we live a dying dream;

[wingborne]

Notes: Part 2/3 of the GG of the AA. Prompt found here. Second draft.



.part two: cassandra’s curse
For who could ever love such a beast? – Disney, Beauty and the Beast

And sometimes he dreamt.

A beautiful girl—blond hair—blue hair—eyes—shining—blind—she smiled at him and laughed. Her skin was beautiful, voice divine, and he loved her, and promised her anything and everything for her hand, for her body, to have her. She was beautiful, and she was mortal, but he loved her, and she gave him one condition, and he promised to fulfill it.

Apollo slowly nodded awake from his dream. He couldn’t remember it—like most dreams he had lately—and groggily peered around. The evening stars had begun to spot the evening sky. In their small rental car, whose radio could only play a Spanish mariachi band station and a polka channel, Mr. Wright drove down the bumpy mountain road. Trucy, in the front seat, let out whisper of snores.

They were going to “stand under a waterfall,” in Mr. Wright’s terms, and visit “Auntie Maya” in Trucy’s terms. Apollo hadn’t wanted to come at all, but Mr. Wright had said if he didn’t come, he would need to make their dinner for two weeks. So far, journeying into the wilderness hadn’t been too bad. It was the city part of their trip that was the worse. Trucy and Mr. Wright joined up in a team to count the red cars, and he was left counting the blue. The loser had to hold the large bag of burgers, and Apollo was really really sure that buildings, walls, and the sky shouldn’t count.

Wiping the grease on his fingers on his pants, he slid the burger bag onto the empty seat beside him, and watched as they neared a large wooden gate. Mr. Wright slowed the car and, running lightly into the wall, stopped the car.

“You don’t drive too well,” Apollo grumbled, clicking his seat belt. He grabbed the large McDonalds bag and climbed out of the car.

“It’s my first time,” Mr. Wright said, smiling.

Apollo had an appropriate response, but stopped when he saw a figure against the dim light of the village. A woman greeted them at the opening, her long hair swooped into a small bun in the back, and her clothes purple and elaborate and plain. Her eyes sparkled when she spotted Mr. Wright.

“Nick!” She hugged him tightly around his middle.

“Maya,” he said, patting her fondly. “Or should I say, Kurain Master Maya?”

Apollo stood there awkwardly and tried to distract himself by looking at his surroundings. Despite the suffocating scent of fast food rising from the bag, there was a refreshing wind blowing through the thick trees. Though, he couldn’t put his finger on it, he would have to say it was too refreshing, and there was a chill that crept from his spine. The bad wind had only grown worse, thickening in the graveyard stench of the dead. He tried to comfort himself; after all, it was good to be out in nature sometimes.

If only he hadn’t stepped in nature. He attempted to scrape his shoe on a rock.

“And who is this?” Maya peered at Apollo. “Wow, Nick! His hair sticks up like yours! He must be a defense attorney.”

“Mine’s natural,” Mr. Wright said, almost smugly. Well, Apollo couldn’t help it if his hair didn’t stay straight naturally! And how did hair have any relevance to his job?

“I’m Maya,” she said, taking the burger bag off his hands. “Master of the Kurain Channeling Technique. You must be the one Nick was talking about. Oh, and thanks for the burgers, Nick!”

“No problem,” he said, “Though I’m not sure if it’ll be enough for you.”

“It’ll do,” sniffed Maya. Apollo wondered if she was actually going to try and eat the vast amount of burgers.

“Where’s Pearls?” Mr. Wright asked.

“She went down to the city. I hope Trucy won’t be too disappointed, but she had some business. I don’t think I’ll need her help, anyway, even if it’s been harder to channel lately. After all,” she said, smiling, “I did it all the time for you back in court, right, Nick?”

They laughed together, sharing a quiet moment between old friends. Apollo wiped his hands on his pants again.

“Here, I’ve prepared a place for you to sleep,” Maya said smartly.

“Should I wake up Trucy?” Apollo asked.

“If you’d like,” Mr. Wright said. It wasn’t a matter of his preferences! It was a matter of—Apollo gave up, and opened the side car door instead. Gently, he shook Trucy’s shoulder. She murmured and swatted him away, turning again. At the second shake, she seemed to be groggily awake, and he supported her as she climbed out of the car.

Mr. Wright and him shared one room, while Trucy slept in the one down the hall. Apollo would have protested, but he felt tired, and crawled onto the scratchy mat without complaint. When he rolled over, he could read the scrolls providing tips on saving money.

Just as he was about to roll over again, he found a few strands of blond hair on his pillow. In disgust, he gently gripped the ends and threw them on the floor. They reminded him of Prosecutor Gavin, for some reason. Probably because the hairs curled at the end. Tiredly, Apollo tried to see if his bangs would curl. But gel-less, they only flopped back on his face.

Trucy passed by the open door, murmuring, “’night, Polly,” before she disappeared into the opposite room. Mr. Wright came in soon after, dressing in pajamas with holes at the knees and frayed at the elbows. He still wore his beanie, even to sleep.

“Apollo,” Mr. Wright said, in the dark room, where only the moon occasionally fluttered in the glassless window. “Listen closely.”

Half-asleep, Apollo groggily agreed to pay strict attention.

“There’s a bridge,” he said, “called Dusky Bridge. It broke, a long time ago. It’s been fixed now.”

Apollo mumbled agreement.

“I don’t want you anywhere near it,” Mr. Wright said. “Keep Trucy away, too. Nothing good will come from that bridge.”

Apollo murmured nothing good, nothing good at all.

“Don’t just take it from me,” Mr. Wright said, his voice growing lower and dimmer as Apollo succumbed to sleep. He didn’t want to go to sleep—he couldn’t help but feel that nothing but nightmares awaited him in the bottom of the pit. But he found himself drawn into the bleakness.

“Take it as advice from a phoenix.”

He finally faded into sleep.

--

He woke up in the depths of the night, unable to sleep well. Every time he closed his eyes, he seemed to see phantoms clawing at his eyelids, ghouls with missing eyes and screaming mouths, occasionally pale blood dripping from their hands. Shivering, he sat up in the empty room.

The one time he could have been comforted by Mr. Wright’s cacophony of snores, his loud mentor had disappeared. Apollo rolled off the mat and opened the doorway. The halls were solemnly empty, even the cheerful scrolls ominous under the cloak of darkness. He padded down the cold hardwood floor barefoot, wincing the entire way to Trucy’s room.

Just as he confirmed she was peacefully asleep, he heard a small, muffled scream, and then quiet sobbing. There was another doorway partially open, a dim flickering candlelight creeping along the edges. When he peeked inside, he saw two figures sitting together in the middle of the room.

Maya had covered her face with her hands, and Mr. Wright sat next to her, legs spread on the ground, strong arms gripping around her shaking shoulders. Even under the bad glow, his eyes seemed dim and saddened, suddenly an old man.

“. . . And Mia,” Maya was whispering, in a penetrating high whisper, “That night, the blood—”

“Shh.” Mr. Wright held her. “It was just a dream.”

“I’ve been having these dreams so much lately, Nick,” she cried, clutching to him suddenly. “I’m scared. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I have to, and—”

“Shhhh,” he said again, voice low and gravelly.

Apollo suddenly didn’t feel like watching anymore, and slipped away into the hallway again. He felt angry, though he wasn’t sure why. Even as he sat in his own room again, glancing at the empty spot that Mr. Wright had left behind, he could only pull up his thin blanket to protect from the sudden chill in the windowless room.

--

After a thin breakfast of rice and beans, Mr. Wright announced that he would spend the day with Maya in the channeling room.

“You can go play under the waterfall,” he told Trucy, “but take Apollo with you.”

“I hope it doesn’t take too long to call up Mia,” Maya sighed. She glanced upwards at the darkening sky. “And if it starts raining, come back right away. We still have Monopoly somewhere around here, even if we’re missing half the board and the money. Oh, or you could play a jigsaw puzzle with Mystic Ami’s vase.”

“Sorry, Trucy,” Mr. Wright said, patting her firmly on the hat. “It’s a locked chamber, and nobody can come in.”

“That’s not true,” Trucy whispered to Apollo. “There’s a secret passageway in the back. But nothing really interesting happens in those sessions.” Apollo didn’t want to know how Trucy knew this fact.

“All ready?” Maya asked, and peered into the chamber room. Apparently at some signal—from the spirits, who knew—she nodded at Mr. Wright. He chuckled and opened the door, Maya already disappearing into the chamber.

“Let’s just stay in today, Trucy. It looks like it’s going to rain,” Apollo pleaded half-heartedly.

“Okay.”

“And you can even be the iron in Mono—okay?” He took a step back. Rarely had Trucy ever so complacently agreed with him, especially for something in his preference. He felt an immeasurable rush of pleasure and confidence, and watched proudly as Maya and Mr. Wright disappeared into the chamber.

Before the door closed, Mr. Wright gazed directly at Apollo. “Remember what I told you.” And with that ambiguous message, the locks clicked into place, and Apollo and Trucy stood outside. Trucy tugged at his sleeve and suddenly they were outside, rapidly walking through the village.

“W-Wait, where are we going?” Apollo stumbled on a few sharp rocks.

“I found a secret clubhouse place the last time I was here,” Trucy said, “when Daddy went to talk to Auntie Mia last time. I wanted to take that pretty boy with the blond hair that I saw once, but I guess you’ll do. I couldn’t find him again, and Maya told me that I shouldn’t tell anyone I saw him.” Apollo always seemed to get passed over for pretty boys. And he really didn’t want to know why Maya had asked Trucy to keep the pretty boy a secret. The Kurain village was apparently more scandalous than he first thought.

More importantly, the name Mia sounded familiar. She was Mr. Wright’s mentor, if he recalled correctly. But, hadn’t she died? He remembered the court case as clear as day, since he had watched it obsessively, the fierce battle of the Legendary Phoenix Wright, defending Maya Fey. The Feys, he remembered, were spirit mediums—but when they went into the chamber, it couldn’t be—

Too late, he realized they had traveled deep into the dirt path. On both sides, the dark forest loomed, the occasional wild bird giving a scream in the dampness. Ancient oak trees stood solemnly over them, faces forming on their rough bitter bark, aged branches reaching out like slender fingers to grab at them. Their overlap of branches hid the heavy gray clouds above them, and Apollo could have sworn he heard the imminent roar of thunder far away. Something about the forest chilled him through his thin shirt and vest.

“It’s just across this bridge,” Trucy said, bouncing up and down. “It’s this really cool cavern! You’ll like it!”

He hesitated at the opening. The faint roar of a river echoed through the high caverns, the carved rock slates jaggedly dripping to the river. Melted gray rock desperately clutched onto the steep sides, rain speckling the brown crusted dirt atop. Atop the cavern, a perilous-looking bridge swung back and forth in the graveyard wind, nearly tipping over to its side a few times.

“This bridge . . .”

“Come on, Polly! We should hurry before Daddy comes back.” Trucy gripped at the ropes, eyes bright. He hesitated, glancing at a dusty sign where white butterflies had delicately landed. Their paper-thin wings fluttered slightly, and they floated away in the wind when he approached.

“’Dusky Bridge,’” he read aloud. Something ticked in his mind. “Trucy, get away from there!”

“Why?” She pouted. “Don’t be such a fuss, Polly.”

“It’s dangerous! Mr. Wright told me to stay away from here,” he said, pulling her back forcefully by the arm.

“But, Polly—!”

“Don’t ‘but Polly’ me!” He took a deep breath. A light rain had begun to splatter on him, and his shoulders felt cold. Even his hair began to limply wilt. “In fact, don’t even call me Polly!”

“But why not? Polly, you’ve been acting really weird lately,” she said, and she tore herself away from his grasp. She stood a few feet away from him, her cloak growing a darker blue from the rain.

“I haven’t,” he said. “Now, let’s just go back and play Monopoly—”

“Is it because you like me?” she blurted.

“N-No!” His face grew long in surprise, one of his bangs wilting so low that he could see its tips in front of his face. “What—No!”

“Because I like you but not in that way,” Trucy said in a small voice, “And I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I haven’t had a boy like me before, not someone like you, Polly. I know it might be hard, but you have to control yourself.”

“What are you even talking about?!” He felt his face grow red, like—like a blushing schoolboy, which was the exact opposite impression he’d been hoping to give.

“I know you’ve had a depraved life,” Trucy continued, “and you’re not very good at being a defense attorney, and you’re really bad at cleaning your apartment—”

“Stop insulting me!” He slicked back his hair. “Look, I don’t like you, okay?”

“Y-you don’t?” Now Trucy looked even more wounded, as if he had kicked a thousand puppies in a row.

“No, wait, I do! But—but not in that way—and—let’s just get out of here.” Apollo stepped forward to grab her hand again, but the gust of bad wind picked up, and he smelled rotting flesh and crawling maggots, when a sudden shriek tore through the wind.

They both looked on the bridge, where a woman was sitting close to the center of the bridge, closer to the other side. Only her back was towards them, and Apollo could barely see her through the thickening rains. She seemed to disappear and reappear with every gust of wind, each dangerous sway of the bridge, long red hair whipping about, white dress growing wet despite her lacy parasol. White butterflies perched on her shoulders and the parasol, fluttering their thin wings. She was carrying a bundle.

A baby’s scream chilled his heart.

“I’m going to help her!” Trucy cried, springing down the muddy road. She nearly slipped as she got to the front of the bridge, but Apollo grabbed her forcefully by both hands and pulled her back. She struggled against him, stepping on his shoes, but he refused to release her thin wrists.

“Polly!” she shouted. “We can’t leave her alone!”

The woman’s cry and the baby’s cry mingled together, and a torn away voice from far away floated towards him. “Help . . . please . . .”

He swallowed. Mr. Wright’s warning still lingered in his head. “We need to go back and get help,” he said, lips dry, “The bridge is too dangerous—”

“It might be too late!” Trucy said, fighting him. “Let me go, Polly, just run for help, and I’ll go to her!”

He was about to argue with her, when her cry came again. “Help . . .” And the baby’s shriek reminded him of an age, so long ago, of a memory that had been long forgotten. The wind had only picked up and he smelled flaking stone and ancient dirt, rain whipping in his eyes.

“Stay here,” he shouted. “I’ll go.” He planted her firmly on the ground and before she had time to argue, he had already started to cross the bridge. With every step, the bridge wavered and buckled under his weight. Gritting his teeth, he slid his hands over the rope, which seemed to burn his hands despite the wetness. The woman didn’t move, but the baby’s cries strengthened. White butterflies scattered in the wind.

“Miss,” he called out, “Are you hurt?” He struggled against the wind, which pushed him back. His feet nearly slipped off the wet planks of wood, and he was nearly crawling by the time he reached her.

“Miss!” He reached for her, but suddenly her head turned ninety degrees, the phantom paleness melting. His heart felt like it had stopped, and he tried to scramble backwards as he saw her eyes—ferocious, blinding white, maggots—and her hands, her pale white hands reaching for his neck, and he tried to take another step back—but there wasn’t another step to take.

The bridge suddenly broke under him, and he dropped through the air, and he thought he maybe saw Trucy’s scared face, and then it was dark.

--

He woke up to a baby’s screaming.

Weakly, he tried to lift his head, but his clothes were too wet and heavy. After a few panting breaths, he managed to sit himself up. The river outside roared, and the rain plastered a wall against the dim opening. Disconcerted, he managed to stand, his hand wet with dirt.

“Hello?” he called out, but there was no answer. Uneasily, he walked into the dark cavern, taking only small steps at a time. His head hurt, he realized, and so did his chest, but especially his side. When he coughed, he realized his fingers were slickly wet with thick blood. When he looked down at himself, blood and dirt clutched to his red and white outfit.

There was a cavern door ahead, and he wasn’t surprised by it at all. It seemed that the door had been carved out of the wall, and when he placed his hand on the carving, he left wet stains behind. It seemed to be of a woman, but in the darkness, he couldn’t tell. Gently, he pushed on the stone door, and it opened easily for him.

The room appeared to sparkle in gold, shining brightly in his eyes. He winced, suddenly able to see the caked blood on his fingers, flaking bright wetly red and clotted black. He coughed, and couldn’t stop, nearly doubling over in pain.

Someone placed a kind hand on his back.

When he looked up, he saw the woman he had saved from the bridge, though her hair was dark and black instead. Her eyes were kind, and she was dressed in an outfit that reminded him of Maya’s. He tried to tell her this, with the delirious desperation of drunks, but another series of coughs sent him hacking, water splattering on the dirt floor.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m a friend of Feenie.”

“Feenie . . .?”

Suddenly, her pale face became red, and she glanced away shyly. “Ah, I mean, Phoenix Wright. I-I’m sorry.”

She was cute, and Apollo wanted to tell her that too, but he felt too weak to even get himself off the floor. With her help, he managed to sit on the slab of rock nearby. At first glance, it appeared the entire room had been painted in gold. But there were really only gold specks embedded on the rock walls, and the crystals on the top glistened against the mysterious light source.

“I’ll do my best,” she said, “on the worst of your wounds.” She fluttered to him, and he felt better already.

“Who are you?” he mumbled, exhausted. It wasn’t everyday that he fell into a river.

“Iris,” she said, looking up and smiling. “And I know who you are, Apollo.”

“I’m not really Apollo,” he told her. “I’m just Apollo.” It made perfect sense to his groggy mind. In the shining room, nothing seemed to be real. Iris laughed, and her hand flying to her mouth shyly.

“Yes,” she said, “I know that, too. I, too, had a past life.” Her eyes were sad. “It’s . . . somewhat cruel, to remember, after you have died.”

“You’re dead?” He wasn’t too surprised. Nothing surprised him. He felt oddly happy. When he looked down on himself, there was a gaping wound on his left side, and he was happy about that, too.

“Unfortunately,” she said. “Though I am not connected to my sister in the past, in this life, I am. And we were one, once.” Her eyes grew sadder.

“Oh.”

“When she died,” she continued, sitting next to him, “I died, as well. But her death was the start of everything. Her rage and anger woke up the dormant memories from long ago. After that, the titans had taken notice, and by then.” She didn’t finish her sentence. Her words were soothing, and he leaned closer to them, feeling foggy.

“I can’t do much,” she said, “I am only a messenger. But I will do my best to heal you. Not with my powers, but with my human self, for that is powerful. Remember, it was a human’s feelings that started time again.”

He didn’t understand, but he promised her grimly that he would remember. The shining gold of the room made his eyes hurt, so he rubbed them with his bloody hands.

“Apollo,” she said, “You need to be more careful. The phoenix only wishes for your well-being. Pay attention to his words.”

“I was,” he said, “and then there was that woman and, the baby . . .” He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember.

“My sister means no good to you,” she warned, “She hates you, and hates the phoenix for being with you, as well as reasons of her human self. She tricked you.”

“Oh,” he said, and took it well.

“There are no good gods,” she said, “and there are no bad ones. But there are real gods, and there are fake ones. Remember.”

He felt like he was able to move, and there was a ticking in his mind that said he could no longer stay in the room. His hand brushed against his wound.

“It looks bad,” she said hastily, “but your internal wounds should be fine, and—” She blushed and looked down at her hands. Her cheeks flushed in a damask rose color. Clearing her throat, she rose from the stone slab, her white robes floating around her like a deep mist. She opened the cavern doors again to a darkness that seemed different than the one he entered from. He stepped forward, uneasy.

She rested her hand against his cheek, and he realized that he was taller than her.

“Tell Feenie,” she said, voice echoing as she and the room seemed to disappear, the brightness fading away, “that I still love him.” When the dazzle had disappeared from his eyes, he could only look forward. Unlike the other cavern, where the drizzle had appeared outside, there was no sound, not even the echo of his footsteps. He couldn’t see in front of him, no matter how closely he put his hands in front of his face, and when he reached out, there were no cold rock to greet him.

But he did hear one sound. A baby’s wail echoed from a distance.

He stumbled over his own feet. There was something about the baby’s cry that echoed deeper into his throbbing heart, penetrating through his brain, wrenching at his hands and feet and drawing him closer. A desperate need welled within him, like bile in his throat, a sick desperation that he hated. Even in the darkness, he could tell where the baby would be, and he soon saw the small white bundle on the floor. Each step he took pulled him closer, until he was almost close enough to see the face.

He heard footsteps in the distance, fading away from him.

When he looked beyond the baby, with its small fists grasping in the air, he could see a figure disappearing into the darkness. It was a woman, slender and pretty, with a familiar magician’s cape decorated in the four coats of cards. A pretty blue silk hat sat on her head, but it wasn’t Trucy—her hair was twisted in twin curls, and she was taller, and he wouldn’t have known her if Mr. Wright hadn’t sat him down on that cold day.

“Mo-” He couldn’t cry out; the word didn’t seem right. But the baby could scream what he could not, and the baby’s wails only grew louder, faster, unhappier, sorrowful, and lonelier, as the figure faded away.

He cried, and suddenly the dark world rushed at him.

--

And sometimes he dreamed.

He loved her, with all his heart. He breathed faster when she came closer, and he needed her for the rest of her life, wanted her to sit by his side, wanted her forever. He promised her any gift in the world, and he would grant her the eyes to see into the distant future, murky thought it was, he granted her the eyes to see the truth beyond the cloak of time. He gave it to her in a shroud, a glittering gold orb encased in black—and it was—beautiful—

When he first woke, he was disoriented, trying to remember the dream that smelled like distant green herbs, and a fertile land, and the smell of crisp lightning and salty tears. He tried to move, but a sharp, electrifying pain ran up and down his side, caustic and burning. Though the room was dim, he could make out scrolls on the walls, and he was lying on a white bed.

Soft sunlight flowed in from the barely open windows.

When Apollo listened intensely, he could hear two voices outside the door that sounded like Maya and Mr. Wright. Their voices intertwined and overlapped, but gently retreated again, like kind waves.

“. . . You should visit more often.”

“You only want me to bring more burgers.”

“Nothing wrong with that!”

“Right.” There was a small pause. “Are you really all right?”

“I’m just—tired. There are so many angry spirits around without Mr. Edgeworth, and . . . Well, it’s like Mia said, right? ‘The world is changing.’”

“It’s changing a little too fast. I didn’t expect Hera to try and trick Apollo so soon.”

“It was my fault. I should have predicted it. But not even Mia’s owls sensed it, and Pearly was too busy at the graveyard.”

“I’m just glad he’s safe.”

“He takes after you, Nick. Miraculously alive!”

“Somehow.” A low chuckle. “It seems Poseidon’s rivers still remember his student.”

“You really were worried, Nick. I haven’t seen you like that for a long time. Not since you regained your memories.”

Their conversation grew softer again until it faded into silence.

“Are you sure he’s the one?” Mr. Wright finally asked, voice low and rumbling.

“Aw, come on, Nick, we both know the answer to that.”

“He hasn’t regained any memories yet. If he was really Apollo, then he’d remember by now.”

Apollo felt his heart jump, but he couldn’t quite place the reason.

“Don’t let your feelings get in the way,” Maya warned, and there was something mature in her tone, that wasn’t there in her joyful banter when he first saw them. “I’ll give you a few more days, Nick, and then I’m going to do the ceremony.”

“Maya—”

“Nick.” There was another short silence, and then a small chuckle. “It’s like we’re on opposite sides now, huh? You’re arguing with your heart, and me with my head. Nothing like the good old days. Remember those?”

“Sometimes I don’t know what I remember.” Mr. Wright had never been this open to him. It was like spying on his vulnerable side, the young brash lawyer in a blue suit who only aspired to defend the just. “Do I remember myself, or do I remember myself from another life?”

“It’s been too long,” Maya said. “The Feys can help you, if you need it. For a cheap price, of course.”

Another chuckle. “You’ve changed.”

“Who, me? Nah, I’m only a channel changer. Just watch me with a remote control!”

“You’ve grown more mature.” A pause. “I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t say stuff like that. You’ll make it out of this alive. You always do.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” Apollo strained to hear more, but their voices only became softer. Eventually it faded to a permanent end, and he heard the door open. He closed his eyes, and felt a presence next to him, someone who smelled like old socks and smoke and grape juice.

“Mr. Wright?” he mumbled, opening his eyes again.

“So you’re awake,” Mr. Wright said, sitting on a chair. “You took quite a fall.”

“What happened?” He felt lost, trying to grapple with the shattered memories. “Trucy. How is she?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “There was a small earthquake that loosened the bridge. But she was fine.”

“Trucy saw her too,” Apollo said, distantly. “There was a girl there.”

“I know.” Mr. Wright chuckled. “There was a girl when I tried to cross the bridge, too. Except she was actually real.”

Mr. Wright really would kick him while he was down. But Apollo gave up on the wry comment born in his mouth, and relaxed against the pillows again. If he didn’t look at Mr. Wright directly, it almost seemed like there were fiery wings sprouting from Mr. Wright’s back. He must have been delusional. The strong herb stenches were wreaking havoc on his senses. That was the only answer he would accept, anyhow.

“What’d you do today?” Apollo mumbled.

“Talked to someone who should have been dead.”

“Oh.” He could barely remember the Fey Channeling Technique in his pain-induced mist. He had never really believed it, but with evidence in his face, he had no choice but to quietly accept it. For now.

“It was hard when she died,” Mr. Wright said, in the distance, already fading. “There’s finality to it. Even five hundred years of life couldn’t prepare me.”

“Right.” He realized his gel hadn’t lasted through the river, and his bangs were sticking to his head. With a few weak huffs, he failed to blow them away from his face.

“Imagine my surprise when she really was with me in spirit.” Mr. Wright chuckled in a low voice. “Imagine my surprise when she was actually a goddess.”

Apollo yawned.

“Everything changed,” he said, “when we regained our memories. We didn’t even realize our own powers until some of us were dead, others kidnapped. And those who remained, we couldn’t do anything except wait.”

“Were a lot of your friends Gods?” Apollo asked. He meant it sarcastically, but his tired tone failed to convey it.

“More than I’d liked,” Mr. Wright said, looking at his hands. He was being surprisingly honest, but there was something in his voice that said he had been bottling these thoughts in himself for years. “And one by one, they disappeared.”

Apollo suddenly felt sorry for Mr. Wright, gingerly and cautiously. At any moment, Mr. Wright might look up, laughing at Apollo’s concern when he was just fine, it was just a practical joke. But Mr. Wright didn’t look up, and Apollo didn’t know what to say. Something lulled in his head, lurching forward suddenly.

“Iris,” he said, with a small yawn, “wanted me to tell you something.”

“Iris?” Mr. Wright’s head snapped up immediately, and his chair nearly flew back as he gripped Apollo’s arm tightly. “You met Iris?”

“That hurts,” Apollo said irritably. His eyelids began to droop despite himself, likely from the dangerous concoction of herbs. “She says that she still loves you.” He smirked triumphantly. “‘Feenie.’”

“. . . I see.” Mr. Wright leaned back on his chair.

“Mr. Wright.” Apollo’s eyes drooped, each eyelid weighing five pounds. “Iris said . . . there weren’t real gods, too. What if . . .” A yawn. “What if I’m not really Apollo?” He wanted to clarify which Apollo, but he was already mostly asleep, the smell of scented herbs drifting over him.

“Then I’d be happy.” Mr. Wright said some more things. He must have talked for a long while, his voice low and raspy, about things that didn’t really matter. He said something about buying dog food for Mr. Edgeworth’s dog that ate enough for three dogs, or rather, enough for three heads of a dog, and about Trucy’s new magic show at the Wonder Bar and how Apollo needed to be there to see it. He caught Mr. Wright’s last sentence before he fell asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he heard, “Apollo.”

--

Apollo would have thought that after falling off a bridge, he might gain more respect from Mr. Wright and Trucy. Instead, Trucy had cried and hugged him so hard that he hobbled back to bed for a few more hours, and Mr. Wright only said something about how he did it better. How could anyone fall off a bridge better? As for Mystic Maya, she only made him sign a waiver.

Even worse, after they returned back to their own town, Trucy had warned him that he should start working for his pay, or else work as her assistant in her magic shows. When he mentioned that a certain sicko student would be interested in the occupation, she suddenly looked as if Apollo had kicked a million puppies in a row. For compensation, Mr. Wright took Trucy to the amusement park—leaving Apollo alone that evening to finish washing the dishes.

It reminded him of the ‘Do you know what your child is doing tonight?’ advertisements that came on the radio. No safer place for him than soaping up the seven years worth of dishes from Mr. Wright and Trucy.

Just as he finished cursing his fate again, there was a small knock on the door. Apollo dried his hands as he fumbled into the office. He left the Leaning Tower of Unwashed Dishes on the counter.

“Welcome to the Wright Anything Agency, where we do anything from magic tricks to defending you in court to begging for money,” he said wearily, pulling open the door.

A woman stood in the door opening, wearing a white marble dress and a familiar gold bracelet on her wrist. She hesitated for another moment, intertwining her hair with her fingers. Her focused eyes gazed into the distance.

Apollo realized he was still wearing the pink “Kiss the Cook” apron that Trucy had gotten him for Worldwide Knit in Public Day.

“Uh, come in.” He wiped his hands on the front of his apron and watched his mother gently float to a sofa, sitting almost awkwardly in between the drapes of colorful scarves scattered on the cushions. For his own part, Apollo had to push off Mr. Wright’s smelly socks (and Mr. Wright didn’t even wear socks, why would they be smelly?) and took off his apron.

They sat awkwardly for a few silence minutes. Apollo was wondering if he should take a magic book from the shelf and show Lamiroir, when she suddenly spoke.

“I’m sorry,” said Thalassa Gramarye.

“Uh, it’s okay,” Apollo said. “I mean, these things happen.” The second after the words left his mouth, he felt like slamming his head on a desk.

“I should have told you sooner,” she said, looking down at her hands. She had pale fingers, long and skeletal as they stretched around her bracelet. “It was just that no time seemed quite right.”

A few droplets of light still quivered outside. Delighted screams of children echoed on their quiet walls, almost like ghost cries from a yesteryear. Apollo found himself swallowing rapidly, almost as if keeping back the threatening tears. He had no idea what to do—how to feel—what to say. But the awkward silence stretched over him, the grandfather clock solemnly announcing the time.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, suddenly, urgently. Her eyes shot upwards, and she nodded slowly, considering the question like melting candy in her mouth.

“Why did you—” He hesitated. “Why did you leave me?”

Apollo realized that was the only question that he shouldn’t have asked her. Her hands trembled as she pressed them together, biting her reddening bottom lip as her eyes darted towards the pile of smelly socks. She seemed to have prepared for the question, by the way her mouth opened slightly, but she closed it again tightly. She swallowed dryly.

“I . . .” She twisted her hands, her words broken. “I wasn’t very strong. I grew up—sheltered. The only daughter. When your father died, I couldn’t—I couldn’t take much more. I couldn’t take care of a child.”

“But you took care of Trucy.” Lamiroir shuddered violently, her eyes cast downward. These were words she heard every night in her sleep, but had hoped when the time came, it wouldn’t be under the unrelenting hurt eyes of her son.

“Zak Gramarye,” she said, softly. “He took care of me. What I did was wrong, but—I couldn’t do anything else.”

Anything else. There was another emotion boiling within him, but all he could feel was despair, regret, unhappiness. He always had hoped if he had a reunion with his parents, it would be joyful. Maybe somewhere in his mind, he was still clutching onto his childhood wish that his parents had just made a mistake in dropping him off—and not a mistake in having him.

“My father,” he said, hesitantly, “Who was he? What was his name? Was he—Damon Gant?”

“No,” she murmured, “he was an entertainer of another name. From the circus, a man who loved birds . . . He died the day his brother woke up in the world.”

Apollo tried to think of more questions, but the words twisted in his mouth, and he could only watch Thalassa twist her hands and fingers, play with her bracelet, watch her pretty face stare down into carpet.

“The bracelet,” he said. “Do . . . Do you want it back?” It was another wrong question, as Thalassa jerked back, like an injured bird. She gazed curiously at his wrist.

“No,” Leto said, “It is yours. I gave it—to my son.” It seemed to be a weak acknowledgment, as Thalassa’s eyes darted away. “It has powers. That you have—inherited from me.”

They fell into another fitful silence, full of unspoken words. Apollo knew their conversation was running out, not for lack of topics, but lack of familiarity. Though she was only sitting across from him, he knew that he could not reach over to touch her. If he tried, he would only feel the sofa and the scarves and the cushion. But there was one more question that he needed to ask, one more question that he shouldn’t ask.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked, urgently. “When you first regained your memories?” And the clock ticked in the corridor. Thalassa’s eyes widened, but lowered again. It seemed like she had expected all the questions, but still felt pain whenever she answered them.

“I was afraid,” she said softly. “The truth is hard to swallow. It’s hard to accept it, even when you know that you need to tell them someday . . . “

Apollo stared at his hands.

“Lies are easier to believe,” she said softly, hesitantly.

“But justice isn’t based on lies,” he said, just as softly. There was nothing more he could say, so they sat in another pit of silence. No real thoughts formed in his head, but a pit of emotions already became embroiled in his stomach, and his eyes were heavy.

“I will go,” she said, standing up. Her eyes did not sparkle, and her mouth did not laugh, not like in the picture. She reached out and gently touched Apollo on the head. He did not move. “I gave birth to you on an island, far away—and I knew you were a treasure, when I first saw you. You were beautiful.”

When he looked up, Lamiroir gazed mournfully upon him. “You’ve grown,” she said.

And he was the son of a forgotten woman once more.

--

“Polly! We didn’t bring back any souvenirs for you,” Trucy said, hopping through the door excitedly, “because we’re in hard times now, but I picked up a rock for you!”

He didn’t say anything.

“Polly?” She perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, curiously, like a puppy who couldn’t understand words. “Hey, Polly, are you okay? Did you eat my plastic spaghetti? Because it wasn’t on the sofa.”

It was probably dropped to the floor in his haste.

“If you did, maybe we should take you to a hospital,” Trucy said in a small voice, growing smaller every second, “because plastic isn’t good for your health.”

“Trucy, go upstairs and clean up.” Mr. Wright walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a small container of kiwi-lime delight. He popped the lid into the trash bin, and it fell with a clatter.

“. . . Okay.” Trucy placed something on the counter and left, and Apollo watched her cape swish as she left the room. It reminded him of his dream, when he had fallen off the bridge, a dream that he couldn’t quite place, but could never misplace.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Wright leaned against the refrigerator, filled with eccentric magnets that clipped bill notices and Trucy’s crayon stick-figure drawings. Apollo removed the dish-washing gloves from his hands, slapping them wetly against the counter.

“You set it up, didn’t you,” he said, directly looking at Mr. Wright in the eyes. It had been a long time since he’d been so angry, anger that he hadn’t even felt when talking to Lamiroir.

“Yes,” Mr. Wright said. “You needed to talk to her.”

“Keep out of my business!” Apollo scowled. “Just because you know everything about me doesn’t mean that I want you interfering in it!”

The kitchen light flickered. It had already grown dark outside, like someone had thrown black paint over their windows. The distant light of their neighbors twinkled like faraway stars. The soft chattering of people faded in and out, bursting into riotous laughter in the quiet streets.

“Mr. Wright,” Apollo said, “I’m not Apollo.”

“But you are.”

“No.” Apollo shook his head slowly, trying to form his thoughts. “No, you have the wrong person. Especially after all I’ve seen, I know that I can’t be—him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I still don’t get it,” he said. “I still don’t get what the titans have to do with yesterday’s tidal wave in Borginia, and I don’t get why there was a woman on the bridge, and I don’t get why Trucy doesn’t remember, either, and why you and the dead do.”

“. . . I guess it’s time.” Mr. Wright pressed the pedal on the trash bin again, and dropped his empty container and spoon. The plastic softly rustled before the lid closed with finality. “The world is ending soon.”

“Right.” Apollo had heard this story before, except it had been in all of Trucy’s cheap novels that he never read willingly. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“The land, the sea, the underworld. They were the world.” Mr. Wright idly toyed with one of Trucy’s drawings, the one where Apollo’s hair had been exaggerated and Trucy’s hat exaggerated and Mr. Wright surprisingly accurate in crayon, with a house behind them. “But with Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades taken by the Titans . . .”

“Uh, wait.” Apollo had been with Mr. Wright up to the ‘the.’ “They were taken?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Their human selves, when their memories still had remained semi-dormant. When I caught on to their tricks, after seven years of searching, I finally managed to place Poseidon in where I thought would be safe. But with my failure, there’s no choice. We need you, Apollo.”

“Right.” Apollo had heard this story before, except it had been in all of Trucy’s Steel Samurais and Pink Princesses and Zappy Samurais DVDs.

“They took Zeus.” Mr. Wright chuckled in a low voice. “I never thought there’d be the day I’d be trying to rescue my enemy.”

“Zeus, my father.” Apollo poked his forehead. “But there’s a contradiction.”

“Oh?”

“I asked Lamiroir,” he said, slamming his hands on the counter. “And she said that my father wasn’t Damon Gant.”

Mr. Wright waited patiently.

“And, that, uh,” Apollo said, bangs suddenly drooping, “That’s a contradiction, because you said he was my father. And he wasn’t. I think Lamiroir would know best.”

“There’s more than one definition of father.” He tilted his head back, the bad kitchen light illuminating him once more, until Apollo couldn’t tell if he was looking at a phoenix or at Phoenix Wright, former defense attorney. Apollo didn’t understand, but he decided to leave Mr. Wright to his own tricks. He had a more important matter to prove.

“Though I’d see how someone like you could get confused,” Mr. Wright was saying, “with Artemis.”

“Mr. Wright!” Apollo slammed down his hands again. They began to throb. “Like I said, I’m not Apollo! Listen to me!”

“Then if you’re not Apollo,” Mr. Wright said, head tilted upwards, “Who is?”

“Everybody’s made a big mistake,” he said, “and I bet it’s just because I was named Apollo. I mean, someone like—someone like—” He tried to think about what he had research about his apparently former life in Wikipedia. Musically talented with blond hair—well, he only knew one other person like that, but it couldn’t be. Could it?

“What about Prosecutor Gavin?”

“Him?” Mr. Wright scratched his chin. He seemed suddenly attentive on the worn-out dish towel thrown on the counter.

“He plays a guitar! That’s—that’s a little bit like a lyre.” He struggled to find his argument. “And he’s blond and pretty—well, you know what I mean. And he has all these worshippers, right? He’s already considered a god.”

“A rock god is something different,” Mr. Wright said. There was something unrecognizable in his eyes.

“He’s a better fit for Apollo than I ever could be,” Apollo said. “I don’t have strange dreams. Everybody’s just targeting me because you just pay attention to me, and—”

He stopped. A haunting black thought played in his head, the tune that he had always heard in his blood, and he swallowed a few times before his mouth was damp enough to say it. He remembered that cell phone call, and at the Kurain Village, where despite Mr. Wright’s forcefulness in him coming, he hadn’t actually done anything, and the clues clicked together in a horrifying picture.

“Mr. Wright,” he said. “Have you been—Am I—just a decoy?”

Mr. Wright didn’t look him in the eye.

“For—Prosecutor Gavin? The real Apollo?” He stepped back. “Mr. Wright?”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Wright said.

He took another step back, but ran into the counter. When his hands grasped around, all he could feel was something cold and smooth under his palm. He gripped it, and he was about to throw it at something—anything—anybody—but suddenly his hand went limp. He no longer felt angry. He was just a nameless man.

“I’m leaving,” he mumbled, rolling down his sleeves. When he shuffled out of the kitchen, he made sure not to touch Mr. Wright, and grabbed his jacket with so much force that it nearly knocked down the dummy box. He slammed the door behind him, his face flushed and something prickling in his eyes. When he finally breathed in his first full breath of fresh air, two streets away, he realized that he couldn’t walk anymore.

He sat on the sidewalk, and tried his best not to look strange in the middle of the street. He felt too hot when the street air was frigid cold, and he covered his face and tried to get a hold on himself. Something dropped out of his hand when he opened it to wipe his eyes. Sniffling, he began to pat the cold, wet stone, until he found it.

Under the poor flickering light of a diner’s store, he could see it was a fake rock, bought at carnivals. This one shone dully in embedded gold, price tag still hanging off the smooth surface lightly. He shuddered, suddenly, and slipped the rock in his pocket. Still wiping his eyes and nose, he shouldered himself. The nameless man began to trudge home.

In the distance, he heard a baby’s shrieking wail.

--

And sometimes he dreamt.

She broke his heart, refusing to love him, and his heart broke and he broke her, and nobody would believe her truths, only sucking in the black lies into their hearts, and the golden glittering orb would forever remain hidden in the shroud. Nobody would listen to her prophecies. Nobody would listen to truths, believing in only in lies. That was her curse.

That was their curse.