A/N: Heeey, it's Alfa :D.
This is just a story-quick little oneshot- I got stuck in my head...a little off canon, but oh well? :D?
I'm working on Shuryo, I promise...x.x
IF you can't figure out who it is, message me or leave a review!
Just Another Name
She pauses as a soft breath of wind gently brushes her dark hair, briefly obscuring her downcast eyes. Her porcelain face is, for once, unmasked, and that instrument that hid her emotions so well smiles blithely, carelessly slung on her shoulder. It is as pale as her own face. Her hair flows free today, its vivid royal purple locks unrestrained by its usual black band.
Her slender but calloused hand, covered in an armored half-glove, clenches around her bouquet of roses before loosening again, quickly, like a child caught guilty; a nervous reflex. The blossoms are elegant, blood red, just beginning to bloom, and her nose twitches with the delicate aroma.
Just the way he liked them.
A katana, sheathed, is clenched in her other hand. A deep, shuttering breath wracks her slim form before the composes her face into its familiar mask of calm. Tiny mincing steps—she's counting each footstep she takes, measuring the length, where she steps... She doesn't stop until she catches sight of its shadow. She falters, misses a step, but rights herself before she can fall. Slowly, she lifts her dark gray gaze.
He's sitting there—on the lone, upright stone. She can see his face from beneath his own mask. His pallid face is surprised, as though he can't believe she's standing before him. He has not changed. Eyes the color of the night, ringed with dark, sleepless shadows. She drinks in the sight of him hungrily, eagerly, as if she were desperate...and he her last hope.
Dark lips rasp his name, but he doesn't move, choosing to watch her sadly. He wears the same ashen armor she does, though his is grimy, dusty, and splattered with red. A half-shattered katana dangles limply from his fingers. Her eyes travel to what she had hoped not to see—the gaping break in his armor, the red spreading, blossoming forth, and a blade protruding from his back.
He isn't in pain, though—not anymore. He smiles at her gently, and his gaze gradually drifts to the katana gripped tightly in her hand, with its knuckles turning white. His started eyes flicker back to her face—the blade is the same as his own, with its worn, bloodstained grip and narrow hilt, though the one in her possession is whole, unbroken, and freshly cleaned. She can only stare mindlessly back, caught in the welcoming void of his eyes. She shakes herself from her stupor sharply, darting eyes at her katana sheepishly. With hesitant steps, she approaches him and kneels in front of the stone, carefully lowering the katana and flowers to the ground. He smiles, sweetly, and reaches out as if to touch her face. She can see the trees behind him somehow...through him.
Before he can touch her, she hears someone behind her. Quick as a flash, her mask is in her hand, and her eyes flicker to the side before she relaxes, recognizing the man's presence. Her eyes return to the stone, but he is gone, as if he'd never been there. Maybe he hadn't.
She stands quietly as the newcomer approaches. He has been here nearly every day for fifteen years. An unspoken "You too?" hangs in the air.
Finally, she moves, places her mask back into its place. Whispers words of love, vowing vengeance for her lover—but is this for him or for herself? She doesn't know anymore.
The man behind her offers no words, but silently battles his own demons. She glances sideways and sees his slouched, sorrowful form in the corner of her eye. She should leave—her time is up.
She takes a single stride forwards, and her slender figures brush gently against his name, freshly carved into the Killed In Action memorial before she is gone.
But she knows that somewhere, sometime, there always be another war. There will always be another death. Maybe it will be her next time. Maybe she too will be just another name on the stone.
She hates it.
And she knows he would too.