Toward the Sun
He is reminded of Icarus: The boy with wings of wax and feathers. The boy who recklessly tried to touch the sun, never considering that he could fall.
And he thinks of the story Master Eraqus told them many years ago, of a very wise man that had saved many lives with his words. A man who had said once that,
"If all misfortunes were laid in one common heap whence everyone must take an equal portion, most people would be contented to take their own and depart."
He'd honestly never paid the story much attention. To him, it had always seemed irreverent; an old dead man pushing his beliefs on people as if he knew what he was talking about, as if he knew exactly what was wrong with them, like they were so easy to figure out. That type of scrutiny never set well with him. It seemed too… cold.
Lately, however, the words seem to reverberate through his head, ringing in his ears like church bells in the early morning as he skirts the boundary of his tiny world. ("Is this even a world? It's so small. Where am I again? How long have I been sleeping here?")
He drags cerulean irises across the expanse of the area. Tall, lush trees grow with coiled vines trailing up their thick trunks like the arms of lovers, grasping at each other tenderly in the heat of passion. His eyes meet the figure that, for a moment, he is sure is his own reflection.
The boy, so much like himself, stands only meters away. He gazes out into the sunbathed ocean. Chewing on his bottom lip, face pensive, his nimble fingers twirl the star shaped pendant that hangs from his jacket front absentmindedly.
"Roxas,"
Ven's voice sounds foreign in his ears, lower and more serious than he remembers it.
The blonde doppelganger's eyes do not leave the ocean. Nor do they stray from the perpetual sunset far beyond it, though his face breaks into the slightest hint of a smile.
The older boy thinks briefly of the loneliness of this place before Roxas; when there was nothing but sleep to pass the time and the sun never rose and the trees never grew.
He considers the warmth of this place, this heart, as Roxas calls it, of a very powerful savior and a dear, dear friend.
The heart of Sora, whose name causes a flutter to erupt in the pit of his stomach, goose pimples sprouting from the flesh of his arms as he remembers just how much the child has given him: A home, a place to rest for all these years, and more than anything, a second chance to live.
Sora's heart is a paradise; warm and peaceful, albeit somewhat lonely. With beaches of soft, white sand and tall palm trees that cling to the rocks and hills that dot their tiny island, it reminds Ven of the place where he first met the selfless brunette. Like this miniature world, Sora's home had been an oasis.
Roxas spends his days staring out at the setting sun with a regret in his eyes that sits uneasily in Ven's stomach. The furrowing of his brows, and the anxious way he nibbles on his bottom lip reminds the older blonde of Terra, and Icarus, who both thought they could fly away and touch the sun, and both, inevitably, plundered into the unforgiving sea of darkness and death.
He wonders where Terra is now. How many years has it been? He can never tell. He wonders if the older man has found a heart to take refuge in, like him, or if maybe, just maybe, he's out traveling the worlds and changing lives in the same manner as Sora. He hopes for the latter. The image of a hero suites Terra more than the stigma of a villain ever could, after all.
Sometimes, Ven lets himself look to the sun and thinks like Roxas, of freedom and living separately of Sora's paradise-prison of a heart. Then, just as soon as the notion strikes him, he remembers the words of his master, and he decides, with a sad little smile, that he'll take his own misfortunes over anyone else's.
His eyes, those blue mirrors that match Roxas's so perfectly, pull away from the orange-stained sky with such hesitation that he almost feels as if he's moving in slow motion.
Then, he laughs, a quiet, broken laugh, and the sound fills the silence like nothing he's ever heard before.
Fin.
I know, I know, I just posted a story yesterday, but frequent updates can't hurt, can they?
The quote is by Socrates, by the way.