*Disclaimer: This work is NOT meant for sale or any other way of profit, it was created for entertainment only. All rights reserved to Digimon belong to Toei and other people that created and realized the project. If Digimon belonged to me it surely wouldn't end the way it did. =P


Digimon fanfic: Proud - Alexandrian Dreams
(various pairings)
Kitsune
August 2003

Author's notes: I've started this chapter a dozen times over and I'm still not sure how to evolve it. I've studied the plot, no problem there, but... the words just won't come ;_; The digidestinied get addressed differently, but I'm sure you'll recodgnise them (the colour of their eyes and hair stayed the same). I got the names and plot from the Kabala and Tree of Life (Sephiroth) because, even if I'm not jewish (not that there would be anything wrong if I was) I find these theories really interesting ^^ Please, tell me what and how you think I should improve things. I'm desperate! ;___;


"She's loosing the touch with sanity, I'm telling you..."

She was running down the crystal-wing's outer hall of the castle as if the whole emerald garden that framed it with its unique, enticing bloom was being roughly devoured by flames. She wasn't expeceted by anyone, she wasn't late for lessons and she had no tasks to attend to, but her feet kept pounding against the marble floor as quick as her heartbeat, unstoppably, and she wouldn't stop running, even knowing it was strictly forbidden. The tight feeling in her chest, throttling her from within, was too heavy to keep, too confusing to understand, too intense to filter out and worth taking the risk of being punished. Her pointed ears sensed motion up ahead but she was planning on ignore whoever it was and proceed on as quickly as possible. Yet as soon as she heard the line, she froze dead in her steps, simple white tunic-clad chest, still so much childlish, hoovering frenetically. Only minutes later two servant maids came within her sight range.

"... perhaps this is the price one must pay by tlaking with the Seraph..."

"Nonesense. She's just a crazy old harpy, I'll be bound!"

She had never seen the two young women, nor the grumpy full-figured one walking firmly first in elloquent rage, nor the smaller one following shyly behind, but she knew they were maids. All Juniahumon maid-servants dressed in the same fashion, in pale ochre turtle-neck robes reaching their knees in ellegant full folds, showing off their pale blue feet. All Juniahumon had blue-colored feet and hands that up to their knees and elbows dissoveld to a more accepting peach-pink skin colour. But the clothing wasn't designed to show off their amazing distinctive allements from vanity, no, the reason lay in the sharp bone juttings that stirred from their shoulders, their anchles, combined with their navy-clawed finghers and inch-wide back folded horns.

But the maids had no horns nor claws - their hands had to be soft and efficent and their movements quick. Their claws and hornes were surgically removed at birth, just like the born concubines were smoothered theis jutting bones. She was told both of the process' were extremely painful and manny newborns never lived trough their first day, but those who did were assured to find a place in the socciety.

She never had any operations done, but she had nothing on her that prooved her a Juniahumon. And that because she wasn't one.

She also didn't share the moody Juniahumon maid's oppinion.

"How dare you speak like that!" she flared her spring-green eyes up in her face gritting her small fists by her sides. "You are speaking of your Mathron, you fool!" The maid's eyes piereced her with a raged glare, but she knew better than to pick up her flat-layed intimidation. Maids weren't thaught enough manipulation to get under her skin. And she wasn't quite that easy to get to either. "She sees all! She knows all!" she continued detterminatively, holding perfectly the now weakened flow of intimidation in the girl's eyes.

The shyer maid trembled fearfully behind her friend, soft blue finghers curling with her co-workers, seeking a hint of comfort. A twin sparcle of tears crystalled her soft-grey eyes and she whispered softly to the point-eared girl clad in white. Only royality was allowed to wear white. "W- We're sorry. We shall never question the Mathron again..."

But the girl knew they weren't sorry at all, just like she knew they were questioning the seer's power for a long time now and would continue to do so. Their faith was too thin. But with such a huge enemy gathering at the horizon, it was understandable. However, she had no time to argue with maids. Without another glance she ran on down the corridor's marble floor, her snow white robe and long ivy-green hair flappered in the steam of air behing her. She could hear the Mathron's prayer fill her ears with a soothing melody even long minutes before she knocked on the heavy metal-embed oak door of the temple.

The prayer stopped and she winced, suddenly cut out of the gentle lullaby back into the real world, a world where her bare feet hurt from running, where her throat was sore from the harsh breathing, where her secret lay heavily on her century-old soul, urging her to spill it out.

"Mathron!" she cried weakly trying to catch her breath, "It's me, Neecah!" And without waiting for the permission she pressed her lithe frame against the heavy door, pushing with all her might. It took a few persistant minutes, the ones in which any child would have givven up, crying for help. Neecah didn't, she believed herself long past childhood. And the urging throbbing in her chest gave her all the will and strenght she needed. As soon as she labeled the gap big enough, she urgently pushed trough - every moment that passed by was a moment wasten, forever. Or was 'forever' wasten too?

She ran breathelssly trough the big stone room, windowless, save for the rush of light that embraced softly its far end. That was where the althar gleamed, pooled by sunrays. Carved in rough stone was the embodiment of honor. High and tall there stood a legendary knight. His figure was bowed with affective protection, clad in the most captivating armour immaginable. Even by studying it for hours, the clerics and monks still couldn't exhactly tell how it was carved. The scales dissolved into laces, laces into scales, endlessly, and even by analyzing every single bit of it, they clamied it could never be possible to make a reproduction in reality. No one could even reproduce the statue itself, not even vaguely, not even details for just as uncopiable as the armour were the long wavy locks, falling lovingly down the arched back and broad armoured shoulders, framing an indefinably beautiful face. Was it sincerity what radiated from it? Was it love? Courage? Wisdom, hope? Whoever looked at it saw something else. It had been givven the name of 'soul miror', for it was believed one could find himself by simply posing eyes upon it's smooth surface. A stunningly big sword was planted in the gound, the blade covered with untraceable patterns which smoothly dissolved into the huge handle. The hand that held it, even if twice as big as nature would dictate, seemed nearly too small and childlish for it. Wide feathered wings unfold to embrace the marbelous figure, countless delicate smooth feathers, incredibly precisely settled, welcoming the spectator's gaze. No one knew how the statue was made, but rumors would see to claim it was the hero that it reassembled himself, willingly captured in stone, the Seraph Alexeon.

But Neecah never stopped to lay her eyes on him, she rather concentrated on the figure kneeling beyond it. "Mathron!"

Slowly the figure rose to her feet, willowy form filling the heavy white folds of her full-lenght robe. A long colorless plait followed the lenght of the spine and, as she turned, expressionless crimson eyes, as if beholding an endless black void, turned her way. But the girl knew they wern't titeled at her. They couldn't be.

As soon as she reached the seemingly etherial woman, she collapsed on her knees, exhausted from running, yet she paused only long enough to fill her lungs properly, once. "Mathron Binah -- I have to tell you...!" she cried briefly, having to pause in order to gasp more air. But before she could continue, the woman's features softened lovingly and a calm voice, so much more different than when intoning a prayer, yet no less earable, asked her softly.

"About your dream?"

And Neecah sat, dumbfolded, pointed ears dropping with shock. "Yes..." she mumbled gazing up in the seer's face with unabashed surprise. Sure the Mathron was able to tell what would happen in advance, but she'd never guessed she could predict dreams too... She kept looking up in that seemingly unreal visage, the proof of a century of future-reading traceble only by the wisdom it emmaned. And Neecah knew that for a Juniahumon a century was more than a lifetime would benefficially offer, just as well as she knew that had she been someone else, she wouldn't be givven the seer's undevided attention.

Mathron Binah's face was still titeled in the direction Neecah had came running from, features never twitching. But then again her whole pressence raidated peace and tranquillity of spirit, calming everybody down, even the anxious emerald-eyed girl. She outstreched a pale hand, in her calm demeanor, a hand that wasn't Juniahumon-like blue or clawed. It most slanted on white, if any colour at all. Givving it a close look, one could easily trace all the veins, all the cuncle bone junctionings, all the pale strings of nearly unused muscles. She outstretched it limply in front of her, souless eyes lost in an illusionary dream that never ceised. "Let us seatle 'in remembrance'" she whispered, keeping pacefully still.

Neecah noded, even knowing the Mathron could never tell, and picked herself up from the cold stone floor. For a brief moment she wondered if the woman was alive at all. She never slept, never ate, never left the chapel. She was sure she would have never talked and smiled either if it weren't for her, for all she ever did otherwise was pray. And Neecah loved to hear her prayers. She mostly never understood the lyrics, but that didn't make the melody blissfully beautiful any less. Only one person had a voice to shade the Mathron's, but he would never sing.

She took the seer's hand gently, as if fearing her childlish hands could crush it whithin their light hold. With a wont, but no less careful step she guided the etheral woman up the althar's red-carpeted steps all the way to the last one, glently helping the nearly hollow form to sit comftably beyond the breath-taking statue of the Seraph, his wings folding as if to cradle them both in a warm embrace. Swiftly, she settled by her, resting her ivy-green haired head on the Mathron's lap.

"Now tell me," the woman smiled vaguely, gazeless eyes lost in untraceable thoughts, "what have you dreamed about, Nee?"

Nee... Neecah smiled at the nick-name givven to her such a long time ago. And even now, deccades later, it sounded just as loving as the first time. "I dreamed of a strange world... so different from our own," she breathed, delighted to feel delicate fingers sorting a long lock of her ivy hair, absently braiding it up. "I dreamt of a girl who suffered a great loss, whom nobody undrestood. And when she finally found love... she..." even the seer's soft soothing touch wasn't enough to calm her down completely at that point. The memory, the sick feeling that woke her up harshly, crying, was too strong. "She... died in her sleep, wishing to hold her love one last time..."

Mathron Binah cupped her face then, slowly planting her delicate lips upon the girl's temple. "Dear Nee," she smiled lovingly, "she won't die alone."

~o@o~

He groaned, rubbing his temples. His headache seemed resolved to keep banging trough his head, endelssly. And the equal banging of his heavy armour-scales clashing against one another as he hurried on his way wasn't helping either.

It was a bad morning. One of those he wished he could simply curl up in the corner of his room and sleep the whole day long. Or at least that was what he would normally wish to do. But as the days passed by, peaceful sleep and sweet dreams were seemingly nowhere to be found. So with a bad day gleaming at the horizon, the best way to survive it was get up and face it, as simple as that. The only problem remained that practically every day started out in this precise bad way. What way? It was quite indefinable as well as unnerving waking up every morning as if from a nightmare that he know he should be able to remember – but couldn't.

And he stopped dead in his tracks, just outside the military reassemblance hall that beheld a meeting he was unexcusably late for.

Why... hadn't he thought something like that sometime in the past? No, not that he could recall if he did. But then why? Why did it sound familiar, why did it roll out of is thoughts' folds so rutinely?

He shook his head determinatively then, deciding it didn't really matter. With a wont geture he placed his clawed blue hands against the heavy double-winged oak portal, pushing it open in an honorful swing. In a rustle of clothes and clinger of armours, his men rose from their seats, from the first to the last. Yet the last didn't, he merely noded his golden-leaded head in acknowledgement.

"Comander Geburah," the blonde stated simply, his voice the very essence of finest silk against his ears. It was allright if the blonde remained seated, for he wasn't one of the commander's men. Rather... the comander was *his* man. His trusted friend.

"My prince," Geburah descended to his knee in the dorway, taking in the light, white robe-clad sihouette sitting gracefully near the head of the table, near an empty seat. *His* seat. Blue eyes, unique night-sky blue eyes, gazed with trust back into his own, reding his thoughts, mirroring simpathy.

"Please, stand up. There really is no need for such formalities, Geburah," the prince smiled a charming smile down at him, the silcken tones lulling their way trough his soul till they warmed up his heart. No 'commander', no 'Son of Izmaemon', no 'lord Valentine'... just Geburah. He knew his men must have noticed, but it was beside the point. For those wonderful night-sky eyes, that shimery long loose golden blonde locks, that enticing smile - they were more than worth it. He stood up as ordered, no, kindly asked for, and he forced himself to bit his lip. For just as his men's murmurs, he knew his own feelings were beside the point too, or at least they should be.

His tired autumn eyes glided over the folk gathered, meeting every single man's gaze meningfully unill the hall was still with thick silence anew. He eyed his prince again, gathering all the bursting emotions that his wonderful presence evoked inside him 'till he poured every single one of them into unquestioning devotion of a thrusted warmaster that he truly was. "The enemy troops are aproaching, my leech. They are to attack Lexeis at dawn-brake," his voice had a steady, deep ring and standing there, bathing in his overlord's caring eyes, he forced himself to feel that way too. The troops gathering at the horizon were outrageously huge, the informer had announced. Four times the number of his men and still in-comming. And they were digimon of all kinds; from the magic-strong Pixiemon to the brutal whole of and entire hord of Telurimon. And his own troops, Juniahumon from the first to the last, weren't even war-digimon to begin with. While the enemy could count and stratgise combining phisical and magical attacs, all they had was footage or mounts, being a race not particulary strong nor magic ridden, but something peuny in between. And that wasn't even the worse thing. They were banned from the City of Reincarnation. Once a Juniahumon died, he died forever.

But he felt no fear of death if it meant loosing his life to protect his prince. For nothing, not a single treasure in the entire digiworld could compre to the fae vision of the one whom he had givven his heart or to the feeling, this unstoppable affection, that he became one with as their eyes met. But for as strong as the rails of his heart were, he knew this train of love was leading to the never-station. And yet... he let it lead him on. It gave him the courage to do his best, to lead his men to battle, to win.

Silken tones filled his ears again and even though they were slightly more than a reluctantly shaken whisper, to Geburah, they felt as a blessing. "... What do you suggest?" Tiphareth stood up to speak to him and only to him, slender blue clawless fingers gripping the table in their nervousness.

His prince felt nervous, his prince felt unsure, or perhaps even scared. There was no need to him to feel that way! "My leech," he breathed, leanig upon the table himself thanking Alexeon's spirit for it to be standing in his way less he'd gather his lord in his arms right then and there, reassured him with a breathtaking kiss perhaps... "I allready have a strategy," ... tell him aloud not to worry... "If we attack them by surprise during the night, I recoon we'd even get hold of their Commander!" ... and that he'd suffer any penitence possible and impossible 'till it'd keep his prince out of harm's way.

Prince Tiphareth stood in silence for a long moment, just marveling the bravery that his commander emmaned. Once, a long way back, they were still free and natural in their equallity, when he was just a court-kid and Geburah was just the horseman's son. Best friends from the day they had met, they were never seen separetly. Back when he was three, it was the most natural thing to say that he'd marry Geburah and it also made perfect sense at the time being- after all, weren't two kings better than one? But as years passed, his damsels and gouvernants taught him a kingdom needed a king and a queen, because, unlike the rest of the digimon, Juniahumon neded to reproduce, needed to give life to a son to please the ancient spirit of the Sacred Tree. So he promised he would marry, as well as he promised he would have a son and lead the Juniahumon as had his father and his father's father and as has his family from the beginning of time.

But he never promised he would love his wife. He never promised that he wouldn't shut his eyes while making love and think of Geburah. He never woed not to wish another lover. And he was glad of it because, for the life of him, he knew he wouldn't stop doing those things. Stone-heart, the damsels had called him, but not out of cruelty, Tiphareth was a just young prince, but becouse of his indifferency for their charms. He was seventeen, the age of a blossoming man, and they knew very well he would be to look for a queen soon, but no matter how low-cut was their dress, how fine was their hair and make-up, how much they bated their lashes at him - he never showed more than contempt for either of them.

He remained friends with Geburah, even though he felt they were somehow more than friends. Hands that brush in the hallways, way too long 'friendly' hugs, secret longing gazes... But then the war had come and he spent hours kneeling at his father's feet till he's make Geburah the troops' Commander instead of a mount or worse, a footman. He hoped that at least this way he could keep the boy by his side, but it didn't help much... the only improvement seemed to be that Geburah could come and see him in the Royal rooms without the need of a formal reason. And just looking at his friend, clad in a shiny admantium armour, a shock of wild soft chocolate hair messed up from the helmet, two deep autumn eyes radiating the most syncere of devotions... he so neded a very informal reason to see him in his rooms.

"What will you need, Geburah?" he asked, flooded with a heady rush of craving, of wanting, that he could only hope his eyes could show as they dug into the one's who made him feel this way.

"Only your blessing, my leech," the Commander smiled, and, for the first time in his life, the prince decided to remodel the procedure. Then Geburah turned to his men, wild chocolate locks flying, armour scales clashing, cape waving. "My comrades! My friends!" he bellowed loudly for everyone to hear, "I'm asking you to stand by my side once more! For our king, for our prince, for the Sacred Tree, with the Seraph's blessing - I'm asking you - WILL YOU DO IT?!"

Loud cheers filled the hall as the gathered rose their fists in approval, all as one, and their leader watched them proudly. And then, before he could stop it...

"Let the preparations take place, men! We shall leave at sundown!"

It left his lips as if all of his words were taped and timed and suddenly his hotheaded thurst for battle was quenched. The world seemed to block itself out of his mind, or at least the sound did for he never heard his men shout ther agreement and head out of the hall. He turned, slowly, to look at his prince whom he, to his shock, found wearing a similar bemused expression. Somehow, it felt as though he was doing a great mistake.

~o@o~

"Hod?" echoed a deep voice down the library hall, unanswered. "Hod!"

A Juniahumon man was walking along the corset of big bright windows. He stopped every one in a while, rubbing his ellegant navy beard, a beard that, as his long, wavy hair was enchanted here and there by delicate whisps of silver, or, as his young apprentice would like to kid, 'stitches of wisdom'. But, weither he was right or wrong, they remained a diplay of time beginning to close his bloom, leading his life into a speenful autumn and wouldn't his heart feel much younger, he'd be quite happy with slowly hitting his fourties.

"Hod!!" he called out one last time, a little louder, before deciding to bravely dive in the mazze of isles to find his apprentice. The boy was such a knowledge-thirsty little monster! Always asking yet a thousand and one question before he had even stopped explaining his last one of the previous ones, or spending hours, days and sometimes even weeks with his nose in books, mostly forgetting to even eat, and hadn't it been for his tutor bringing him meals and forcefully tearing him away from the reading, he would have probbably died a couple of times or even turned into a scheletron over a book.

He had rounded only a couple of fit-full dusty bookshelves, his grey monkish robe bilowing in his wake, and already he stopped aburptly in his own steps. His apprentice was standding by one of the biggest wall bookshelves, to his grand surprise, not reading for once. The book he was holding was closed and pressed to his chest. His head was bowed and he stood as still as a lifeless statue, his dreamy silhouette surrounded by tangible melancoly making him seem like a vision from a fairy-tale.

Now suddenly reluctant to break the silence, the elder slowly smiled at the lullaby of beauty that his eyes were enchanted with. And he was just as reluctant to addmit that his apprentice was no longer little. He wasn't exhactly firm-built but rather youthfully toned. And the way his gray robe fell against him... It was a special robe (for a special person, he like to joke when he washed it for his apprentice), without sleves and cut horizontally where it met the fine hip-bones, with only a flap descending to the ground down his front. Underneath, in all it's fox-red fur majesty, stood a healthy body of a young stallion, ebony black tail, brushing the ground, filckering.

"Hod..." he whispered softly, and the centaur shivered. Short fox-red locks flew about his face and startled hazel eyes met the elder's ebony black in genuine shock. "M- master Jesod?!" he stuttered, his hoofs shifting, making his upper humanoid torzo lean ellegantly back to regain balance. However, the momentum was enough for the book to slide out of his fingers, thudding heavily down on the soft crimson carpet. Leathered covers shifted themselves open with rebounce and heavenly white pages flickered with a silent melody of rustles.

Hod stayed grevingly silent, fingers numb. He'd 'dropped' a tome, a treasure of their culture and wisdom- the most holly artifact Juniahumon posessed. Also, one of the most crucial things that separated them from the rest of the Digimon. Unlike them, who lived in the slaveary of the Gennai-council, powered by instinct and primal communication, they were self aware inddependants, the Seraph's blessed ones, the sacred tree's sacred bloom. He closed his eyes and gritted his fists as if to stone himself from the well earned yelling from his master. There was simply no excuse for disgracing something as valuable as knowledge.

The elder Juniahumon watched his apprentice stiffen biting his lower lip with his eyebrows raised. Such an intelligent and respectful boy he had grow into right before his very eyes. Who would have ever believed an abbandoned half-breed, born to a neglating Juniahumon and, presumably, a primal-driven Centurimon, would bloom into such a taktful and caring being? True, the aincient Writers did state that a child reflects the sunrays that shone over him while he grew up, and not the ones that he was born into, but still Jesod couldn't stop his heart flutter in awe. He felt younger, much younger all of a sudden and he briefly wondered if the admiration that filled him was really a fruit of his surprise over Hod's developmet or simply of the boy's presence...

He walked up to the book and lifted it from the floor in one slow smooth move. As heavy as it was, he shifted it open in his arms, ebony eyes sliding over the first page. In black-inked symboles, written to last, were the words he expected. A long, long time ago, his own master had told him to write them. He smiled slighty, remembering how manny times had the thin willow-stick knocked his soft childlish fingers 'till he learned to write them as respectfully as their nature would dictate. Ever so softly, Jesod read them aloud, more from his heart then from the book.

"Sun shall come and Sun shall die
Wars and blood shall paint the sky
Be proud to do what thee may
Thy faith shall find a way."

He felt eyes on him, those wonderful, rich hazel eyes. Not succeseding (and not wanting to, anyway) Jesod allowed himself to dive into them, endlessly. He was standing fairly close to him. He could only reach out and- and stop fantasying. He swore that to himself times and times over, every day at least, for being a respectful monk of the King's order, he knew he could be severly punished for doing such a thing. But it wasn't the fear of the order that kept him at bay, but the true, unique affection and care that he nutrished for his apprentice.

"I- I'm terribly sorry, master..." mumbled Hod thoroughly mortified as well as not little surprised to see his tutor smiling down at him. But he was further surprised when the man started to laugh, nearly hysterically so as he tryed to stiffen the giggles with an upraised hand covering his lips. "... Jesod?" he asked wearily, efficently confused, "I doubt you're sadistic, but I must say I'll start to believe otherwise if you keep this up..." He frowened, a little smile of his own drawing on his lips. He hadn't seen his master as happy from when the war started months ago.

"Oh, you know I can't punish you," Jesod was holding his glases away from his face to whipe his tears of laughter in his gray monkish robe's sleve. His surroundings were blury and fantasy-like, but as much as he willed his fantasy could come true then and there, he also knew it was such a narrow chance that he should most deffinetly lock his hopes deep down in his heart, where he'd remember them spleenfully when Hod would take his place and lead the monastery. "But," he smoothly put his glasses on again, "you will get punished by the cook if you don't galop down and eat your lunch."

"Oh!" cried Hod, smackng his forehead as he suddenly remembered. "For the Tree's blessing, I didn't know it was *that* late!" He nearly sped ahead along the dusty shelves when he rather stopped just a few feet ahead and turned, smiling in invitation, ebony tail dancing to brush the fine cantaur legs, "Tag along, master?"

But the elder only shook his head reverntly, "I'd only slow you down, but Hod..." he walked up close to his apprentice again, ebony black eyes bathing in the gentle sea of hazel brown, "... you forgot this." He lightly placed the heavy leathered book in those boyish hands, along with his heart. For as unread as the book, his heart was never before touched by earthly love.

"But master," Hod frowened, "the book is completely wordless save for the poem..."

And Jesod smiled, having to turn away from those soul-searching eyes less they'd knew how much the book meant to him. "Sometimes, Hod," he nearly whispered, letting the sunrays play on his suddenly saddened face, "wordless pages tell more than we could ever mouth."

His mind floated away, it hurt too much to think. Prhaps, even without the City of Reincarnation, they would meet again. For Alexeon's sword, was he being melancolic, he chided himself. Was it because of his dream that he was acting so childlish? His dream... what an infatutated boy he had played in it! He had swore his red-headed love that he'll love him no matter what, but...

"Thank you."

"Yes," smiled Jesod sadly, "that were the boys last words."

"Beg your pardon?" frowened Hod, rounding his master untill he could look him in the eyes. What he had said was just-

"Ah! Hod! You're still here? Weren't you supposed to run for the kitchen, young man?!" Jessod bellowed, jumping a little as the fae vision interrupted his dream meditation. He often zoned out like that, daydreaming when around Hod and, swearing to himself, the mental-checked he must stop doing it for his reputation's sake. But, watching his embarassed and apologetic assistant dissappear in an efficient kas trough the countless alleys, the heavy blank book swept on his chest, he also mental-checked another thing.

"Do you believe in destiny, Hod?" he whispered to the countless books that had all been held in the centaur's arms, rested upon his heart, felt his fingers brush trough them - things that he knew he could never do himself.

Hod, on the other hand was galloping over the courtyard of the castle, bathed wholly by the shimmering sunlight with fether-like grace. His thoughts however were not as light. 'thank you' was what he had said in his dream while his love's long blue locks had caressed his face. And he breathed in them, the last time. X


Man, descriptions are draining! X.x How could Tolkien do that?!! And why the heck is he dead - I can't even ask him now. I'm an incapax... *sobs*

I'm thinking of writing a lemon, (cause it would make me fell better ^.^0) so if you think it would fit in - TELL ME, if you think it wouldn't - also TELL ME. Oh, and, don't forget to add which couple!

off to chapter n°11

mail to Kitsu