Author's Note: Whew. Just did a marathon session of SH:C, and, needless to say, feeling a bit emotional at the moment. It's not very often when a game's plot has the power to nearly drive one to tears, naturally, so here's a small drabble to celebrate one of the best damn games I've ever had the pleasure to experience. Hopefully it's not very confusing. : )
o0o
This was his favorite time, minutes before midnight, with the wind and the rain and a firelit moon -- with his knees against the dirt and his head sunken into his hands, sitting there, for hours, mindless of it all and yet, only when he closed his eyes, entirely aware of the lone tear trailing its way down his cheek. That one tree rolled and swayed, leaves humming in the wind, throwing a strange shadow across the hilltop, and he could almost hear the whispers amongst the branches, the small voices coming slowly and all at once between the flashes of lightning and the roar of thunder in the distance.
It was that time again.
There was this grave, too -- this cold stone thing, looking almost awkward against the damp grass, all white and strange and unmarked save for the crude lines etched deeply into the surface. He had traced the letters, once, trailing a single finger across the script, rolling the words silently off his tongue, his frozen lips managing little but the sounds and the memories he had tucked into his ownmind so long ago. He might have said more, too, but the letters -- the apology -- were lost, again, carried away with the breeze, the words torn to nothing in the light of the old moon.
Nothing had changed.
Maybe, when he shut his eyes, forgetting everything but the incessant touch of the rain against his skin, he could see her face again, could hear her voice again, and wonder just how he ever managed to let her go. She was there, yes, laid beneath the dirt, and for one long second he almost wanted to rip the earth up again, to hold her close, to get even a fraction closer to the delicate smile that shaped his dreams. It was a tempting thought, in its own way, and yet he knew he could never do it, could never even think of disturbing her peace -- the peace he could never find, now, the peace he wanted almost more than anything.
There was a time when he could take it all away -- when he could open his eyes just that once and see her sitting next to him, leaning gently against his shoulder, breathing low and softly and with the hint of a smile flickering across her lips. The train was rolling, rumbling beneath them, and somehow, someway, they were alone, completely alone in the row of sun-touched glass and leather. He could place his arm around her waist and smile, feeling her lean back instinctively into his chest, and thenhe could close his own eyes,drifting back to slumber, knowing, without even the hint of a doubt, that this is where he forever wanted to be.
It wouldn't last.
The train would lull, then, fading to nothing, and in an instant he was alone again, so very alone, staring at the grave -- her grave -- and feeling the blood trail down his palm. There was a cross, there, clutched tightly against the skin, a silver thing he had always carried close to his heart;the edges were dull, now, and stainedred,laced with the dark tricklecrawling down his skin. Slowly, he set it there, laying it carefully atop the tombstone, watching the rain wash away all semblances of his blood with an agonizing gentleness.
I miss you.
This was his favorite time, minutes after midnight, with the wind and the rain and a firelit moon -- with the thought that nothing had changed, that nothing would ever be the same, with the clashing storm whipping against his skin, and that one lone tear, again, rolling down his cheek. That one tree was sighing, throwing the same strange shadow across her grave, and, when he closed his eyes, then, and everything fell to black, he could hear only her laughter, a melodic ringing against his ears, and, in the end, his own sobbing, washing the world to nothing.
Happy birthday, Alice.