Language is a fickle thing. For weeks after all the ink has drained from Kanda's body, he feels like he has lost the power of speech as well, words drying up like leaves and falling silent, forgotten back into the pit of his belly. Now all he is left with is a raised scar on the left side of his chest and a lotus that will not die, not yet. Not yet, it whispers to him through the colored darkness that is a complete lack of sound, not yet. What else is there, he wants to ask, but the question gets caught in his throat. And so he rages in silence, until even the anger abandons him and there is nothing. Why not yet?

Lavi is someone who understands silences; the silence that is words printed on a page, unable to be spoken. This Kanda knows and this is why he would seek Lavi out in the end, back to London, rain pouring from the sky.

We are going to go visit Allen Walker, Lavi said, and Kanda rolled over in Lavi's bed. Allen Walker, whose hand Kanda finally accepted after so many years, warm even through the barrier of the glove. Allen Walker, who is pale and wan and entirely too careful. At this, now, the words well up and and spill over.

Where are we?

"These will be your rooms," Allen is saying. "If—if they're not to your liking, I can have other ones prepared." Lavi's is ridiculous, ostentatious; complete with four-poster bed and a desk so ornate it is barely even functional. Naturally, Lavi loves it. Kanda's has a large window but it doesn't seem to get very much direct sunlight, a chair and a table and a bed that is simple but comfortable-looking. The window looks out on the back of the estate, acres of rolling fields and a forest bounding them; there is what looks like a stable off to the right side. "So I suppose all that is left to show you are the grounds."

Kanda can smell the horses on the wind as soon as they step outside, the air clean and a little bit musty. Lavi blinks in the sun and cuts his eye to Allen as they follow after, a single thin line creasing his forehead.

"Cross made a hobby of breeding horses," Allen explains while tugging open the doors. The smell is even stronger when they swing wide, and several equine heads swivel around at the creaking noise. "Mostly for racing, but for himself he liked raw power. The one in the very back stall was his personal mount."

Both Lavi and Kanda turn to the back where a massive black bay stands staring at them. It whuffs and bares its teeth, shaking matted hair out of its eyes. Kanda frowns. "Why is it all the way in the back?" Lavi asks.

Allen winces and brings a hand to his shoulder. "I've had . . . some problems with him, since Cross died. Cross was the only one he would listen to, and now he's become a bit—well, a little bit unmanageable."

"What is his name?" Kanda interrupts. His voice comes out low and rough and he has to clear his throat. Allen's eyes meet his, startled, but then they shift back to the horse.

"Bishamon," Allen answers.

Lavi makes a weird sound that is somewhere between a cough and a snicker. "Is that so."

Allen nods, uncomprehending. After a pause, he offers: "If you're hungry, the cook should have something prepared by now."

Dinner is a subdued affair; Lavi does most of the talking, about the books and nothing in particular. Allen doesn't do more than nod along and make vague noises of interest, and Kanda says nothing at all. The table is long and empty. After the last course, Allen excuses himself to his rooms but tells them that they have the run of the house. Lavi tracks his departing back.

"Well," he says, "what do you think of that?"

Kanda sets his fork down. His bracelet taps against the wood and in his mind's eye, the future unfurls in front of him in a winding red banner. The faint scent of lotus blossoms fills his nose. For the first time, he can't see the end of it. What else is there.

"I don't know," he says, and pushes back from the table.