TheDmgirl: Inspiration strikes again! I hate when my brain does that...
Discalaimer: Sonic and co. belongs to SEGA.
Time
Time changes everyone.
For better or worse, time changes everything, leaves no stones unturned. In the end, time, the one everyone laughs at, always has that last laugh.
He's the living proof of that.
He used to be cheerful, have friends. He used to defend this planet with his heart and soul. He used to love, to smile.
Not anymore.
Curled up in the same corner of the same cave, he doesn't even move. He keeps his face buried in his knees as the sun sets and rises. He rarely steps out to eat, and passes out half the time. And, sometimes, the hunger gets so bad that he gnaws at his own flesh, if only to get his wailing stomach under control.
But even if he were to turn to self-cannibalism, there wouldn't be much left. His muscles are nearly gone, and his skin stretches over his bones. His usually full face now caves in, and his once bright eyes look glazed over.
He's not dead, but he's as good as.
The only thing that works perfectly is his mind, and it only serves to bury him even further. It reminds him - constantly - of the reason he's still alive. The reason he's still breathing even though he looks like a living corpse.
Immortality.
He has become immortal. Nothing natural could kill him, and he'd be only granted that release if he were to tear out a vital organ, like his heart.
But no matter how many times he reaches for it, he can't get himself to do it.
For, every time he does, a pair of eyes appear, and remind him that even if he hasn't said a word, he promised that he'd keep on living. If only for the one bestowed upon him this wretched gift he never wanted anything of.
So no matter how much his heart bleed, and pleads for surrender, he can't grant it.
All for a gift he hadn't even wanted.
Because none of the advantages are worth this price. None of his newfound powers are worth the death of loved ones.
Especially those you would give your life for.
He feels his cheeks dampen, and his eyes droop. Again. He needs to learn how to stop crying. So he doesn't pass out.
He's on his side when he wakes up, and slowly, weakly tries to stand to leave the cave. Water. He needs water.
A stream. He dips his fingers into it before scooping the precious liquid up for a drink. It's cool, soothing. Relaxing almost.
Nowhere near what his reflection gives him.
He watches as a bony hand reaches for his face before turning his attention to his body. He looks thin, frail. A far cry of what he once was.
He remembers that, long ago, white gloves used to adorn those battle-roughened hands. Shoes and gloves used to cover those fast feet.
Long ago, he'd once been proclaimed a hero.
A hero the world forgot. A hero he himself forgot.
Because no hero would let innocents die. No hero would let his friends die. No hero would let his world get invaded and only manage to step in the moment he was granted powers that he had so far seen, but never truly understood.
A hero didn't give up, no matter how many times he was offered to.
He had.
He had given up the moment the last shreds of his world were torn to pieces. He had given up after helping the world one last time.
He had lost.
He listens to the droplets hitting the water, and wonders when it will rain. He's never liked the element, but the feel of it against his fur and quills help him feel clean. Something he hasn't felt in so long.
No use. The sky is blue and the sun shines. Maybe tomorrow.
He blinks at the sound of a whistle, and peers over the cliff he's on to watch a train rush by. The city. It was mere hours away from here, wasn't it? Why not go?
He shakes his head. He wouldn't be welcomed. He doesn't even belong. After all, isn't he supposed to be dead for the past three-hundred years?
He manages to stand, and slowly walks back to his cave.
He is dead. They're all dead. No one needs a hero anymore. Not even himself.
He sits in his usual corner and curls up as tightly as possible.
He has stopped running.
His stories are over.