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For a long while, there was nothing but silence in that House.
Proceeding through its tangled, snarled halls as someone more untethered to it than most has always been strange. Perhaps it is the way the foundations itself seem to grasp desperately at one’s feet, and the roof seems on the brink of utter collapse— if only to keep you within its clutches for a single, blessed moment longer.
Ren supposes his master reflects the House in which she was raised quite well, then.
Calling the Dihui Star ‘clingy’ seems nasty, if he’s being honest. It seems petty and ill-intentioned; still, though, it’s true enough. What else can he call her? She’s simply as complex a person as the grounds she walks; over and over, until her path wraps infinitely in on itself. There is no way to tell where a knotted ball of yarn ends save for accepting the contrapositive; that is, to realise the end is the place where everything began.
Sometimes he feels less like the ‘child’ and more like the ‘mother’. Maybe it’s more similar to the flip of a coin; unpredictable, ever-shifting results. There are only two possibilities; you cannot flip a coin and always have it land on the result you want if there is no chance of complete, utter disappointment. Thus, the sides are wholly dependent on one another. Nevermind the fact that the roles of the sides are irrelevant, and that the sides themselves are entirely the same (save for the fact one is ‘up’ and one is ‘down’)— the only thing that matters is that one thing is desirable and the other is not.
That’s a long-winded way to say “I wish my Nursefather was predictable, for once.” Well, maybe there’s a reason he’s in the place he is now.
Studying the other apprentices, it’s the only thought which comes to mind. Every other Nursefather is steeped in patterns. The art of the Ring and the scripture of the Index; the tight, binding chains of the Middle, and the Thumb...
Well, surely there’s some reason the thumb and pinky are on opposite ends of the same hand. It would only make sense.
“Training again?”
The apprentice of the Thumb is never one for much small talk. Ren supposes he oft isn’t either. “You ask that every time.”
“Every conversation starts somewhere.”
The furrowing of a brow, though it’s a sharper expression than usual. Has Lucio been picking up his Nursefather’s mannerisms?
Well, it wouldn’t be hard, he figures. She makes that face often enough, doesn’t she? “Did that sound sarcastic? I’m sorry. I meant what I said.”
“...No. I was thinking about something.” Lucio shunts his face away from Ren’s, and the chance to inspect his face is wholly lost. Ren bemoans it for a moment, but only a moment. “You... speak to me so much.”
Ren doesn’t say anything, because it isn’t a question. Still, if it was, maybe he would say something contrarian, just to guess what face Lucio would make. Perhaps because you’re someone worthy of speaking to, maybe? He doesn’t know. He never will.
The silence extends for a few measured, slow breaths. Lucio finally looks back to Ren, though Ren only catches a hint of the colour of his eyes; his face is still fully turned away, like there’s something on it he doesn’t want Ren seeing. “What... does someone usually do with a textbook once they’re done with it?”
Ren’s lips almost part, but don’t. Instead, he speaks as though at the height of his composure. “It depends on the kind of person, as most things do.”
“I see.” Lucio’s eyes leave his face, but remain in view. His expression is the same. Maybe a little pained, if Ren had to hazard a guess. But he doesn’t, so he won’t. His expression is the same. “I don’t know much about books. If I’m wrong, you’ll have to correct me.”
Ren doesn’t react. Is that a warning, or a request?
Lucio hesitates, and then continues. “When most books get... reprinted, they’re essentially the same copy, save for the chance the foreword is changed, right?”
“That could be the case, depending on the text.”
“But textbooks are...” The tendons in Lucio’s hands abruptly, imperceptibly tense; for a moment, just a moment, Ren sees all the tension in his body as though it were a noose wrapped around his neck in broad daylight. Strangely, even with that noose hanging there, his face does not change. Maybe the look in his eyes is acceptance rather than agony. “...rewritten, reworked.”
Ren hums, and imparts nothing onto the pages of Lucio’s mind.
“At some point, the first edition will go out of date, and be discarded.”
Here, Ren’s hand is forced. “Not strictly.”
Lucio’s eyes find Ren’s with a sudden desperation. Ren’s mind prickles with shameful pleasure— it’s nice to be needed not as a parent nor child, but as an equal. How often does he get the pleasure of discoursing with someone who does not look at him as though he hung the moon or tore it from the sky? How often does he get the pleasure of speaking to someone who, while not fully understanding, understands just enough?
It would not be a terrible stretch of the imagination to posit that Ren is fond of Lucio. Still, ever letting that string of words— no, that sentiment— pass through Lucio’s mind is the bitterest of poisons.
Lucio is a child of the Thumb. The Thumb, as a rule, thrives off of bonds. The relationship between two parties colours every interaction.
Lucio cannot know. He cannot know because it would shove an unhealthy burst of colour into their monochrome relationship. He cannot know because the sides of the scale would tip, and their contents would meaninglessly scatter.
Ren has made his peace with it. Still, it itches; like a strand that, not fully cut, continues to unravel its braided threads— upwards and upwards, until the spool is destroyed.
But the thread of life is long. Unless severed by a particularly keen edge... no, Ren is quite certain there is really nothing to worry about. The only blade which can sever it has fled unwhet, after all. It’s all the Dihui Star cares to talk about; of course Ren is aware.
Lucio inhales softly. “How so?”
“Certain parties do not desire textbooks for educational value.” Ren’s gaze wavers. Lucio doesn’t notice. He has no reason to; thus, Ren can state this with utmost certainty. “Archivists, for example.”
“Is there a point to archiving something which is out of date?”
“Not all things are cut from the same cloth,” Ren says. His eyes finally leave Lucio. “...Even something which one person has replaced is considered worth remembering by another.”
Ren is not looking at Lucio. Thus, he cannot tell where Lucio’s resigned, sorry gaze rests.
Yet a book, once read, can be recreated given dedication.
It’s strange, then, that the Lucio of Ren’s mind is casting his gaze elsewhere, and the Lucio Ren sights when he sneaks a final, fleeting look at him is meeting his eyes.