A short piece I did, inspired by Prythia. It's a bit of a first/second person hybrid prototype - just testing out my writing skills. I'm assuming it's Lightning's point of view, since everyone else wasn't really all that close to Fang. It's probably less horribly out of character for her, but it would be more out of character if it were someone else. Also, I'm pretty sure my terrible English has led me to use some words the wrong way, but oh well. I tried.
Anyway, read and enjoy. :)
How does one consummate the explanation of love? With letters, pen, and ledger? Do you take a page and pull it from a notebook and present it as an offering? A declaration of caring, formed with twisting calligraphies and sprawling lengths of line? No. I truly believe there is no way to define love with such simple, yet complex gestures, but if it were possible, Fang, I tell you, I'd write you a thousand letters, and if I had a gil for every consonant, I'd pay my way to the pit of your soul and lay them before your feet – if that were possible.
If only I could get so close. Though, here I stand, gazing up at your beauty like a peasant before a royal court laden with gold and silver and treasures on high, staring slack-jawed with starry eyes and not so much as a notion of what I should do. I shiver; it's quite chilly in here, a testament to the color scheme, I suppose. There really are no words to describe your astounding presence, and I can feel your gaze washing over me. You're looking down on me and smiling, I can tell, and that feeling makes the air that much warmer. I know you're happy here.
Happy. That was something you ceased to be, it seemed, as soon as you were home. I felt partially to blame. To see you like that made me feel forlorn, like I'd never see you the same way ever again. So, I ask myself. How does one come to admire something they originally came to despise? How do ordinary occurrences become treasures for one's heart to behold? How does one become a slave to sameness, if not only for the sake of greeting an unrequited love in the sanctity of dreams, that that sameness be remembered for ages to come? I cannot answer, as I chance my sight upon you again.
You're not alone; I can see that. Vanille is with you, and she's smiling just the same, the glistening tresses of her hair shining along her face. She's well-wishing, as the years have indeed been kind. I'm happy to see that, but you're the only thing I can register. In my hand, I hold a sheaf of paper, stark characters and messy scrawlings plastered about its rumpled surface. The two of you stand before me, and it's the most frightening sight I've seen in who knows how long. In reality, it's only been a week, but I'm too distracted to realize it.
It comes to my mind that until, now, I've never quite made my thoughts apparent to you. I never have known how, I can accurately assume. Though, if I had, I doubt I would have done so sooner than now. I've realized, lately, that people only begin to regret not having done something until it's far too late to change it. I suppose it's simply too early to tell when you are about to lose your chances. Maybe that's it. All I know at the moment, however, is that I've only begun to regret what I haven't done, what I should have done, and what I haven't been able to do.
I step up to your smiling forms as you hold hands in this chamber, blissfully half-awake, though it isn't morning. My free hand clutches my chest, praying you'll like the letter, this time. However, to my dismay, as I press the letter into your hand, it falls away. I press again, and your cold fingers fail to grasp it for the second time. I step back again, leaving the letter to fall where it may. Have I displeased you? I wonder, thinking back to the countless hours I spent, scratching out this last, final message. I try again, picking up the paper and holding it to the light for a moment. I resolve to fold it into squares. Maybe then, you can hold it – that's my hope, as impossible as it may be.
My heart thumps loudly in its chamber, as if it desires an escape. The image of such is humorous to me, and I laugh as I fold the stationery with delicate precision. I ponder. How do such impossible hopes embed themselves into the mind? How do such ambitions squeeze into the consciousness with little or no cause? How do they remain, year after year, whether or not their original prompts have fled their places in one's memory, despite all manner of efforts for them to be retained? I finish the last crease with the inquiry, remembering to breathe.
Satisfied with my work, I once again slip it into your hand. This time, the letter clings to your hard, cold fingers true, and I don't have to leave it on the ground like so many of the other letters I've written to you before. It's a good feeling, I think, as I look down to the slowly yellowing papers that litter the floor around you. I reach out a hand to stroke your long locks, not caring as the sharp edges graze my skin and prick me with their spines. It's worth it, I believe, for all the little pricks and needles loving you has brought into my heart. Inside, I can feel you smiling down on me. It was the right thing to do. I kiss your smooth, crystal cheek, and do my best to hug you both before I walk away. Tears roll down my own cheeks, and with a final wave of goodbye, I leave. I can't bring myself to admit it openly.
My only thoughts, as I enter the blackness that follows, are of farewell, and I make it my intent to never return again. Your love will forever torture my soul, but I know I'll be fine. I've made it a point to leave no words unspoken. So then, I ask myself. How do you consummate the feelings your love? How do you put them into words and explain them to your beloved? How do you give that explanation . . when your beloved is already dead? I can't count the times I've tried.
Fin.