A/N: And I'm back from a long hiatus. This story is dedicated to LC Rose, who I promised I would write another story for (before I disappeared). So the reason...life...I got busy, and had a writer's block..by some summer photos got rid of it. I don't think it's my best work (and I'm hoping I'll write better-and edit this- later, but if anyone has constructive criticism, I'd appreciate hearing it. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing...still.
Her first photo was of a man she knew little about and who, at the time, she didn't want to know at all. However, the one thing she did know was that, by simply just standing there, he looked like he was born to be in front of a camera (which was impossible of course).
But his picture was blown up and carefully pasted into a scrapbook [one especially for him].
Her second photo of him came a year later. He seemed calmer, a bit happier and just as eternal as before while sitting against a tree, staring up at the stars [and silently, she hoped it was because of her and not because of the little girl curled asleep a few metres away].
The third photo came a mere six months later during a crucial time when her adventure was coming to an end. There was the barest hint of tension, of anger and of caution on his face as he held his sword to the light for inspection [and she hoped the caution was for her and her alone].
The fourth photo came only three days later, when all was done and the battle was over. He leaned against a tree, blood staining his hair, clothing tattered, hair down and golden eyes piercing through the silver curtain it created [and she thought he never looked more beautiful].
A year after that, she took her fifth picture of him. The change of time was beginning to show as his hair was shorter, a third blade was attached to his hip and as his eyes showed a slight softness as he glanced into the lens [and into her soul].
The photos kept piling up as time wore on. And as each consecutive photo showed, he changed a little by little, slowly adapting to a world that advanced at too fast a pace. His armour slowly disappeared, his eyes slowly showed more and more wisdom and his hands were stained with less blood than before [and still she prayed he wouldn't change].
A year later, while flipping through her pictures of him, she wondered about the choices he made that led to the person she saw in each picture. She wondered at what changed him from demon she had once feared to the one who she knew now [and loved].
Near the end of her life, she took one last picture of him. And as it was glued down onto the final page of her scrapbook, she looked at the latest picture, of him staring at the camera, swords at his side, hair and clothes fluttering in the breeze and smiled [because she knew that this would always be him].
