The Oldest Role

In the many years since leaving home, Aletheia took great pains to distance himself from his old life. Changing his name was part of it, and becoming something non-human helped. At first, he was bitter and desperate. He resented life as Argent and avoided anything that reminded him of home. Over time, the resentment faded away. He stopped feeling a need to prove himself and was able to live freely. Then, when he was able to look back without anger, he finally felt like himself.

Of course, some complicated feelings still lingered. He owed everything to the person he used to be, but he still didn't want anyone to know who that was. He considered it a great accomplishment to look back on those days with...

What was that feeling? Not fondness...Could he call it neutrality? Some degree of acceptance?

It wasn't that important. Those were nothing more than idle thoughts as he fed birds in the town square. The hours before sunrise often made him feel a bit sentimental. When the distant sky began turning dusty red, it reminded him of the skies he used to see. His old sun never seemed to rise over the horizon, and the light it gave was too no brighter than the early dawn he saw now.

Aside from the birds pecking seeds by his feet, Aletheia was alone. The only humans nearby were a few distant silhouettes circling the fountain. Diligent joggers, he assumed, making their rounds before the sun brought out the summer heat. He liked the silence, though it did made it easy for him to get lost in thought. He leaned back on the bench and scattered another handful of seed. The birds chirped happily for a moment, then flew off. Something changed.

He couldn't place the feeling at first but, when he set the bag aside, it clicked. His hand was different. It was smaller and bonier, with sickly pale skin instead of the clean white that he used in human form. His sleeve changed, too, showing a ragged hem mended with off-color stitches. As he looked himself over, he realized that his entire outfit was different. Everything was threadbare, with old stains and patched tears. Less important but still annoying, his long braid had been reduced to a chin-length bob cut.

Aletheia was Argent again.

Of all the ridiculous things to happen, he thought. He wasn't trying to change appearances. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't have chosen Argent. The only relief in the moment was that nobody was around to witness it. He tried changing back. He failed. He tried again and realized that his magic wasn't working. It felt wrong in a way that was hard to describe. Since he couldn't return to normal. he decided to go back to his Abstraction. That...also failed.

Failure was frustrating. Failure with no discernible cause was infuriating, and Aletheia refused to accept it. He drew out his power and, in a manner more akin to punching drywall than opening a door, he made it back to his tower. More accurately, he kind of ripped open a hole and threw himself into it before it could snap shut. That was enough of a victory for the moment.

In the safety of his tower, Aletheia took a deep breath to relax. Only after doing that did he realize that he was actually out of breath. Whatever interfered with his magic might have made it tiring to use. Either that or brute-forcing his way into a demi-plane was a bad idea after all. Then again, his body felt different from his usual fake appearances. It felt a little too solid. What exactly happened to him?

He doubted there would be any concrete answer to that question. Even if someone could offer one, he didn't know where to find them and he wasn't that devoted to looking. Maybe he got caught up in a practical joke. He wasn't often on the receiving end. If that was the case, the situation could be considered a fun change of pace. Whatever was going on, until his magic was back to normal, he wanted to avoid serious problems.

He paced around the tower for a bit, studying the masks on the walls. His eyes fell onto the oldest in the collection, which he pulled down. Its sharp eyes matched his own, though he wondered at the cracks running down from them. Some other masks had changed over the years, though not by his conscious will. Argent's hadn't. He hadn't cried over Argent in a long time, but the tear-like marks remained etched into that face regardless.

It really was a good day for sentimentality. Aletheia didn't like it. He brushed the thoughts aside in favor of figuring out what to do next. His situation was, most likely, the result of some other Edeia's power. If that was the case (and he was fine assuming so), he would have to wait it out. He didn't like being limited, but it did seem like a bit of effort let him regain some control. There was nothing left to do but kill time until he went back to normal.

He spent a little time testing his abilities before heading back out. If he was going to be Argent again, it wouldn't be the same version from all those years ago. He wasn't a desperate child struggling to survive. He had power. Even restricted, it was more than enough to let him have fun.

A twist to perception let him stroll through a clothing store unnoticed. He traded Argent's old outfit for something fresh: black pants and shoes, a long cardigan, and a white shirt with a subtle gold pattern. While combing his hair in the fitting room, his old face seemed to take on new life. He looked a little less sickly and his amber eyes felt brighter. If not for how thin he was, he'd almost find the appearance charming. His usual face was much better, though.

His power stayed intact as he slipped out of the store and headed to a cafe for desserts. As he ate a strawberry tart, he realized what made his current body different. Instead of having a human shape, it seemed he was actually human. Eating was a little different from the way he enjoyed food in his usual disguises. It was a strange feeling to go back to after so long. He started wondering what the limits of the transformation were...though still not strongly enough to try solving anything.

As he finished the first treats, Aletheia almost found himself enjoying his time as a human. In the life he'd built, including the many short-lived fake lives, Aletheia lived for fun. He'd used his power to do all the things that he wanted to do as Argent. In his first life, there were things he gave up on because they seemed impossible. He wanted to enjoy the luxuries that he could only see through neighbors' windows. He wanted to see the worlds beyond the rifts, if only to get away from the trash heaps of home.

He'd done everything and more under many different faces and names. Inserting himself into interesting families, indulging in whatever games suited his mood; his life as Alethiea was a dream. And there he was, enjoying his favorite pastries as Argent.

It was his oldest dream come true. Yet, as he looked at ever-brightening morning sky, something was wrong. The clothes felt off. The cake, while delicious, didn't taste quite right. It wasn't satisfying.

Of course not.

It was Argent's ideal, not Argent's role.

Every mask in his tower was a character he played. Every person had a setting, a personality, and a role they filled in the greater stories that he made up. Aletheia's role was the trickster who indulged in the life's little joys. Aletheia played games, ate sweets, and teased people who looked too serious. He was the one who got to live the dream.

Argent's role was to gain sympathy in order to survive hardship. Argent looked worn out because that was part of the act. Every detail, from the faint scars on his hands to the sadness in his smile, was refined to sell the setting. It was the perfect image of weakness, taking advantage of his already fragile appearance. That role wasn't meant to be happy, because happy people didn't get the benefits of pity. Of course it would feel wrong to go against the script.

Then again, it was a script he wrote. He could change it at any time. He could decide that Argent's story reached a happy ending. The pitiful child could finally live well. But, the more he thought about it, the stranger the idea felt.

Aletheia was Lies, and he remembered every lie he ever told—including the ones he told himself. Perhaps the greatest lies were about Argent:

That the sadness was only part of a role.
That the role didn't bother him.
That Argent was somehow separate from Aletheia.

If he couldn't keep Argent as a role to play, that would mean changing something in how he viewed himself.

He shook his head and ordered a parfait. The only reason those thoughts came up was because of the sudden reversion to Argent's appearance.

There was no need to fuss over what the past meant after so many years. The only thing that changed was his current face. He didn't want to waste a chance to be human by musing over distant tragedies. He was going to enjoy the experience.

Maybe that, too, was a lie.

Aletheia would never admit if it was.