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rEmEmBeRtHeDaYsYoUwErEaHeRoInMyEyEs?
He tries not to think too hard about the red staining his fingers. At the moment, the effort is just too much.
(Ignoring the dirt crusted beneath his nails is probably best, as well.)
He takes stock of his body's injuries — for that's all he really is, a body, a vessel, a mere conduit for him between the Spirit Realm and the Real World — and sighs in relief.
(The gold is still undamaged, though, and for that he is glad.)
He finds several scratches and bruises, easily fixed with a few cotton swabs and some antiseptic — for, by now, he has learned, hasn't he? An injury is only worth taking care of if it is fatal. Any less is inconvenience at its best, minor wounds that time will heal.
(But the problem lies not in the wholeness of the Ring — no, no, the power is missing, the soul is gone.)
With an empty mind and a blank heart, the boy picks himself up, attempting to convert the mindless chaos of his surroundings into something more defined, understandable.
(Empty gold. Useless. Where is he? Isn't that man not the darkness? Where could he have gone; where was his other half?)
A dark alleyway. Several empty soda cans tossed haphazardly. A cigarette butt by the dumpster to his right. Creepers climbing up grimy brick walls. Nothing peculiar in the least, he thinks.
(The boy stares in incomprehension. Silence meets his anxiety.)
The midday sunlight finally reflects off the shine by the foot of its entrance. One of the special pins he used to keep track of his environment. He walks up, reads the 22 painted on it, and smiles.
(His surroundings are dark and dreary, with the thickest of fogs as his sole companion. Gray grass, blackened dirt, and the gravestones of the long-departed watch him from afar, their souls rested and his restless.)
Carefully, the boy slips out and attempts to casually walks home. He succeeds, of course. The rented, decrepit apartment he approaches is the best he can afford; but it's fine, he thinks. Definitely the least of his worries.
(The moonlight reflects off the Sennen Item he has recovered. From where, he is uncertain, though Egypt was a possibility. A flicker of hope shines through his dulled, hazel-green eyes.)
He is disappointed to find the mess by his bedside, and can't help but wonder how much milk he'll need to wash out the bloodstains. He doesn't wonder over his apathy, nor his lack of curiosity, towards the owner of said blood. He truly can't bring himself to care.
(Disappointment shines through at the loss of his self. He hadn't expected this to be easy. However, with the pulse of the weak heartbeat within his soul, the boy's hope is renewed.)
Offhandedly, he wonders what it would take to defeat the Voice and the Ring. Perhaps he could magic him away, somehow.
(The boy summons the shadows, and finds their power rebirthed. Perhaps magic could bring back the Spirit, bring back his self, bring him back to him.)
At the silly thought, the boy laughs brokenly through the tears. He is but a Landlord, with no way to terminate the contract with his tenant. His body was the land, and his soul was merely left for convenience's sake. What could he possibly do?
(Pondering the notion, the boy smirks, and his eyes blend murkily with his bloody red. Through the tears, the raucous laughter he emits is punctuated further with its hysterical lilt and the desperation of a long forgotten dream.)
-"In exchange for your help, I will help you realize your fallen dreams."-
-"Then leave your vengeance behind…I don't want to lose you, too!"-
