Disclaimer- I don't own Kingdom Hearts. Nor do I own The Orphan Girl's Song, by Rilke.
Author's Note- I don't even know what this is. It's weird, reads a bit like poetry and I suppose if you squint there are hints of MarNami. Ugh. Plot bunnies and existential poetry make write weird drabbles. Enjoy.
She's a frail, thin, wisp of a girl, pushed back into a corner like a child's long forgotten toy, distantly remembered, left to collect dust. Which is as good a description for her as any, for all her usefulness, she is unremarkably forgettable.
She sits there silently, drawing. What could seem like the pasttime of a child, or perhaps the product of an ill mind is indeed a tool to be used for far more sinister deeds, things only the strangest, most twisted of children would ever think of.
She is a witch, one who can twist the memories of others, though her appearance, with white blonde hair and pretty blue eyes paired with white, pure clothing, lacking only the wings to make her truly appear an angelic being, would never betray the darkness in her soul.
Or rather, lack of soul. She has no heart, this angel, she is one of the fallen, someone good, and pure, and innocent, warped by the desires of those who themselves have never been innocent, and cannot even comprehend that one such as her, a nobody, could hold a conscience, felt guilt.
For they are truly cold, unfeeling creatures of darkness, ones who only remember what it's like to feel, and even those memories have faded such that they can no longer remember at all.
She lives in a castle, this wraith, a fine one by the name of Oblivion, ruled by a lord with rose pink hair, and his lady, a woman with shocking cruelty.
He is her master, and she must obey his wishes.
And so she sits and sketches, the rich colors and lines taking shape, reforming the memories of someone who is equally pure, equally untouched. She feels as though she knows him, or maybe it's just her own desire to know someone who's soul isn't a dark and ugly thing. To know him, this young boy. This hero.
She feels guilt. She feels remorse knowing what she's doing, knowing that what she is doing could change the fate of all the worlds. But still she sketches, because her master, the man of feathery pink hair commands it.
She hates him for it.
And maybe, if she had a heart, she'd be feeling it breaking, just a little, but doesn't, and she won't.
She is a nobody, she is nothing.
The Orphan Girl's Song
I am nobody and I'll be nobody.
Now of course I'm still too small for being;
but later, too.
Mothers and fathers,
have pity on me.
Not that I'm worth the pain of raising:
I'll be reaped regardless.
No one can use me: today it's too early,
tomorrow too late.
I have only this one dress,
it fades and it wears thin,
but it will last an eternity
even in God's light perhaps.
I have only these locks of hair
(always they shine the same)
that once were someone's dearest love.
Now he loves nothing anymore.
AN- The poem was just too perfect, and just...Namine for me to pass up. Anyways. I hope it was enjoyable, and that it made sense.
Please review! I can't improve without feedback from my readers.