Disclaimer:
Nope, I don't own DNAngel.
Warnings:
A bit of language (it's just 1 word) and the detrimental effects of
re-editing.
"The last day of
the old year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days,
which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration,
but never our love."
-Anne's
House of Dreams, by Lucy Maud Montgomery
First Snow
He was falling. He did not know how or why, nor the number of seconds that fluttered by him; he only held the understanding that his body was not merely suspended in space, but plummeting downwards, headfirst into the chasm. He could feel it, sense the rush air of air whistle through his ears as it surged past – the impending doom creeping slowly upwards, whispering the same phrase time after time, reminding him of the inevitability bound to him by logic.
You can't fall forever.
It was not long before he became aware of its presence watching him as he plunged deeper into the gorge – the faint traces of despair, frigid and clammy against his neck, that he recognized as his own, yet not unique to him alone. A shared emotion, so to speak. It hovered closer to him, a faint smile distorting its elegant features. The sun itself had been caught in its eyes and shaped into the narrow slits of a feline's unwavering stare; the cheekbones high, but not lofty, complimenting the greater whole that it was a but a part of; a smoothly bridged nose, calling to mind housewives' tales of ancient beauty; its forehead concealed by numerous strands, fair and golden, with a single stand trailing down farther than the rest, past its face, almost awkwardly so, but the creature carried it with such a grace that it seemed natural.
A work of art.
It was not in any state of unease or frenzy, simply accompanying him till he arrived in the morbid embrace of the earth, not dropping – no, it was above that. It was following him of its own free will, emanating the detached sympathy of any spectator witness to a tragedy. And somehow the boy had mistaken it as something more.
He was not one to ask for help, for assistance was something that was seldom offered as well as something that he rarely required. Yet now, as he stared death in the eye, he faltered. Nothing spectacular had happened. When one's demise grew imminent, life did not flash by involuntarily, it was a deliberate recollection, an essential reexamination of the span of their existence in the delirious and seemingly final hope that something significant had occurred, an event that people would remember. The small consolation that they would remain in memory.
Genius. Prodigy. Wiz-kid. Phenomenon.
They had said it, but they hadn't meant it. Thousands had done what he had done in this world of billions, and yet it only incited envy simply because it did nothing to facilitate the lives of others – it merely promulgated superiority. They wouldn't be able to forget fast enough. He needed to do something more, be someone more.
He couldn't die, not yet.
He extended his hand towards the creature. A silent plea for aid. For salvation. Subconscious and vulgar.
It took notice of this gesture, and as it turned toward him, he realized it personified a faultless imitation of the ideal so desired of the human species. Its lanky frame possessed a slight build that seemed neither strained nor ostentatious, its skin possessing a luster reminiscent of the moon itself. It was this perfection that made its humanity impossible. It was not a man.
It spoke calmly, its voice cool, iced slightly round the edges by an odd contempt – inexplicable, yet fully understandable. "I will not save you of my own will, because to do so would be to save myself. And unlike you, I am confident of the fact that I am in no need of deliverance."
What is it talking about?
"But should you ask it, I shall comply, for to do otherwise would be to deny myself, because you are me, and I love myself. Please know, Hikari-sama, that to me you are everything."
I am everything?
"You are much more than that."
He stretched out his fingers, straining them as they reached out. He no longer asked; he demanded. It was his right. He didn't know why, but his conviction in this truth was unshakeable.
"By taking my hand you accept my services and grant me freedom, the liberty to do as I please so long as it is in your interests. You admit to your weaknesses and agree to take me as your strength."
Childhood memories reemerged; warnings of a curse from a man without a face – his dying words. He could see his reflection in the man's glassy eyes before they closed for eternity. Then, his small body had been ushered to and fro, slipped into a black suit, made to stand with group of people dressed in ebony; some cried, other merely stood, stone-faced and frozen. He had wondered if they would break if he pushed them over. He could discern their voices under the chant of a man in a long flowing robe, white with a black cross.
We gather here today…
Is his tie straight?
Yeah.
Poor kid, he doesn't even know, does he?
He doesn't even know.
Not to grieve…Look at him standing there in front of his grave, he's got his fingers folded.
They're so small.
He looks like an angel.
A cherub, you mean.
Whatever.
But to celebrate his life…What about her?
She died in childbirth.
I guess he couldn't wait.
Selfish bastard.
Tell me about it.
He will always be with us.
The boy didn't believe in inane superstitions. His fingers grasped the mysterious creature's. It smiled sweetly in return.
"I am Krad, created by your ancestors to fulfill the necessity they felt to play gods. And you are?"
Hiwatari…Satoshi…It frowned in dissatisfaction at the mention of this. "So you have forsaken your clan's name. Very well." Suddenly, white wings sprung from its back, luminous in this world without light, glowing of its own accord. No wonder it couldn't be a man. It was an angel.
"Satoshi-sama, I am forever in your debt."
That was how he had stepped into the storm.
Satoshi shot up from his bed, beads of sweat sliding past the sides of his temple, down, down, till they reached his neck where they would culminate into drops and collide with the collar of his night clothes. He allowed one hand to rest in front of his gaze momentarily, studying the crevices and calluses that marred its surface, then let it run through his pale locks as he endeavored to bring himself back to the world of the living.
That had been a year ago. One year ago, he had wavered at the breach of death. Now, reality and illusion had melded together till no distinction remained – two sides of a coin disfigured into a faultless sphere. But it didn't matter to him. Given the same opportunity, he would not waste it again.
He hugged his arms to himself. "It's cold."
Author's Note: Here it is, re-edited, revamped, and practically the same. Hate it, like it, just review it.