The rotten corpses are laughing
It was raining, like the heaven wanted to cry at the sight of the world.
He was standing in midst of rotten corpses, a far cry of the proud living being they used to be.
Used to be, before the war.
Nobody was alive anymore, not the corpses and not the beings still standing.
Heart beating, like mocking the dead for their failure.
He was standing still, let himself be soaked.
Maybe it will wash all this pain away.
He don't know how long he stands there.
Time is nothing that matters anymore. You live through your enemy's who fall to your sword.
Every enemy is one more delay, one more chance before the ultimate end.
He thinks he is no better than the corpses.
Maybe he should just lay down between them, it wouldn't make a difference, he is sure.
His light in life, is long gone, a casualty of war, they say.
Just another casualty, not worth remembering the name.
Maybe he is also another casualty.
It would be fitting.
His legs are shaking, he is to tired to stand any longer.
He has to make a choice.
He looks at the ground.
The hollow black eyes that meets his gaze greets him. Stiff lips mocking him.
Why did you have to kill me, when you also want to die? The eyes says.
He doesn't know.
Why are you still fighting, if you wan't to die? The lips ask.
He doesn't know.
Why do you wan't to die here, unhonored, and not in battle? The head shouts.
He doesn't know.
The lips smiles.
Then, why are you still standing?
He doesn't know.
His legs give away and he hear the roaring laughs of the bodies violating his ears.
They are thrilled and openly offer to join them.
His body is shaking in defeat.
He doesn't want to fight anymore.
He looks up into the sky, the raindrops pouring down his face.
It feels like he is crying, but he knows though he isn't able to.
Another one of the things he had forgotten.
Like her smile about the sun.
Her hair a shiny remember of live.
Her laugh a truthful moment of happiness.
Gone.
He submits to the malicious eyes who are glancing in perverse delight.
Just as he was to lie down, a bright light catches his sight. He has to narrow his eyes but can't move his eyes away.
The light is coming his way, he notices.
The light becomes a figure and soon a glimmering red adds to the shiny silver.
In the midst of black and grey and shadows of the otherworld there are this brilliant colors blinding him and all he can think is:
How beautiful.
The figure comes closer and he sees the gritted teeth, the tired and mallow look of his eyes, the blood that covers his white rags and the soiled silver hair.
He sees it all, and all he cant think is: How beautiful.
„Oi! What are you doing? Are you wounded?"
The person says with an angry voice and he jolts.
He clears his throat watching every detail of the soldiers face.
„N-no." He pauses. „I'm fine."
Is he?
He doesn't know.
The brows furrow more, a maddening expression on his dazzling face.
„The why the fuck are you sitting there? Do you wan't to die? If so than you're mocking the ones who didn't, but died regardless!"
He stares into this red abyss, that burns steadily, unwavering, like a fire.
He knows him. Of course he does.
Everybody knows him.
The feared god of death.
The inhuman being, the Shiroyasha. „Why do you care?"
He finally asks.
All his senses intent, craving the answer.
He needs to know.
He dreaded to know.
Under his gaze, all the heavy strain slackened, till nothing but weariness and despair remains.
„Because you are alive."
He answered honest, whispering, as if afraid that it was a lie.
That he was in fact already dead.
He watched this man, this demon, who was just as fragile as himself.
Who was as much craving for a response like himself.
Who was needing a sign of live to verify his own.
Because you are alive.
Desolation trails across his face and he turns, ready to leave.
Ready to search for another human being that survived and could give him some of the all-to-much required hope.
Or maybe ready to give into the despair, ready to submit to the laughing rotten heads, with the black eyes and stiff lips.
Because you are alive.
Maybe he was.
Maybe if somebody like this man said this he could believe it himself.
Maybe if he said it to this brave man, he will believe it too.
He slowly rises to his feet mobilizing every ounce of strength left. The other halts, watching in disbelieve as he steps towards him.
„Then let's go."
He says.
He wants to try to be brave like this man.
He could fail, but this beautiful man, with red and silver deserved his trying.
Deserved, to be told that there is hope, that there is live, that they still breath.
Maybe that is enough.
Enough reason for him to live along. And maybe it is for this man, too.
The man's corner of the lips lifts the tiniest bit, a promise of a smile.
A real smile, not like the dead's perverse smirk, and it is this smile that gave him enough courage to take the next step.
And the step after that.
„I'm Hijikata."
He says while they are walking through thousands and thousands of corpses, the end of the battlefield nowhere in sight.
„Gintoki."
He answers, his voice not so frail anymore.
In the midst of all the death a tiny sound escapes his lips, the minorest part of amusement in it, echoing loud in the silence.
Silver hour.
How fitting.