THE HOLLOW MEN

AUTHOR: The X-Piig

WARNINGS: Angst, animeverse, angst, short chapters, angst, barely-there shounen-ai, angst, veritable mishmash of religious ideals, angst, general ambiguity, angst, character death, angst, depiction of mental decay, angst, and most likely a spoiler or two.

SUMMARY: "Shape without form, shade without color, paralyzed force, gesture without motion."

NOTES: As the title implies, this piece was inspired by T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men", which is one of my favourite poems, despite the fact I don't agree with a word of it. The inspiration comes mostly from his images (good lord, but Eliot's good at images), though there are a few references to the poem's actual meaning here and there. Basically, whenever it talks about faith.

I'm writing this for my Writing 12 class – being, of course, the Best Class Ever, as I'm basically getting grades for doing what I'd usually be doing to AVOID homework. It's a series of five glimpses into Vash's mind over the span of his inevitably long life. Each one is based on one of the five passages of "Hollow Men", etc etc. Most of it is addressed to Wolfwood. It's more of a dramatic monologue or Matt Good -style manifesto, all talk and no action. Call it an experiment in fusing poetry and prose.

Reviews and constructive criticism appreciated. Flames will cause me to chew my Teddy Grahams in a slightly more offended manner.

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So...

I

I sit with you in the middle of the desert. This vast expanse of desolation lies before us, behind us, beside us. You have travelled with me and sought this useless body when it didn't want to be found. Any man would be grateful for the effort you have made. I, for the moment, am grateful and content, more satisfied by your presence at my side than I would ever expect or admit. At least in that respect we are on the same page.

Your life seems so fleeting sometimes. Human passions fuel their hearts for a few short years then carry them back down to the dust. It's all you can do to pretend those years mean something. I was half-right when I assumed you gained purpose from your God, your work and the children you protect. Because each of those are facets of something greater than a cross or a building – your Faith.

The desert creeps up our legs and into our mouths, trying to devour us alive. This planet can make you feel so powerless. You talk, as if words can stave off the sand's hunger for another few hours. The shape of your Faith is drawn out in terms you desperately hope I will not understand, wanting to make itself heard yet wary of losing potency through expression. You give your Faith an image and a name you gleaned from that Book of yours.

"Eden," you say, "is far from here."

I have never borne witness to this honesty in you before, and I suspect I will never do so again. The burden of your doubts and ecstasies become the verdant imagery of your Eden. There is water there, clear over beds of age-smoothed rocks, all diligently observed by a host of leaning trees. I am flattered to be included in this pristine vision of yours, though flattery doesn't seem to suit the situation. It is superficial when we are not. The surface betrays none of the intimacy of having YOUR vision in MY head. I didn't realize mere words could feel this searching or this close. Intimate. Close. Words we should not use in such as harsh world, but do.

And why not? Would you spend your whole life waiting to enter Eden? Maybe that Faith I admire is no more than a sense of duty, and you are as hollow as I am. I'd never know. Friend, I only know as much as you tell me. Friend, tomorrow you could die and I would never know more of you than I do now. So eat, so drink, so tell me Eden is Faith and not just waiting. You will die and I will just keep walking. I will miss you, and I do not envy the peace of escape your mortality will inevitably provide.

But that PASSION.

Extend a length of spider's silk over iles of terrain and you will have an accurate representation of my life – long and resilient, but only substantial to the most dedicated onlooker. Your life is the web it would have made, compact and mesmerising. You burn brightly while I lie here smouldering. Images of heat in the middle of the night. Here is the paradox of my ideals: that I wish immortality upon humans while acknowledging the beauty in the brevity of their lives.

Perhaps I am more like my brother than I would like to think. He too was fond of death and insect analogies.

A woman in Inepril lost hope because her son was dying and the cavalry had left town with a suitcase and a medical bag. How can I have hope when everyone I know is dying and even the cavalry can't help? My ideals are to my weariness as your Faith is to yours. It's formula, it's logic: you see God where I see Her. But Faith can carry you until you fall, then grant you peace in Eden, while my ideals lead me in circles. So how long before I fall out of orbit, before I waver? I hate this doubt.

Human, my brother and I are more lost than you ever will be. But friend, that burden of yours is nothing more than the weight of ammunition. You can still, and always, drop it and find your way again, and remember why you carried it in the first place. You will know then what I know, that adults are just children with dangerous toys.

For now, though, remain blind to this truth. You're not ready to see. You are aware that something is missing, yet refuse to consider what it may be. You and I are hollow for different reasons. I will miss you when you're gone.

So...