Title: Salvation by His Hand
Notes: Spoilers, yuss, but my stories always have them. Gomen! ^^ I dunno why I wrote this. I should be doing my homework, but Legato won't stop angsting in my head, so I guess I should let him out. The least he could do is express himself well through my writing, but... oh well. This is by far my worst Trigun fic ever (I play Wolfwood, dammit; why am I trying to write other characters? I can't do them at all. . I'll be the first human Legato kills for this travesty.)
There's nothing quite as thrilling as staining his perfect white flesh with the ichor of those he's sought so long to protect. I love the way it beads, forming rivulets that fall, slowly... Suspended on his fingers, his wrist. It's an aesthetic marvel to watch it. Mesmerizing. Although I know He'd prefer me to be a bit more alacritous, He allows me still these simple pleasures, as long as it would kill His brother to know it. As I am sure it would.
Because, of course, that's where the excitement comes from. It is the knowledge that it would pain him so that makes it so very pleasant to do it. As I was charged long ago, His brother is to suffer. By following my orders, and doing as He bade me, I redeem myself and cleanse myself of the profanity of my unhappy Kind.
By serving my betters, I rise above the mass of humanity. In their ignorance, they fear what is different, what is superior. If only they could see the truth, and rejoice in what they cannot aspire to... Salvation. It comes from serving the purposes of greatness. Humanity is contrary to progress; I do my part to make myself obsolete, that He and, yes, his loathsome sibling, may rule. Because despite his wrong thinking, the brother is that which I may never seek to be.
Slowly the blood pools in the lines of his hand as I fold the digits inward, drawing them together to make a fist. The power that flows through the muscle beneath that so-fragile flesh is not mine; yet it is mine to command. Lifesblood wells up between those so-soft digits, glistening in the half-light of suns'-set. Irresistibly attractive, I raise his fingers to my lips for a kiss, tinged with the metallic tang of death. The image of the only beauty my Kind can attain; that of destruction.
Something of which we are so capable.
It is the 'sinners' among them who are closest to saints; for, though their motivations are twisted, they serve His purpose in slaying their kind. Their only failing is that they do it for their own sakes, planning to elevate themselves above their Kind. The only way they could manage that would be to put the blades to their own throats when they finished. As, doubtless, I will be bidden to do when I have served my purpose. And it is in that thought that I rejoice; that, after serving Him for my life, I serve Him by sacrificing it.
My only guilt in myself lies in that desire; I can hardly wait, sometimes, for the moment in which all have perished, and it shall be my chance to do so. I cannot lie, and say I do not aspire to that moment of near-perfection (though never perfection; I would never be so bold and blasphemous to suggest myself His equal.)
I should not be so ungrateful. I have been blessed; I shall have a hand in the eradication of these imperfect beings who spawned me.