I know He will come. And suddenly I see Him before me. As He was caught
in some half death form, one huge brilliant feathered wing sprouting from
His shoulder blade. And somehow His shifted gait is so perfect, so
indiscernibly lovely. The long flight feathers brush what would be floor
if there was floor, as He steps towards me. He cannot speak to me, ghosts
or visages or whatever are only memories pieced together. Right? He
smiles at me, his shifting weight and dragging wing make no sounds. He is
close enough to take my hand in His and smiles still as He stares at my
fingers and twines them slowly with His. He brings my hand to His heart,
and I feel no pulse of life. But His eyes . . . oh those eyes, never ever
have I seen them more beautiful. Never ever . . . there is happiness
there. And I weep in thanks, that on this plane He is happy. "Oh god . .
. I love you." He tilts my chin up to kiss me and I can feel but some
beseeching presence vague around my lips. He pulls back and his lips move
. . . "I love you too . . ."
A thin ray of light pierces the interior of the cave and wakes me. Vincent's arms are locked firmly around me, and I pull close to him and nestle my cheek into his breast. I lie in his arms for awhile, toying with the crushed fabric of his cape and trying to ignore how thin his frame is beneath his clothes. I contemplate waking him, but I know I can't. Maybe I'll just wait a bit longer. I extricate myself delicately from his protective arms, and marvel that I do not wake him. He must be so tired . . . I still the thought. We wont be tired soon. I stretch and find my arms barely move . . . I'm so stiff. I sit and gaze around, searching for some excuse to stay awake. The chocobos graze quietly outside. I wince quietly as I realize I never took the saddle off my bird when we arrived. If I had remembered . . . I would have, but . . . I just don't seem to be thinking to clearly these days. I stand and wince again at the numb swelling in my legs. I don't remember when the last time I walked . . . it could have been days ago. I hobble outside and for the first time maybe ever . . . I notice, what a beautiful day it is. The sun is warm and too- bright on my face, makes me feel lazy and sedated. Marvel at the azurite hue in the sky, the shadowless clouds. I cluck obligingly at my chocobo and he lifts his head and walks swiftly towards me, eager for greens. My hand reaches up to pet his crested head, there is blood, dirt, and grime caked black under my nails, each tiny impression in my fingerprints inundated with filth. The joints in my fingers stand out sharply . . . bones and swollen joints, like a skeleton. The saddle and blanket fall deftly to the ground, begin searching the saddlebag for a brush to straighten the warped feathers on his back. And I feel the soft down beneath my rough touch and smile, imagining silvery wings soft against my cheek. My grin widens . . . soon now. I brush and pet and turn the bird loose to continue grazing. It joins Vincent's and I never think of it again. But while searching for the brush I'd stumbled upon the little book and pen Vincent had given me at Corel. Perhaps this is the best way.
I remember this time . . . I remember every detail, every nuance, stage, pain, delight. Everything is so clear now, and I write it. I'm a hero I guess, and maybe someday history will teach of the truth, what I will record here now in this journal. I write everything . . . everything about my life. And my hand cramps and I keep writing. Vincent wakes at some point hand seeking to soothe with gentle slide of fingers across my shoulder. I pay him no heed. I write about my mother and Tifa, I write about the trip to Midgar and Zack. The first time I ever saw Sephiroth. I write about my love for him . . . endless pages of my love, every metaphor and cliché I can think of spills from my pen. And then I write about Nibelheim, I spare nothing. Zack, Hojo, Mako. I write about my quest to kill and destroy Sephiroth, I could never explain what exactly happened in my head. Why I wanted kill Him and who I thought I was or why. I just write that I was crazy, always was and still am, and that only a madman would kill the thing he loved the most. Long, flattering descriptions of my comrades, and what histories I know of them. I write about Aeris, and her death, hoping someday she will be the hero and not me. My knuckles crack and pop, I wonder if I could write my hand off, if it would just die and fall to the ground. I take a very brief moment to work the kinks out of my hand. I squint at the sun descending ever westward. Late afternoon haziness has settled in the forest. I gaze around me, and see Vincent asleep fast in the sun near the stream. He is not wearing the crimson swath to cover his hair and face, his boots are off, feet pale and beautiful, smudged with a little wet soil. His pants are torn at the cuff and rolled up to mid-calf. I smile at him, and my pen moves. I draw him, try to capture the peace of the moment. Ever tried to depict regained innocence? It's not easy . . . I guess I manage, and I hold the journal back to look at my work, my eyes are strained and hurt. But I'm not quite done yet.
As I write the final words my pen runs out of ink. "Thank you Vincent, I love you and am happy because of you." I shut the book and leave it in the grass, near the discarded saddlebag. I don't look at Vincent. Rather the stunning red oranges of the sky enthrall me and I walk to the edge of the mountain, and stare far far below at the deep gash in the land. The melding browns and purples of the earth in the waning light. And I hope that one day everyone will know I died happy. I inhale deep the air around me, the very green life in the forest giving me happiness and harmony. I am happy, I think for the first time ever . . . because I know I don't have to do this anymore, not ever. I know that I can finally /rest/. If I stayed, if I thought I had to stay . . . I wouldn't feel this way. I could never continue existing in this place, or any other place on this world. Because if I didn't have this happiness, this knowledge that it will all be over, I'd still be just the same as I always was. Forever and ever tormented and anguished with no light guide me, nothing to save me. But I know I'm going . . . I know what waits for me at the bottom of the canyon. I jump . . . I'd been wanting to since this morning. And I fall and think of wings. And I fall and think of Him, my one, my only, my Love.
The end... So it took me way too long to write like three paragraphs and I apologize. Infinite thanks to dearest love Holland acted as a pseudo muse and editor and kinda smacked me around a bit to make me write. I hope everyone enjoyed this and if theres confusion just write me or IM me or that good shit. I might write something again if so provoked. Review also, must get 100 review . . . must.
Bail
A thin ray of light pierces the interior of the cave and wakes me. Vincent's arms are locked firmly around me, and I pull close to him and nestle my cheek into his breast. I lie in his arms for awhile, toying with the crushed fabric of his cape and trying to ignore how thin his frame is beneath his clothes. I contemplate waking him, but I know I can't. Maybe I'll just wait a bit longer. I extricate myself delicately from his protective arms, and marvel that I do not wake him. He must be so tired . . . I still the thought. We wont be tired soon. I stretch and find my arms barely move . . . I'm so stiff. I sit and gaze around, searching for some excuse to stay awake. The chocobos graze quietly outside. I wince quietly as I realize I never took the saddle off my bird when we arrived. If I had remembered . . . I would have, but . . . I just don't seem to be thinking to clearly these days. I stand and wince again at the numb swelling in my legs. I don't remember when the last time I walked . . . it could have been days ago. I hobble outside and for the first time maybe ever . . . I notice, what a beautiful day it is. The sun is warm and too- bright on my face, makes me feel lazy and sedated. Marvel at the azurite hue in the sky, the shadowless clouds. I cluck obligingly at my chocobo and he lifts his head and walks swiftly towards me, eager for greens. My hand reaches up to pet his crested head, there is blood, dirt, and grime caked black under my nails, each tiny impression in my fingerprints inundated with filth. The joints in my fingers stand out sharply . . . bones and swollen joints, like a skeleton. The saddle and blanket fall deftly to the ground, begin searching the saddlebag for a brush to straighten the warped feathers on his back. And I feel the soft down beneath my rough touch and smile, imagining silvery wings soft against my cheek. My grin widens . . . soon now. I brush and pet and turn the bird loose to continue grazing. It joins Vincent's and I never think of it again. But while searching for the brush I'd stumbled upon the little book and pen Vincent had given me at Corel. Perhaps this is the best way.
I remember this time . . . I remember every detail, every nuance, stage, pain, delight. Everything is so clear now, and I write it. I'm a hero I guess, and maybe someday history will teach of the truth, what I will record here now in this journal. I write everything . . . everything about my life. And my hand cramps and I keep writing. Vincent wakes at some point hand seeking to soothe with gentle slide of fingers across my shoulder. I pay him no heed. I write about my mother and Tifa, I write about the trip to Midgar and Zack. The first time I ever saw Sephiroth. I write about my love for him . . . endless pages of my love, every metaphor and cliché I can think of spills from my pen. And then I write about Nibelheim, I spare nothing. Zack, Hojo, Mako. I write about my quest to kill and destroy Sephiroth, I could never explain what exactly happened in my head. Why I wanted kill Him and who I thought I was or why. I just write that I was crazy, always was and still am, and that only a madman would kill the thing he loved the most. Long, flattering descriptions of my comrades, and what histories I know of them. I write about Aeris, and her death, hoping someday she will be the hero and not me. My knuckles crack and pop, I wonder if I could write my hand off, if it would just die and fall to the ground. I take a very brief moment to work the kinks out of my hand. I squint at the sun descending ever westward. Late afternoon haziness has settled in the forest. I gaze around me, and see Vincent asleep fast in the sun near the stream. He is not wearing the crimson swath to cover his hair and face, his boots are off, feet pale and beautiful, smudged with a little wet soil. His pants are torn at the cuff and rolled up to mid-calf. I smile at him, and my pen moves. I draw him, try to capture the peace of the moment. Ever tried to depict regained innocence? It's not easy . . . I guess I manage, and I hold the journal back to look at my work, my eyes are strained and hurt. But I'm not quite done yet.
As I write the final words my pen runs out of ink. "Thank you Vincent, I love you and am happy because of you." I shut the book and leave it in the grass, near the discarded saddlebag. I don't look at Vincent. Rather the stunning red oranges of the sky enthrall me and I walk to the edge of the mountain, and stare far far below at the deep gash in the land. The melding browns and purples of the earth in the waning light. And I hope that one day everyone will know I died happy. I inhale deep the air around me, the very green life in the forest giving me happiness and harmony. I am happy, I think for the first time ever . . . because I know I don't have to do this anymore, not ever. I know that I can finally /rest/. If I stayed, if I thought I had to stay . . . I wouldn't feel this way. I could never continue existing in this place, or any other place on this world. Because if I didn't have this happiness, this knowledge that it will all be over, I'd still be just the same as I always was. Forever and ever tormented and anguished with no light guide me, nothing to save me. But I know I'm going . . . I know what waits for me at the bottom of the canyon. I jump . . . I'd been wanting to since this morning. And I fall and think of wings. And I fall and think of Him, my one, my only, my Love.
The end... So it took me way too long to write like three paragraphs and I apologize. Infinite thanks to dearest love Holland acted as a pseudo muse and editor and kinda smacked me around a bit to make me write. I hope everyone enjoyed this and if theres confusion just write me or IM me or that good shit. I might write something again if so provoked. Review also, must get 100 review . . . must.
Bail