Author: Sihlvyr
Rating: PG:13 for language, violence
Warnings: YAOI
Feedback: Please!
Disclaimer: The Ronin Warriors and associated parties are not mine, as much as I would prefer otherwise. However, Demi's world, plot, and characters are MINE!
Summary: When the Dynasty returns with a new set of Warlords and Ladies, The Ronin Warriors find themselves in a race against time, trying to save one of their own, and master the hidden power that lies within their armors.
Author's Note: Hmm. . . my brother posted already, so I figured I'd better get my ass in gear. . . this was just something I spun up one day, bored, and rather angsty. . . and this is unbetad. if anyone is willing to beta for me, please e-mail me at sihlvyr@hotmail.com
Prologue: Alone
He couldn't remember the starlight. He had been down here, for such a long time, alone, that he didn't remember much of anything about the outside world. It was a blur of broken glass and broken, wasted time. There had never been a point to saving the world. He didn't remember much of that, only the aching feeling in his gut when they had lost /him/ in winning. It was funny, as time went by, he forgot the good things, but he could recall the bad with astounding clarity. He recalled every exquisite detail of every pain, of every feeling of guilt and sorrow. It was his world, now. He didn't know anything better.
He laughed softly, the sound broken and dry in the stale air. Something wet tickled hit lips, and he blinked, trying to pierce through the darkness to see what if was. Certainly not tears. Perhaps his lungs were bleeding again. But he didn't feel any pain from it. He didn't feel anything, not anymore. His body was numb with cold and blood loss. He should have been dead. It was the Universe's idea of a cruel joke that he was still alive.
"But then, no one ever gave a rat's ass about wether I wanted to do something or not," he spoke aloud, using his own voice in a fruitless attempt to remain sane. But there was only so long that could work, and he had a strange feeling that he'd been down here a long time. "Hell, maybe I've already cracked, and I'm just imagining this. Fuck, maybe none of this is real."
At first there had been visitors, those who came to question him, to hurt him. But as the good drained away from his mind, the visits became less frequent. They used to come every time he counted to 604 800. That was, what, once every week or so? But he didn't count anymore. It was hopeless.
He moved his hand slightly, or thought he did. He was too numb to know. He couldn't see anything, he couldn't hear anything, he couldn't feel anything, he couldn't smell anything, he couldn't taste anything. That was sensory deprivation, right? An effective way of torture. It broke most people in hours.
Still, it was awfully effective. His thoughts seemed loud against the perfect quiet. He wondered if he would hear the rustle of air if someone spirited into there. He thought so. What if he was deaf, though? He wouldn't be able to hear, would he? Yes, that's what 'deaf' meant. Sometimes, it took a moment before him mind could think of a meaning. Or a reason to think of a meaning.
Starlight. He didn't have his starlight, not anymore. And where was his night breeze, his winter frost, his cool wind? He didn't have them anymore. They had left him. Only a thread remained. A thread of cool blue.
It was strange, he wanted the cold so much, but he was frozen, here. This wasn't his cold. This was a dead, stale cold that pulled him apart at the seams. A cold that served no purpose other than to bind him to this desolate place, wherever it was. To bind him to this underground place, his mind screaming for a way out while his soul died, piece by piece.
Even his mental 'sight' had died, leaving him. Everything had left him, he was alone. He remembered, or at least thought he did, that when he had first been trapped, he had hope. He had been sure, positive, someone would come through for him, to save him. He no longer remembered whom. Whomever it was had been a good memory. He no longer remembered anything good. He remembered despair.
Was his memory being forcibly taken from him, or was it some protective measure from his brain, however wrong? Did his brain think that remembering the good things would harm him more? He didn't think that was correct. He didn't think it was being taken from him by force, either. He thought that it was just slipping away, as his stars slipped away.
Even his memory didn't want a failure like him around. It was pathetic. His own mind hated him, rebelled against him.
It must have gotten colder, because he could feel his skin turning to ice as he lay shackled on the ground. But he didn't really care, not anymore. There was nothing to care about. All he was waiting for was death.