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Away. He needed to get away. Far, far away.
Away from the fire, from the smoke, from the smell of blood, and iron, and death.
He'd wandered for hours when he left the Forgotten Battlefield, desperately climbed the sheer faces of the quarry in the hopes that no one would be able to find him. A place he could hide away in peace on some craggy cliff like some kind of monster, and only when he finally collapsed did the exhaustion and the weight of what he had done finally wash over him.
He felt wrong, he felt sick.
Laying there in the grass, all he could think about was the fury and betrayal in Julie's eyes as he turned to face her. How he felt free when he finally slipped from his bonds, summoned his dagger, and sank it into Claude's throat, the relief at finally being able to fight back against Louise and Dion now that his blades were back in his hands.
Laying there, he convulsed until he very quickly turned to sit up and vomit into the grass nearby. Blood and sweat tacky on his face making strands of his inky black hair stick to his skin has he broke down into sobs now that he finally felt safe after days, maybe even weeks, of torture at the hands of people he truly wanted to help.
He knew nothing he could ever say or do would ease his intent. They were going to get rid of Search and Rescue, plain and simple. They had to, he had to. But he needed to find a way. To free Maman, to make his father proud, to prove the Other Clea wrong…
He grimaced as another wave of nausea passed through him, his muscles tensing and causing his still-healing injuries to burn. It only compounded the agony coursing through him as he rolled onto his back, his head tilting back against the grass as he grit his teeth and tried his hardest not to vomit again. He didn't deserve to feel this way over his own actions, he was a monster.
For a long time he simply laid there, focusing his healing into the worst of his injuries. A little trick he had picked up since their abilities were revealed to them by the Other Clea—but by the time he felt good enough to move again, he still felt sick.
Exhausted silver eyes fell to his uniform—filled with holes, and a combination of Claude, Louise, Dion, Julie's and his own blood. He could feel his body lurch again at the sight, his eyes burning as he curled in on himself but the action only served to bring the smell of drying blood closer to his face.
Off.
He needed it off, now.
Desperately he reached for any part of his uniform he could get a solid grip on in order to yank it off of his body piece by piece, throwing them aside just to get them away from him, but it wasn't enough. He could still smell it, still feel it caked to his clammy skin
He staggered as he pushed himself to his feet, his watery eyes searching for anything—a river, a stream, a fucking puddle. Anything he could use to clean the evidence of his crime from his skin.
It was some time, more climbing, and more vomiting before he finally found what he was looking for and gods did it feel so good when he finally dropped to his knees on that beach. He couldn't even find it within him to care about the sand as he immediately splashed water into his face, his eyes lingering on his bloodied reflection beneath him for just a moment before he began to scrub his skin and hair clean.
The layer of grime had stuck with him all day, weighed him down, and left him looking like a walking corpse—which he supposed he was anyways. Because what was he at the end of all of this but a walking headstone? A reflection of a deceased man.
As he pulled his hand from his drenched hair, he looked down at the appendage with a bone-deep exhaustion. His Mother, the woman that raised him, had lost him once before… He wasn't the first. He was a replacement, a back up. A way to forget what she had lost.
But even still, he was a person. Right? He had thoughts and feelings and dreams… He wanted things. He couldn't possibly be an exact copy.
His eyes shifted back to his reflection in the water—the exhaustion in his usually bright silver gaze, the waves of wet black hair hanging in his face and clinging to his skin, his partially open shirt exposing a few of his still-healing injuries. He almost looked like his old self again. Almost.
He knew he would never be the same after all of this, Julie and the rest of Search and Rescue had deserved better. He wished he could have told them the truth, they deserved to know, but would they really have believed him?
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before going back over once more, and making sure he was clean of all of the blood before he finally pushed himself back to his feet. He needed to go back. Get his things, and set up camp before trying to set out to find Renoir and Alicia again…
As his eyes lifted to the Monolith, something strange rolled in his chest. He loved his family. He loved his mother. He was a real person, just as much as the Other Clea. Just as much as her brother. They might share a face and a name, but they weren't the same people… As he tore his gaze from the Monolith, he pushed forward—back into the trees to make his way back to where he had left his pack and his jacket.
He'd ask Maman to bring back Julie and the others when they finally freed her. She would do that for him.
Right?