being formed and that hellish run was enough of an incentive to make a mad dash for it.

Twisting around, he began to scarper in the opposite direction, wet droplets of mud splashing with every step. He did slip upon the mud, but managed to regain his balance before he fell completely. He daren't look back - but he did, stealing a quick glance over his shoulder to see if the boy was following.

There was little that he could do - save for duck for cover behind the nearest tree, praying that he was fast enough.

The boy watched in twisted satisfaction as he ran. Run, Owen. Run as fast as you can. Why should he run after him, though?

"Now, dodge," Ambrose ordered of the large boy, noticing the italics but not caring. This control . . . This POWER. How wonderful it was! He could do anything to this boy-- anything-- and, he wouldn't be able to stop him! Who would stop him? WHO WOULD STOP HIM!

Darling, Disaster frowned Up There, wanting desperately to go over towards the red-haired boy but knowing that he couldn't. Not after last time's result. He would have to wait until a better opportunity.

His vision blurred slightly, but at this point, who gave a crap? Ambrose's eyes darkened as he flung the mud ball straight towards Owen's back. He planned to let the boy keep running . . . if he could dodge. Which, he couldn't.

Dodge? Ah, crap, how the hell was he meant to dodge? Owen couldn't understand the fear he felt surging through his veins - or maybe it was deep regret - but he did try to remind himself that this was mud he was up against. Wet, sloppy, stinking mud. How could it possibly harm him?

His internal question was answered almost instantaneously. It smacked against the back of his neck, and he flinched at the surprising force of it. To add insult to injury, the mud was starting to seep down the back of his shirt uncomfortably. Ambrose was mad, if it wasn't already clear from the way his voice sounded. Really mad.

You shouldn't have done that...

Running would do no good. The boy was faster than him. It was then he noticed the mirror lying slightly abandoned on the ground nearby.

Why... Of course.

As fast as he could have possibly managed, he scrambled across the forest floor, making a diving leap for the ornament, landing roughly on the ground next to it. The stone frame was grabbed, and he held it to face Ambrose, intending to use it as a shield. A reflective, dangerous shield.

Sadistic satisfaction flooded over the boy as the mud ball hit. Yes. YES! TAKE THAT! He continued to chase after the large boy, his vision becoming blurrier and blurrier . . . The figure was right in front of him, though. He was catching-up--

MIRROR.

--and everything rapidly snapped back into clarity, the detail blinding Ambrose for the briefest moment, but when his sight came into focus . . . he could only see the mirror. That horrible, horrible reflection . . . It was him. Nothing had changed: no darkness, no twisted grin. Just him. That same mop of blood red hair; the piercing, wide red eyes; the same expression of surprise. Nothing had changed.

Ambrose stared at the mirror for a time, his breathing unusually heavy but starting to slow down. He bent down and simply stared at the reflection. He hadn't realized how deep the fog had gotten. He hadn't . . .

. . . When did it start? He didn't recall when. The chase? The throw?

Cowering beneath the mirror, Owen decided to wait a few moments, maybe until he heard the thud of mud hitting off the reflective glass before he would peek to see if it was safe. He half expected the boy to pry it away from him. Or, worse yet, cause a repeat of the other times he'd looked into it. Please, God, no...

When no such thing happened, he gathered up the courage to peer over the frame of the mirror, seeing the boy gazing at it with a sort of bewildered look on his face. Owen wasn't sure what to say, or if he even should say anything, before a certain twinge of anger coursed through him. It had only been a slight trick - to throw the mud at him - and Ambrose took it too far. Again. He should've been used to acting as a punchbag for others, but the thought didn't fail to annoy him anyway.

"Let me guess," he said, practically growling. "You don't remember."

Standing up again, he didn't bother to clean off his mud covered clothing. From the looks of it, it seemed like he'd been rolling in it. He leaned on the mirror with one arm as it was placed against the ground. "That's enough for me today," he grumbled. And this time, he actually meant it.

The large boy's tone of voice was what snapped Ambrose out of it, blinking several times before properly responding. Yes . . . Just a reflection. A normal reflection.

In truth, the redhead was just as frustrated. As much as he attempted to keep the fog away, what good did it do? The fog still came, and he wouldn't remember a thing. He couldn't prevent the tide from coming in.
"I wish I could."

Wishes were pointless things, Ambrose knew. They were objects of venting, an idea that one could not accomplish themselves. Ambrose was in the line of thought that, if one tried hard enough, then they could accomplish anything: escaping an asylum with only a plastic fork, avoiding Them for this long . . . Anything was possible so long as one put their mind to it. But now, after nearly two centuries of living, he confronted the one thing he would never have.

He would never remember. He wished to remember-- but, that was impossible. Something he couldn't accomplish.

"Agreed," Ambrose replied to Owen, not bothering getting-up from his spot on the soft ground. His eyes were still fixed onto the mirror.

"Huh." Owen gave a sort of defeated shrug, although the passive-aggressive attitude was definitely there. "Are you always that easy to set off," he grumbled, making an active attempt not to look annoyed about it, but the emotion would slip through anyway - through his furrowed brows, and the way that his lips would unhappily pout. He would've doubted the lethality of mud any day, but in the hands of Ambrose, somehow, it gave him a reason to be afraid. He'd have to make a checklist of these 'triggers'.

He waited around for Ambrose to get up, but when he didn't, he gave an impatient breath, and simply bent down, aiming to grab the boy's wrist and pull him to his feet.

"Is this mirror still being weird again," he asked, noticing the way he seemed to gaze at it, although a peek at the reflection himself seemed to show no change. Or maybe only Ambrose could see. Maybe the mirror could do weird psychological stuff like that.

"Don't worry about it. It don't effect stuff in real life." And to that, his mutated face was a blatant contradiction.

With that, he would start to take slow steps back towards the academy, making sure Ambrose was coming with him.

Ambrose had no words for the boy; the gears in his mind were still turning, ever-so slowly. Thinking . . . Wishing. 'Real life'? He was beginning to question the stability of such a thing. It sounded so cliched, but . . . what the hell was 'real' anymore? During his stay at the asylum, Ambrose even questioned The Powers That Be-- he no longer did such things, though. If anything was sure, it was Them.

Silently, the red-haired boy got up from the soft ground, not even bothering at this point to brush off the mud. What was the use? The pants were ruined.

We can get you a new pair, darling.
Ambrose smiled slightly at the idea. Yes. Yes, he would like that very much.

With slightly happier thoughts, the boy also began to walk towards the castle, following closely behind Owen.

So the boy wasn't answering him. He seemed out of it - moreso than usual - and Owen was reluctant to try and snap him out of it, lest he trigger another manical episode. Even the small smile was a little unnerving, because Owen certainly had no idea of its source.

Slinging the mirror underneath an arm, Owen continued to trudge along, albeit ungracefully. What a right pair they'd probably looked right now, covered in earthly filth. And Owen had wanted to attempt a transformation back to his usual, human self. Why was isolation so difficult to come by?

At the very least, he would know which way he came from. Past the gaps in the branches and trees, he could see the stone walls of the castle in the distance. Not too far at all. May as well start some idle conversation to pass time.

"What're you doing?" he asked. "I mean.. when you get back. You gonna take a shower or..." Not entirely the master of conversations, and even then, he couldn't be sure if Ambrose would actually respond. Worth a try.

And, and . . . Disaster continued on, happy that his darling was happy. We can refurbish your ENTIRE wardrobe! With more shirts and cargo pants and . . .

. . . You listening, darling?

Ambrose barely caught Owen's words, lifting his head slightly in recognition of the voice. He had spaced-out for a moment there; that wasn't like him at all. That wasn't . . .

Unfortunately for both him and the large boy, the redhead was not an expert on such conversation, either.

". . . Shower," he answered after a few moments of thought, looking down at his ruined clothing. The now-brown fabric kept sticking to his limbs; it was rather unpleasant. He frowned. "Then, I'm burning these clothes." In an attempt to keep conversation going, however awkward it was, Ambrose simply asked, "You?"

Owen stared at Ambrose for a few moments after voicing his question. The other boy seemed rather out of it, and once or twice did Owen consider waving his hand before his face, or doing that 'guess how many fingers I'm holding up' test.

"Burning them?" he echoed, half chuckling at the idea. "That's a bit.. extreme, don'tcha think?"
Well, Owen himself had always kept his old clothing, even the ones that had turned a sickly, disgusting shade of brown. Even the ones with holes burned in them. Simple truth was, he didn't really have the money to buy more. He'd have to make do with what he had.

"First, shower," he said as the question was reflected back at him. "Then I'm gonna sleep in for a couple of weeks or somethin'." He wished that he was joking.

He gave nothing more as a response as he continued to trail slowly towards the castle.