Disclaimer: Same as before, the character mentioned in here belongs to the creator of 'Trigun' et. al. I happily don't own him. As far as it goes, Knives is the only 'Trigun' character plus my own character who as yet still remains nameless.
A/N: I was never planning on adding to this but this bit just came to me one night. We'll see what happens next. I've re-posted this after attempting to edit it (that's never been a strong suit of mine…ah well.) I hope it reads a little bit better than before.
Sometimes it is nice to be alone. To be able to think. At least I feel that way. Though I wonder why that is, since I have so much time to myself now? But I enjoy it all the same, my dear imagined listener. The precious time I have to my own thoughts; the time I have to even have time to watch a trail of sunlight leak in, lighting a path for the routed ages of dust. Yes, now there is true sunlight, pouring through like spilled yellow wine from an uncorked bottle, and sincere night, falling full and dark from the large crack.
It stretches nearly a hand's width across the twisted images in the colored glass, high overhead in the upper reaches of the windows. The jagged edges contort the light, whether sun or moon, turning even their usual occurrence with a ray of unnaturalness. But even in its grotesqueness I find I am comforted somehow, if merely by the presence of something I had already begun to forget.
Perhaps I have been too long in the company of a madman.
But no…I shouldn't say such things…
The window is one of the closest to the inner bed chamber, standing as a steadfast solider overlooking the right-side entrance into a king's tomb, and as such, the light weaves its way to the corner of the huddled chairs where I make my abode.
It is nice to feel warmth upon my face, real warmth, from an outside source. Somehow, or maybe not so, I cannot seem to find that warmth in the one who keeps me caged here. He does not have any of the heat I seem to recall others had; others whom I use to know, whom I use to live and love with. But that seems so very long ago. Am I rambling? Perhaps I am.
I would smile if I could. A soft beam of yellow light, a pale golden shaft, has pierced this page as I sit here writing this, illuminating my words even as I struggle to find them. An unspoken trial, this effort to express these pent up feelings I have carried within in me for so long. How long has it been, indeed? A year? More than that? I hardly wonder anymore.
Though I wonder at the price I may have paid to receive this tiny bit of happiness. I am not sure if it is happiness, since I have been told that I am vermin and only useful to Knives for now, and therefore I am not sure if one such as myself would feel happiness. But if it is a small feeling, tiny but somehow golden and silver and shining all at once then perhaps I am. I have not seen him, Knives, since the night the crack broke in the upper window.
He had come as he does, without warning and without any sense that I have found, nights ago. I've lost count since then. Time does not really seem so important when you have no where else to go.
When he comes to my trapped prison there are no words spoken; simply he is there and I must come to him, as only a dog must when its master beckons.
But even a beast such as that is loved by its master, isn't it? Or is humanity that cruel that they would disrespect and beat their own animals? I have read a bit on them, on dogs, I mean. They are loyal animals, kind and playful. I wonder what it would be like to meet one. There was a picture of a dog in one of the books, a smudged drawing with thick black lines many of which had been messily smeared. But I could discern an elongated head with a narrow snout and floppy ears, hanging crookedly at the side. With large, round eyes, or rather round smears, it gave the drawing a strange sentiment of innocence, like a wide-eyed child taking in every occurrence as the water and wine of its life.
I think…that I regret. What, I wish I knew.
That night that he came would have been the same as all the others, except I had been in an uncommon pain. An ache had crept into my lower back and my abdomen felt as though it had been gnawing me alive, like hot pinpoints pricking on the inside. I had felt more irritable than usual, and I had finally found a position that was comfortable for me. All though the day I had been struggling to find way to sit that felt right. Every way I moved I felt simply more tender and stiffly bloated. I simply refused to move.
He waited of course, which surprised me. I had not expected him to. The moments drifted by, the silence between us growing heavier, thickening as a physical haze. From the corner of my eyes I saw his right hand twitch. Still his voice remained dormant.
I remember the way his eyes, ice-cold like winter blue, bored into the side of my face freezing me to the spot unable to move even if I had wished too. He has always been so cold, so very cold…even when he has had me entwined in his arms.
Waiting slowly began to melt away to impatience and frustration and a little bit of confusion. I saw it in his eyes though they remained unchanged. It's a peculiar thing, to be able to see deeply into such wintry eyes and somehow see so clearly that he is impatient and does not want to be so. But it is only a flicker of reflection off the cool mirrors of white-blue with which he uses to see me with. Through my time in his company I like to believe that I have come to see parts of him that no one else has ever seen. Or perhaps I am merely going mad? But somehow, surely, in the deep dark of night, covered in blood-red sheets, surely I must see something in that red womb as he presses himself into me, as cold as always.
After a pause in the silence though neither of us has said a word, the tension bubbled then broke giving way to an inky blackness. I felt it seeping into my bones. Afraid, I huddled deeper into the cushions, despite my earlier stanch protest against moving.
The sound of his footsteps echoed loudly in the dome of my room, followed by a thin click. Within mere seconds he was standing, hovering, beside me. He said nothing only gazed down at me coldly. I had a sudden stab of panic then, fearing for an instant that I had clearly overstepped my boundary as useful and Knives would dispose of me, as easily as throwing away worthless garbage though with much more enthusiasm.
I pulled myself in as tight as I could, almost in a ball, burying my face in my knees. The pain did not subside but fear overtook my bodily aches.
'You are in pain?' I thought his voice sounded amused. At the tone I peeked out at him through my fingers. He was still gazing down at me unflinching.
Unsure, I nodded dumbly up at him. He had nothing to say to that, and he did not move for the longest time. Gaining a well-source of hidden strength I somehow found the courage to speak. I do not now remember exactly what I said, but I believe it went something like this: 'I am in pain, yes. It's not bad really, I simply feel bloated and my stomach feels as though it is being twisted inside out.' I remember I winched after my words, the ache returning.
Knives remained silent. Then in a strange gesture he reached out an index finger to my forehead. Never had he touched me there, never in all the time I had known him. In spite of my surprise I felt relaxed. By body still ached, especially near my abdomen, but my spirit felt calm. I had never felt such peace in my life. The only words I have to express it to you, is to image a giant wave rushing up toward you unexpected and falling like golden-white satin. Soft, smooth, sincere. It filled up and washed over me, a giant force that was so much larger than me. A wave of light.
His next words broke through my calm. I will always remember them until the day I die.
'You are with child.'
I gawked up at him, his finger now removed. He seemed content and began to turn away then his ice eyes trailed down to the book in my spineless hands. In a deft movement faster than my eyes could see, he grabbed the dry, bone colored object from me. His mouth spread in a perverse smile. 'This will do.' Then without a word he hurdled it across the space of my room, shattering the glass high above. From it I saw the dim light of countless white stars. I stared up stunned. I must have asked why, for he told me, in a quite simple manner, 'You will need light for the child to grow on this wasteland.'
And then he left. I have not seen him since, though I did not expect to.
It seems I finally know the purpose of my usefulness.