Author's Note:
Just the rambles of a teen.
[Insert Appropriate Disclaimer here]
It's over. My quest is finally over.
The Final Needle glows feebly in the suffocating gloom.
Everything that I have prepared for has led to this one breath-taking moment, yet I feel so conflicted. Time almost seems to have exponentially accelerated my aging process. My mind feels alien and strange to me, as if I really am an old man in a child's body.
I wouldn't be surprised. I have learned much, but I have also sacrificed much in return. It is a strangely humbling, yet bittersweet feeling.
I struggle to place a name to my elusive emotions.
Hollow.
Empty.
Heavy. Definitely heavy. The responsibility weighing on my weary shoulders is about to be relieved, but it has been replaced by another burden just as grave.
I breathe in deeply. The scorching stench of charred flesh stings my nose. My vision blurs, so I blink, but my raw throat burns uncomfortably with the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood.
My chest tightens painfully.
Claus is dead. My brother's corpse rests in my arms. His eyes are closed, and he looks strangely at peace.
I don't cry. I don't speak.
I remain silent.
What words can I say to a dead person?
Bodies can't see. Bodies can't hear. My brother is never going to laugh again, never going to smile, never going to breathe. What had once made this husk of a living shell so precious to me is no longer present. Claus is gone.
I sound cold, but such is the truth. What is real does not equate to what I desire, and deluding myself will not change anything. I must accept reality and move on.
My calm reasoning surprises me. I'm no longer the crybaby who bawled over my mother's grave...yet I don't feel like a thirteen-year-old hero either.
Hero. I roll that word in my mouth. It feels clunky, awkward, and unfitting. That word doesn't describe me at all.
A hero is someone selfless. A hero protects the people he cherishes and keeps them safe from harm.
But suffering and sorrow are the only gifts I have bestowed upon my loved ones. Everyone I love is either dead or fractured beyond repair. I am no hero. That honor should go to greater men and women who are much more deserving of that title than I.
A gentle touch electrifies my shoulder, and I jolt in shock. My father's warm hand has firmly rested itself against my frozen skin. Then a wet dog nose pokes itself into my hand with a low whimper, and Boney looks up with sad eyes. As steady as always, Duster reassuringly grips my other hand tightly, promising never to let go.
Then Kumatora - stubborn, strong, I-don't-give-one-shit-about-feelings Kumatora - finally speaks.
"Whatever happens, we'll be at your side." Her hard, diamond eyes finally seem to soften. "Always."
I am not alone after all.
The reawakening emotions suddenly wash over me, and I choke back a sob. Warmth fills my heart in the brief reprieve of cold.
But I cannot cry. Not yet. There is still something left to finish.
Slowly, but surely, I step forward with purpose. My knees buckle, my shoulders shake. As if it was meant to be, the Final Needle stands before me, flickering like an ethereal candle in the dying light.
For just a brief moment, I hesitate. Perhaps I am right. Perhaps I am no hero.
But it couldn't hurt to act out the part just this once. Because in hindsight, my quest has never really come to an end.
It has only just begun.
I close my eyes and pull.