The Feather
Falling. Slowly. Like a breeze has tipped me over; a sudden breeze I did not see. I am a feather, falling to the ground, my back reaching the pavement so slowly… ever so slowly… Am I truly that weak? Like a feather blown away by the rush of air?
I see. I touch. And I see. I see things others can't see. I'm different from them, just as all people are different from each other. My difference is not cosmetic. Nor is it an internal defect. It is just a change. Something that sets me apart-- while pulling me apart.
I feel myself falling. I cannot see it, but even in my unconscious state, I can feel it.
Can others feel this too? When they fall, do they feel this same slow, dreary, feather-like approach towards the ground?
Perhaps others do not fall. They are different, I know. Yet maybe they are somewhat the same as well. Do they fall? Are they like the feather?
A feather—limp, without a will of its own. It simply falls when a bird casts it aside, and floats limply towards the ground. I am floating. Floating towards the pain of the ground, the black tar of the walkway. I see nothing. But I feel what I'm doing, where I am. Conscious thought is gone, but feeling… I always feel things. Every touch is feeling a memory. Some other person's pain and hurt.
The ground is coming closer. I will feel the pain of contact, I will feel the wind as it passes by me, and I will be useless to do anything. I am weak, like the feather. Floating from the sky onto the ruined lands of Earth, cast aside by a lonely dark bird.
The wind rushes faster now, my body is stiff and weak at the same time. Stiff in hopes of not hurting itself, weak in knowing that it will anyway. My eyes are closed as the wind comes—ever quickening past the feather, past me.
I stop.
An arm has caught me, saved me from my descent onto the dark tar pavement.
Who?
Who has caught the feather?
My eyes blink open, and I feel nothing. I see everything. It is him, the black haired giant, he towers above me. Always catching me. Always stopping my falls. The boy who grasps for the feather in thin air. Rikuou.
I feel my weakness as a lie in his arms. It is a sickly sweet and bitter feeling. He says nothing, but pushes me upwards. I stand. His eyes looks at me they are empty, yet deep.
A feather cannot stand on its own. Perhaps I am stronger then I thought. And that strength… I think it comes from him.
A feather? Rikuou smiled despite himself. It fits Kazuhaya so perfectly, he mused. A feather, fallen off an angel's wing, into the hand of the grasping boy.
And the boy caught it.