He stood
there, his long, golden hair falling, loose from its bonds and
driping with the water that the heavens cried in cold, mournful
waves.
His hand was hidden, from the observer in the alcove,
obviously clutched about something, but held in front of him, whereas
he observer could only see his back, as he stood there, ever alert,
ever watchful and worried for his protege. Long rivulets of water ran
down the black of the tailored suit, ruined by rainwater and only
worn for the formality of the occasion, his favourite red cloak
dismissed on this night.
The cough that escaped the watcher's
throat made his protege's head snap up his hair almost floating in
defiance of gravity before rapping down on his back as it gave in to
the forces acting upon it. More water was now added to the ruined
suit, the dull thumps of the falling hair barely audible over the
steady heartbeat of the cascading rain. In a graceful movement,
beautiful, yet sad, the watched turned, his eyes red, puffy, almost
crystalline with salted water yet to flow, and the clear light ale
colour they usually were was almost unrecognisable for the dull
yellow they had become. No movement either made was harsh enough to
break the serene atmoshpere.
Even the hitching of the boy's
breath as he fought tears and the slight tremble of his shoulders as
he began to loose the fight was in it's place in the environment.
The watcher held out his arms, gently, comfortingly,
beckoning without demanding towards the boy, and a few shaky steps
was all the boy could have before the dam finally broke, and he ran,
sobbing into those outstretched arms, burying his face in the other's
chest as heaving sobs shuddered through his body. The protector paid
no heed as his suit was ruined by the salty vapours and the rainwater
that the boy had unwittingly dumped there. He merely wrapped his arms
around the boy's shoulders and held him, softly, gently, and waiting
for the tears to stop.
He had never cried in the rain.
He
had been the boy's protector for the past 5 years, keeping a closer
eye on him than himself, lest something break the boy's iron spirit
and determination to survive. his black hair was elegantly styled to
sweep his face with a grace, and to hold his eyes lest they become
too wide and innocent once again. And even as he held the boy, he did
his best to keep his gloved hands dry.
Soon, the tears ran
out, and the boy, still hiccoughing tourned his face upwards and
asked, through puffy lips and red rimmed eyes "Why?"
The
effect of this torn and roughened syllable was profound on the man,
as he gently took the boy's right arm in his own, sliding up the suit
and glimpsing the cold metal that was its makeup. He softly uncurled
the boy's fingers to reveal two shattered fragments of a steel like
metal, smeared with a transmution circle drawn in blood, one half of
it on each of the pieces. The circle almost appeared as if it had
been split perfectly down the middle.
There were no words to
say as the boy, soon to be a man cried in the rain.
The
sound of one hand clapping is a lonesome sound.
It plauges the
soul, haunts the heart
and brings even the strongest to their
knees.
