Prologue
Vash's heavy footsteps echoed in the empty church, their sound bouncing off the crumbling walls, mocking him, wickedly sentencing the gunman to eternal damnation for his near-eternal life. The carpet beneath him was faded and moldy, parts of it burned away, others stained. The pews on either side of him were in various states of disarray; all the windows were broken, even the stained glass ones which had been so intricate and beautiful in their glory. The simple wooden cross and altar were the only things that were the same as they had been the last time Vash had been there. The cross, with the delicate rose carved at the juxtaposition of it's bars, and the alter with the yellowed photographs spread across it's surface were painfully familiar to him. How many times had he walked towards these simple objects before?
Vash gently ran his gloved fingers over the photographs, remembering each and every one of them: Milly, posing happily, surrounded by children in their Sunday best; Meryl, scowling as usual; Entu and Monin cooking for the first time, their brows furrowed in concentration; Ruffie in her taffeta and silk Christmas dress; Vash himself, smiling as he opened presents on Christmas morning; and... Nicholas D. Wolfwood, and unlit cigarette clenched between his lips.
Vash lifted Nicholas' photo from the altar, a pained smile flickering across his face. He stared at the photo for a long moment, as if memorizing it's every detail. His eyes glistened behind his sunglasses. And Vash remembered, as he had every night and every day for the past thirty years.
It all began on a hot summer day, about five hundred iles from the city of December, as two men walked together towards a small settlement built around a church, already forgetting the horror in their lives as they heard the children play...
Vash's heavy footsteps echoed in the empty church, their sound bouncing off the crumbling walls, mocking him, wickedly sentencing the gunman to eternal damnation for his near-eternal life. The carpet beneath him was faded and moldy, parts of it burned away, others stained. The pews on either side of him were in various states of disarray; all the windows were broken, even the stained glass ones which had been so intricate and beautiful in their glory. The simple wooden cross and altar were the only things that were the same as they had been the last time Vash had been there. The cross, with the delicate rose carved at the juxtaposition of it's bars, and the alter with the yellowed photographs spread across it's surface were painfully familiar to him. How many times had he walked towards these simple objects before?
Vash gently ran his gloved fingers over the photographs, remembering each and every one of them: Milly, posing happily, surrounded by children in their Sunday best; Meryl, scowling as usual; Entu and Monin cooking for the first time, their brows furrowed in concentration; Ruffie in her taffeta and silk Christmas dress; Vash himself, smiling as he opened presents on Christmas morning; and... Nicholas D. Wolfwood, and unlit cigarette clenched between his lips.
Vash lifted Nicholas' photo from the altar, a pained smile flickering across his face. He stared at the photo for a long moment, as if memorizing it's every detail. His eyes glistened behind his sunglasses. And Vash remembered, as he had every night and every day for the past thirty years.
It all began on a hot summer day, about five hundred iles from the city of December, as two men walked together towards a small settlement built around a church, already forgetting the horror in their lives as they heard the children play...
