Colors

My angsty way of working out what my muse-bunnies inflict upon me. The POV changes with each story, even though they might be in first person. Characters might be OOC, but then, I haven't actually played all the games. Some of the stories are purposely ambiguous, so if you can't decide who it's supposed to be, I did it on purpose just to torment you. Pick whichever character you think it fits. I don't own Suikoden, or even a copy of the game, much to my sorrow. (:sob:) Oh well, on with the words!

Spoiler Alert! This may be a spoiler if you haven't passed a certain point in SI, having to do with Odessa.

The Color of a Sword:

I wake with a start from a dream, and reach for my sword. I can't remember what the dream was about, but I know it was a dream of you. I need the comfort of my sword, lying next to the bed. I grasp the hilt and draw it to me, running my fingers over the familiar blade. The room is dark, too dark to see, but I don't need to see it to read the markings etched into it.

To the casual observer, or to a stranger, there would be nothing remarkable about this sword. Silver in color, made of good steel, it would simply seem to be a replaceable weapon with a meaningless word marked on it.

To me, that word is far from meaningless. To me, that word means everything. Nor do I see this sword as merely a weapon. To me it is a symbol, a memory, and the representation of you.

I close my eyes against the suffocating darkness, feeling the tears welling against my lashes. How long has it been since I lost you? Too long, and not long enough. They say time heals all wounds, dulls all pain. Well, I suppose that's true enough. I no longer feel the gut-wrenching, mind-numbing agony I did when they told me how you had died. I no longer feel like screaming just remembering that I was not there to say goodbye. Instead, it is a stab through the heart, a mere ache of loss that never leaves. During the day, I can laugh and joke, pretending that nothing is wrong. But during the night…that is when I cannot deny my grief.

I am able, sometimes, to remember you with a fond smile. I don't break down in tears at the mere mention of you. But then, so few mention your name, anymore. Almost everybody has forgotten you, even though it was you who started the movement. Your name, your deeds…have been eclipsed by his. Not that I blame him, anymore. I realized, eventually, that someone had to take up where you left off. He did a good job, accomplishing far more than anyone would have guessed a child could have done. And by the time he was done, he had gone through more hell than anyone deserves.

The few people who remember you, who fought with you, do not mention your name to me. They won't even say it where there's a possibility it might come back to my ears. They think they are doing me a kindness. I suppose, perhaps they are. But if your name is all I can have of you, then I would gladly take that, despite the pain. Like a child who puts his hands into the fire to touch the "pretties," even though he will get burned, I can't seem to stop.

You were my reason for fighting, my purpose for being. You never wanted to hear me say that. Maybe you knew, or suspected, what would happen to me if you died. I loved you so much, more than anything else in this world. That's why…that's why…I thought it was a foolish tradition, before I met you. Something for heroes in ballads to do, not me. But you, with your fire and your fight, you made me believe again. So I engraved your name on my blade, to remind me whenever I drew it just what I was fighting for.

I still fight for you, you know. We won your war, but there are other wars just like it to be fought. I fight for the same reasons…for justice, for truth, for hope…for love. Perhaps our love had no chance, but I would like for others to have what we lost. For all the young couples, like Tengaar and Hix; and the older couples, like Alex and Hilda…it's for them that I fight. I don't want anyone else to suffer the loss that I did.

As I run my fingers over your name, it seems I can almost see you, standing in front of me. Your red hair is down, and your bright blue eyes are looking straight at me. You smile, and I can't help smiling back. It is more than just your physical beauty that drew me to you. You had a spirit that nothing could quench. You put fire into even the coldest rocks. Your eyes, your smile…they bewitched and entranced me. And your voice…even ordinary topics were made exciting when you spoke. How could people not be swayed, when you spoke of overthrowing a decaying government?

Sometimes I think perhaps it was best, that I was not there are the end. My last memory of you is when you were smiling, in command of the situation. I don't want to know if you lost your beauty at the end. I don't think I could have borne listening to that musical voice fail. I know you never lost your generous spirit. Your last request was to keep your movement, your army, headed towards the goal. And you gave me words, too. Even at your death, you thought of others.

Tell Flik…if you ever see him again, that his kindness always saw me through hard times…

My kindness? You were the strong, kind one, not I. But it touched me: that I had meant something to you. I never saw your tears, but perhaps I dried them, all the same.

There is no one here to dry my tears, now. I could change that, if I chose, of course. There are any number of girls who would like to take your place. Some of them are very persistent. But not one of them could ever be one tenth of the woman you were. Perhaps my mind has made you greater over time than you really were, because I have yet to meet any woman who is your equal, let alone your superior. It would be unfair of me to lead any girl on, letting her think I could love her, when I would be forever comparing her to you. Perhaps, in time…in a time far into the future, it might be possible.

They tell me I should move on. Three years is long enough to mourn what is lost. They don't understand, and I don't bother to explain it to them. If I move on from you, you who are my purpose, what would that leave me? I would be either a broken shell of a man, staring blankly at the world around him and not caring one bit what was happening, or I would revert to a childish, self-centered, passionate warrior with far too hot a temper and too fallow a mind. You took that hot-headed adolescent and made him into an honorable fighter. You took a name-less warrior, and transformed him into a legend. It was because you thought I could be great, that I became so. I only regret that you did not live to see what you had wrought in me.

My tears have dried on my cheeks, and my mind has quieted. I am once again at peace in my soul. Though it is often you that throws me into turmoil, it is always you who calms me again. Knowing I will be able to fall back to sleep, now, I bring my sword to my lips, and kiss it. This is as close as I can come to kissing you, by showing a sentimental affection for my symbol of you. I set the blade down again, and lay back on my pillows. As I close my eyes, I whisper, "Goodnight, Odessa."