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Land of the Setting Sun

It was habit; still, months after his death, Light had not slept in a bed. He had taken to falling asleep in armchairs beside large windows, and it seemed that if he tried hard enough, he could hear bells whenever it rained.

But this day was not a rainy one. Light shifted in his restless sleep, and even while the sky outside remained shadowed in night, the boy-man started, and woke. A faint image of a hunched figure in white danced across his eyes before they adjusted to the darkness, but the vision faded. He had been dreaming again.

Alert, he yet remained motionless in the chair. Silently, his eyes absorbed the deep blue streaks of sky that were now shifting in color towards that of soft pinks and oranges. The sun was rising, and with it, the day.

Now, at the end of things, Light didn't know who he was. It was a thought that had never before penetrated his mind, and it terrified him, not knowing. For years, people had told him who he was, had expected him to be someone--and that was the name he had draped, and then folded over himself--the name of son, student, man.

But that day, everything had changed. There was no expectation of him then, and so, he had had no identity.

"Ever since you were born, have you told a truth even once?"

He had taken upon himself the name of God, but where had that led him? What was a god without someone who knew him, or someone who--loved him?

But Light put these thoughts aside, shelving them away amid books that had collected dust and slowly become things forgotten. And not until the sun was falling another day, did he remember these things again.

.O.

The sky was streaked with fire, its flames dancing capriciously, as though to tease him--to scorn his attempts, his efforts to become a god. The earth had known his plans, and at the last moment, had tossed its head, prideful, and looked away.

Yet, Light paid no attention to the falling sun, except to turn his head from the dying light that struggled to resist the night. The light raced against time--a race that ended the same way with every sunset, with every covering of darkness.

But it was not yet--and the boy-man still raced on. It hurts, he thought silently, even as he struggled against the cool evening air.

As he raced on, his breath caught in his throat, and he emitted a cry of soft horror, a cry of failure and of loss. Staggering into a deserted building, he collapsed, finally, in a stairway that smelt of cold metal and lifelessness.

It was then, the thoughts had returned to him, and the fear: who was he? He still did not know, but this time, the ignorance--it gave him peace. For he was tired of thought, and weary of the continual racing and lying and living.

And for a moment, as he lay there upon the cold, stone stairs, he thought he was dreaming. The figure that always accompanied him in his dreams--that always stood just too far away--stood before him now, watching him with bright, large eyes. And Light smiled; the pain did not sting so much now, was more a dull ache pulsing softly behind his eyes.

And bells rang solemnly, a single toll--and the light from the windows grew faint, then fell away slowly, into the night.