Disclaimer: I own nothing~
[free-fall]
Their sighs are gaps in the wind
The dead fall around us like rain.
(Homage to Paul Cezanne by Charles Wright)
These are nights to grieve in.
Across the dark hallways noises creep like lost children, whispers skimming lightly over the worn stone floor. The wind wails, her staccato cries lost in the hearts of those who dwell within the hungry pitch-dark halls of the Black Order.
:::
–here he asks for salvation within grief –
In the little chapel off the first level, Komui stands, his long robe grazing the floor. His hands are at his heart, and he murmurs in the darkness and remembers those who walked without looking back at the dimming light. The days are growing ever darker now, and every night he enters this little sanctuary to pray and bless the brave and forgotten ones.
He hopes they have gained salvation.
About him, the shadows dance with their cruel and empty eyes, and Komui wonders if maybe he is doing the wrong thing.
But – how can he leave those souls alone? The sacrifices cannot be in vain. He will not let them be in vain.
:::
– then the clown stands and takes a bow –
Allen lights a candle and paces around his room. The moon is dark tonight, and wherever he turns he sees a tuft of dark hair and a half-formed smirk that isn't quite there. He shivers in his bedclothes and kneels to pray but he can't remember those little words Mana taught him long ago.
Lord I lay me down to sleep –
And then what?
In the flickering light Allen almost sees Mana bending over him as he once did in their tiny home. The red clown's nose, the tear-like furrows on the aged skin; all these haunt his waking moments. It's hard to fall asleep.
The slithering whispers echo in his ear:
N –
Ne –
Such a familiar name, it seems. It lingers long, lurking in the empty spaces behind his closed eyes. Again he sees Mana, only now there is another whose face he cannot see, and the stranger is walking with Mana and they are laughing and oh, how the wind howls!
The sky above is lit with crimson fire, dotted with fears and the things lost through hatred.
In his dream he walks and is called back.
Father, why dost thou accost me with your anger?
He remembers the full word. Neah.
Neah, they call. But he is not Neah – or is he? These deserts are upsetting and vague. Why does he have to traverse such landscapes?
:::
– while the warrior looks back down the long road –
Kanda Yu doesn't think to pray. There's nothing in prayer; it is an act he doesn't quite understand. There is nothing in the heavens but the sleeping stars and the grinning crescent moon, its eye bright and hollow against the cloudy night.
Forgotten memories trudge in his room on soft feet, and he can feel their heavy-lidded gaze on him. In his turn, he watches the petal fall, its edges light and withering.
Night crawls on and the wind sweeps her cold skirts into his room, and he remembers the days of yore. They were happy then. He can still remember the sweep of her dark hair and the ebony tint of her almond eyes and the curve of her bosom in his hands.
He was about to become a father. Pretty babes draped in mourning black dance before him, their skins wrinkled and mouldy with the fallen years, and he sees her, gaunt and cold, weeping by a crimson stream, dark hair flying gently in the wind.
The sun has set on a stony sky, and no one knows what the morning will bring. There is only silence about him, and regret; together they prance about his sunken eyes, bloated with misery.
:::
–And here is the one-eyed merchant –
In the darkest room of the castle, Lavi rests.
The candle flame flickers and dreams lie heavy upon his outstretched palm, beckoning to him. Tonight he is alone, all alone, forgotten and lost.
Today he is Deke; he scans his memories and thinks back to a simpler time.
But there is scarcely anything he can drag up; all is cold, tinted the colour of blood, and he remembers the bloodshed he walked past in days of yore.
Then he remembers sweet Chomesuke, the young blithe girl with eyes like stolen thunder and a voice that rang with all the sweet sorrow of church bells. He remembers her brown hair, flowing in the salty sea breeze, and the slightest hint of red upon her sallow, dead cheeks.
They stole a quiet moment together, and he pressed his warm lips to her cold, slithery ones.
Now all is gone, and Lavi sits still and feels the pain rip his heart again.
It's not worth it to be human, he thinks, flicking dust at ancient spiders.
:::
– then come those who live in sin –
Lenalee kisses Komui, licking at the sides of his lips, tasting his skin, kissing, kissing, waiting for the desire to subside.
Komui tastes of stale coffee.
Lenalee knows this is wrong, this is bad, this is heretical.
But her mouth moves on its own accord. It seeks out the exposed corners of Komui's lips, the hollow of his neck, and slides about his face.
Komui shivers and hugs her close, his hair brushing her exposed shoulders, and his tongue moves against her own.
Tonight, they hide in the shadows and enjoy forbidden fruit.
:::
– even those who err might be forgiven –
Leverrier stumbles through the night.
The night is long and the room is dark; he sways out of bed and pushes back the covers.
Out in the lawn beyond the sea-scouring tower he sees a hint of white leg and the slightest shadow of a flowing skirt. His sister used to dance so, back in their home in the east in years long lost.
He can see her now, frilly skirt twirling about her legs before Father pushed her into the dark chamber he still abhors, before her life was ripped out of her young body by glowing tentacles. He used to pray in those days, silly young boy that he was, thinking that god could save everyone.
He doesn't believe such lies now, he doesn't. He does know, though, that only the exorcists can carve the Earl out of his throne of skeletons.
He pushes them hard. This war has been too hard, too hard.
For all of them.
:::
– and here is the lady with hair as long as the flowing years –
She faces the wide world, and she shouts, her throat constricting.
The years have wilted like forgotten blossoms, and the white snow has fallen time and again throughout the innumerable decades, but still, here Hevlaska sits, draped in light, in sorrowful plight.
You murderer! he said, killer of your own kin!
But she never meant to. Never.
She will carry the cross for all eternity, now. That is her burden. This is her sin.
:::
– Round and round the mulberry bush –
Fou slips through the cracks in walls, watching the night sweep by.
It has been too long now since she last walked the woods. She was conjured out of her hidey holes by Bak's ancestor; since then, she has guarded the Asian quarters with her soul.
But she wonders –
When will she again feel the soft caress of the autumn wind; when will she again slide her feet against the mud, little fishes nibbling at her toes as she stands knee-high in a gentle stream; when will she climb the trees and look out among the silver-bright stars?
The years have chained her to the fort and she thinks again of he who chained her, he who bought her with fake love.
The anguish of her tears, the yearning of her years –
Who shall now set her free?
:::
– For I am thy saviour –
Link crosses himself and prays in whispers, smiling slightly as he feels the words moving along the paths of the wind.
He is young and the world is old; what road can he tread on his way to glory?
But glory is destructible, he thinks, and Walker grows colder with every passing day.
His bones cackle inside and Link knows.
It is almost the end of waiting.
If he has to wield the knife, he will.
:::
– and she says, it is time to begin –
Her world used to collapse every other day, like a string of promises too easily given.
Now, Miranda smiles at Time Record and arches her back against the snow-white linen, pressing her skin deeper into Noise's.
He smells of warm bread and freshly cut wood and fresh air, and she drinks deep of the smell. There is nothing quite like this.
Tonight, she will smile and be happy, for the dawn will bring another rain of crimson tears.
:::
When the war is over, Komui says, they will have a party.
They will toast each other and smile and cry and laugh and get drunk and not worry about working overtime – because that is their due.
They will rejoice and they will sing and they will make merry and try to forget the grievous hurts and the dreary years that came before.
And then, before their last drunken toast, they will all stand and remember those who were lost in the dark years before, and give praise to their deeds. And then they will devote their last toast to those who live, because now it is their duty to rebuild the fallen world.
:::
And so shall the swollen world of cards fall and be rebuilt in its ashes. Grief and misery shall be slain, and joy reaped from the troughs of their decay.
A/N: I just felt like posting something. I'm tired and work is dreary, and writing is a panacea.
So how was this? All comments are welcome (: