My inspiration drained away before I could even finish this. So unfortunately, this fic is absolute crap from my point of view. And as for the beginning and ending lines, they're song lyrics - though edited to fit in - from Umineko no Koro Ni, and Katayoku no Tori.
Enjoy, anyway?
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("In the butterfly dance, dreams come and go.") - a wing is snatched away.
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In the past, he used to think of himself as God. A god among the mortals who could not see the dead running past them, with a different sort of urgency and energy than the liveliness of this ever-awake city.
And if a god is born among these people, then there must be some great purpose for him, like the messiah of legends. It's a bit too bad, maybe, that a god he may be in power, but a human in heart he still is, and humans are faulty in one way or the other - and his fault is to always dream a dream, and never dream the aftermath of it.
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It's an unpleasant surprise to realise that like any other soul of the dead, his wings have been broken from the start.
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His throne is of cold silver and dead ivory - royalty and the afterlife, he muses poetically. One leg crossed over, he smirks, and the music soon floods the empty throne room. Hearing the lyrical sounds makes everything seem worth it for that moment.
At the same time, he doesn't notice the hollow echoes being drowned by the unearthly and yet worldly vibrance.
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Whoever he is - god or angel or devil - he should still be able to fly. His wings have been unchained and freed to stretch and move and do what he has always desired.
And yet, regardless of his wish, he can't fly.
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Time passes. It's far too quiet and simple. Has the world always been this monotonous?
Loneliness be damned.
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Then one day, one day- he likens this world to the pits of Tartarus, where nothing thrives and everything is doomed. And here he is, the ruler of rotting miasma.
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One last chance to fly - it involves murder and theft of an innocent's wilting wings.
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Back in the underworld, relieving memories. It seemed, honestly, like just a silly picnic at first.
And then he notices that he never had two wings like he had always thought, and his mood severely plummets behind his ever-cheery mask of sweet mockery.
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He had desperately hoped he would shoot. Then he would never fall again, because he already has, and because he will have never existed. But at the same time, in some small corner of his mind, he doesn't want the boy to, because Neku would only keep on falling in turn, more than he probably already has. And he knows that falling is a truly scary thing to experience.
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As of present, he likens himself to an angel that fell from heaven - Helel, Lucifer, the morning star swept down by the dragon's tail. It's fitting in a way, albeit a crooked and twisted way, though that's how it should always be. That everything fits together, even if wrongly.
But then again, he supposes, have things ever been right?
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God has no wings - will never have wings - and is always, thus, destined to fall in either failure or succession. That is why his messengers are the winged ones instead, for a loving father will always spoil his beloved children with the things he never had.
So until that dreary day of judgment arrives, Joshua will just have to try flying with his single, broken wing. It would be better than to die falling - again.
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("Is this hope a sin?") - the butterflies fall to Hell.
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