By, Kai
I do not own the Samurai Troopers, however I am in legal possession of this ficlet. Unfortunately, no, no profit is being made off of it.
Author's Notes: Ah. A ficlet. I used to write these all the time. Those were the days. ANYWAY. So, I have massive writer's block, and I have been trying, in vain, to work through it since it got old, oh, say a month ago. This is one of those vain attempts. Plotless, pointless, actually kind of .... BAD, but that's just me. Feel free to critique.
Oh, yes, by the way. I must apologize before hand on my extensive use of italics. Usually, I try to keep 'em to a minimum. Unfortunately with yaoi, it is difficult to use pronouns exclusively, and that's kinda what I was going for. So, the italicized he is a different he from the original he. Okay. Here goes.
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The sky goes on forever.
From his under his feet, stretching onward in all directions, not ending, ever, not stopping. It has no substance, no color, no definition, no shape, and then, it was his only companion.
Midnight had dropped around him when his eyes were closed, color had abandonned him. It was his favorite time of the night, when all there was was the ink of the sky bleeding into all the shadows, stars splattered throughout it. Then it was quiet, despite the fact that it was always quiet, and he could think, despite the fact that all he did was think.
It was the color of his eyes, that was why. The only part of the elusive face that he could actually remember, the only thing that reminded him of something tangible. If he were to close his eyes, the face would almost take shape, but blurred before it became anything more than a pale wash over the backs of his eyelids.
And from inside his solitude, it was finally safe to think about him, because there was no danger. There was no feeling that his thoughts were somehow public, the hesitation to admit to anything for fear someone would somehow know. There was no one here. So, everynight, when the evening melted to night, and the night fell into midnight, he would think, rather exclusively about him.
He was made out of flame, made out of the darkness created by flame, covered in flesh and passed off as a man. Made of contradictions that exsisted more naturally than any symbiote he could think of, made of what people couldn't fathom, the untouchable and the actual and the imagined and the unknown.
Of course, below all that unearthly normality, he was a person, a friend. And there had been hundreds of tiny moments that had evolved into memories; a brush of hands, a smile, a conversation.
There was an arrow in his hand, his thumb resting against the nock. He didn't even realize anymore. His bow, an arrow, both were, at this point, merely extensions of himself, another limb. He smiled, a little sardonically, appreciating the irony of it. This was what he had left to do, of course, evolve as a warrior. And leaving had been entirely his own decision, despite a nagging fear that his return would not be.
He took his eyes off the sky to look at the arrow.
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