Name : Dawn of embers
Author : Rain
Disclaimer : Shaman King belongs to Hiroyuki Takei, and I don't intend on making profits of it.
Dedication : This was supposed to be Lugia2PK's birthday gift… But I'm ashamed… So much ashamed… Really now, it's too depressing to be a gift -_-''
Still, happy birthday !
Ashes rained around him, in a seemingly endless fall.
It fell like some kind of putrefied, greyish snow. It fell in twirling patterns, fell from a sky so dark it was a wonder he could see it fall at all. It fell still, covering the sterilized ground by thick layers.
His cerulean irises were registering the cataclysmic scenery before him without so much as understanding it, as acknowledging it. Glimpses of burned, charred corpses. Scents of melted iron and plastic. Crumbling buildings. As far as his sight reached, only death and desolation – he stood, paralyzed, images of a similar disaster flashing before his eyes.
On the scale of his small village, it had already seemed impossible. Whole lines of buildings burned to the ground, thousands of corpses vanished into thin air, smoke that obscured the sun at his highest… No man could make such a thing happen on purpose. And certainly no man could do that and live. On the scale of the whole world…
The arrogant gleam of his uniform had disappeared. His hair, his clothes, his body was turning grey; almost like he was fading away. The fall of ash blurred his outline, turning him into a fantasy, metaphorical ghost – though he would have probably been better if he was a real spirit – of a world that was coming to its end. A world where hope, dreams and justice had mattered; a misguided world, perhaps, but at least a world. What had taken his place could never deserve such a name.
When the enemy had torn down this place, he had momentarily been blinded, deafened, out cold (which might, or might not, be the reason for him being alive); and though he was still standing, his senses were only beginning to come back. A shrilling sound was buzzing through his ears – could feel they were bleeding – his eardrums were perhaps pierced. That only strengthened the feeling of solitude and despair that was barreling down on him. No, it was farther than despair: it was hopelessness, it was brokenness.
His gloves had long burned and tore, leaving long patches of scarred pale skin for the ash to smear. It had hurt incredibly – didn't even hurt anymore – and for a moment he thought it was his end, too – after all it only seemed right. He brought them up, staring unseeingly, as if they held some kind of secret answer, as if they were responsible.
He should not been standing there. Not alone. He should not be there when she was dead.
Where could she be? Useless question. She had burned like a living torch, probably not dead instantly, as much as he wished she had. Now she was ashes, and with the way ashes swirled around him, she could be anywhere. He could as well be walking on her remnants now – the gruesome thought made him want to puke – to scream – to hit his head as hard as he could to wake up from this nightmare. Her kind-hearted, crystal soul was gone as well, shattered by Spirit of Fire's ghostly teeth.
He had not the slightest idea why he was still alive. Did not care much, either. Meene was gone. Like his family, she had been turned into greyish cinders. No corpse to hold on to, to cry over, to swear to avenge – she was gone. Just gone.
Now he stood alone, a defeated man.
Alone, under the ashes.
Marco: What the hell?
Rain: *hides*
Marco: WHAT THE HELL?