Battler— she calls him. The name is foreign, entering and exiting his ears just as she repeats herself. Battler— the name echoes in his head. He knows how it belongs to the kneeling figure, his (half-)sister glancing at him with such superb ferocity present in her blue eyes that he almost, almost cringes. The way her lips purse, holding back words and remaining silent just to support the figure with her which makes him frown. Displeasure reaches his features and the witch notices this, her own mirroring his. This does not bother him.
Not her reaction.
Not his lack of a name.
Not the way she calls him that name.
It is not his name. He does not have a name. He lacks a name.
The dead do not need names, he reasons to himself.
"Call yourself Battler." - his savior’s voice rings, forcing him to turn to her and stare. She does not move, very much like him, remaining solitary as his eyes try to pierce through hers. "That’s your name, after all."
There is not a hint of concern on her voice, as fluid and flowing as it sounds. Her tone does not connote worry for his being. He understands this - and yet, there is part of him that feels obligated, thankful even. Although, the feeling starts to drown as regret rises, remembering how he is supposed to be at rest - just until she digs him from his grave.
If anything, emotions are complicated.
The witch taps her heels on the marble, bringing him and his attention back to her. “You are Battler, the real Battler.”
Nothing more is said. Beatrice flicks a hand towards the round table in the center of the room, motioning ‘Battler’ to come sit with her. He complies, stealing another look at the figure on the floor and his (half-)sister, waiting for her to speak out. When her silence prevails, he turns to the witch and sits opposite her.
Ange still remains silent, however much she wants to retaliate.
"Lady Bernkastel, if I may ask, where did you get this piece of yours?"
He is a piece.
"Numerous fragments that are outside of the sea. I would explain, but it would take precisely another thousand years for me to finish."
"Ah, I see."
The silence is longer this time. The sound of a ticking clock is all he hears, along with whizzing and coughing - accompanied by the undeniable gasp of concern.
And of course, he knows that they are not for him. Though, that does not mean he feels the need to ignore them.
Too bad he ignores them anyway.