Another day, another glass bottle, another scrap of paper.
In a new world that marches on, ignorant and oblivious to his plight, he learns about the news.
It spurs him to fight to earn the trust of the Heroes for the second time of his life so he can finally get his hands on some writing materials. Immediately he sets to work, using the new plastic pens to carve out his message. Carefully, and with painstaking slowness, he kept his letters guided by those imaginary lines and dotting the ends of his sentences dutifully like he had always been taught to.
His crooked words will never match up to a scholar's flawless cursive, but it is legible and it is all he needs for his task. Safely stored in the glass cocoon clutched in his palm, the letter isn't really much of the letters he used to deliver to the worn but familiar desk every morning in a time too long ago. But he wishes it could be, so he can write properly how the Heroes have fallen without that quiet strength to bind them, or convey how vast the hole in his heart is, instead of the same message over and over and over —
Where are you, Freud?
The waves crash upon the shore. He takes some time to remember the face of the quiet, gentle scholar who loved to read with the sound of the ocean in the distance. He presses the little glass bottle to his chest, to the flesh that hides the gaping crevasse in his soul, as if to seal in the sound of his aching, beating heart.
Then he takes a step back, shifting his weight. The bottle is lighter than he remembers, maybe even too light. Gods forbid it is too light to travel far even if he hurls it with all his strength. But it needs to go as far as he can possibly make it go for the currents to catch it and whisk it out to the open oceans.
He puts all his might into this one sweeping action and hurls it towards the horizon, relaxing the jaws he didn't know he clenched as he panted slightly for breath. It takes a significant amount of his strength as it does every time. But it must because then, then and only then, will his message have any sliver of a chance to reach who it is meant for.
The bottle catches the sunlight, turning it into a sparkling gem as it sails through the air with its precious cargo. Somewhere in the distance, he imagines a fleck of white appearing in the glittering hues of azure, and then turns to leave so he doesn't look for the exact shade he knows he wants to see once more reflected in the depths of soulful eyes.
It lands in the ocean. It always lands in the ocean. But it falls short every time. It needs to go further.
So much further.
Because he seems so much further away.
...
...
He watches bottle after bottle gleam in the sun, break the surface of the ocean, and slowly disappear into the darkness. Day after day, he comes to this lonely stretch of sand, where time and tides lay waste to memories and futures. He holds his offering to his chest, his unrequited feelings locked into a little bottle, to be flung into an unfeeling ocean that can give no reply.
He knows that he doesn't need one, he just wants to be heard, he just wants his words to make a difference somehow.
He watches the shadow fall upon the sand once more and make its way to the shoreline, coming to rest before a glass bottle. It is scratched by the grains of sand, the cork still intact, its paper heart still unread like the day he put it in.
The world marches steadily on, denying him his chance to leave a mark on the world, returning him his meagre efforts in full upon the sand. He has no choice but to scoop it up in his fingers, shift his weight and send it flying yet again.
Another day, another glass bottle, another scrap of paper.
Defeated at last, he falls to his knees, his silk ribbon pooling around his feet, the color of his sacrifice and pain. He is tired, he has fought to prevent the end of one world, but lost his own in the process, and he doesn't know how much more he can give if there's nothing else to fight for.
He knows he just wants that one thing to fight for.
'Why can't I reach you?' his words are soft, strangled sounds that the wind whips away to nothing.
But he hears.
For another time, he chuckles and approaches, heavy robes the same deep shade as the ribbon upon the sand. For another time, he tenderly he brushes away the soft brown hair. For another time, he smiles and lays a hand upon his shoulder.
Just like old times.
How he wishes his voice is stolen away by the winds, and not muted by the tides of life and death or the sands of time run dry.
'You don't need to,' he murmurs, 'I'm always beside you.'
AN:
Written to accompany the beautiful art which is Noctnoku's companion comic strip, found at
tinyurl com /noct-freunwol
it's absolutely gorgeous. Go take a look! (you'll have to put the dot between tinyurl and com, and remove the spaces, because fanfiction doesn't support links!)
EDIT: Cover image taken from one of the panels of said comic :)