Disclaimer: I think people have the picture by now. I don't own Trigun, nor do I own the title of this chapter, which is basically the same as a Cowboy Bebop song title 'The Singing Sea'. The only things I own is the character, Ananaza, and the idea of Knives keeping her like this. Yep.

A/N: I actually wanted to write something more...substancial but this is what came out. Aaah, well. I'm not sure if the mood seems off or not...

It has perhaps been longer than I should have left you alone, my silent companion. How long has it been? The moonlight has passed through its cycle at least two to three times. Perhaps that tells something, but I would not know.

I have been reading of the sea. It seems to be a common theme in these old books. Oddly, the longer I am here, the more the scribbles and lines on the old, curled papers begin to shape into words, forms I can recognize.

What the sea is, I could not say, but it sounds to be a bit like the air, cool and cleansing, but ever-changing in a constant rhythm, like the pattern of the moon. It shifts and changes; but is all-powerful. For everywhere that I read, the sea is called the "life-giving" place, like a long abandoned home, a warm, quiet place of deep contemplation. That is what it makes me think of anyway. A calm, shady place without sound or light, in a deep, deep space. I wish I could see this sea. I'm not sure why though, since I likely will not.

From what I remember before I came here, I do not believe there was ever anything quite like the sea.

In the books, the words say that the sea sings, humming in a gentle purr or a thundering roar. I can't understand that, unless it really is that changeable. It seems to be made of something more malleable than dirt but more visible than air. It's said to be a shifting rainbow of blues and greens, grays and whites, and all shades in-between.

I've found that since I have begun reading of it, that I heard it in my dreams, maybe even seen it. It always seems to be the same: a quiet darkness all around me. I am enclosed in a womb of silence and far off in the distance is an echoing sound, a plink of shadow rippling through the safe darkness. It is always faraway, like the hum of the wind I can sometimes hear, gentle but constant. As the nights passed on the dream seemed to continue, for instead of simply being a sound there was an aroma accompanying it, a scent that I had never tasted. Slightly bitter it was, but fresh with a tingly sensation in my dream-nose that made me sigh and inhale again.

Eventually the small, echoing sound grew into a distant rumble, hissing back and forth with a swift moan, as if it had begun to beat against itself, pounding hard against some unseen surface. There was a rhythm in the noise that would have lulled me into slumber if I had not already been dreaming. With it the scent increased as well, more potent, more brisk than before.

As the nights continued on, soon the darkness began to melt away. It was slow at first, like a dripping wall beginning to melt to reveal a new sight. Underneath the blackness was a deeper shade of blue. Even in my dreams, I was reminded of that stranger, Wolfwood he called himself, with those deep blue eyes.

The blueness seemed to grow over the nights as well, shifting in odd patterns, shaping in wavy, curly forms, as the sound grew clearer, a constant hiss and call like an old, old song. A rhythm soon emerged from the sound, as a breath being drawn into a deep, scratchy lung only to be released in a swift wheeze that hummed loudly. The scent had not changed.

Soon the blue took on a life of its own, other colors forming there; swirls of gray, lines of white, brighter sparks of blue. As the blue changed, so did the aroma accompanying it; it became even stronger, fresher and with it I could almost taste something on my lips. Almost salty, but not quite. The sound grew more constant, following the change in colors in the blue. It became a song to listen to, a melody to dance to, not just the breathing of a deep, deep place. It became something real, something alive.

Oh, but I don't really know what I am saying. Despite all this, it was still only a dream. And regardless of how much I might like for it to be the sea, the chances are slim that I would dream of it.

Sadly, the one point none of the books answer is what became of this sea. That is one piece of information I would like to know.

I'm sure it seems as if I have forgotten my earlier ill comfort. It is not that I am happy – I hardly believe I know what it means – it is merely I have no point in writing of those things. I cannot change where I am. I cannot change what is happening. There is little reason to try. So I spend my time reading and that is what I try and write of.

Of course, that does mean I have forgotten. Every night I think, or try to think of the things that are happening, but I find myself unbearably tired. It is as if all I have is the energy for is reading; it is the least tiring thing I can do. No matter what is happening, I can not seem to build up enough worry, enough sadness, enough of anything. I should be concerned, and as I write this I do feel a momentary pang of alarm but it is only a small pang.

Wolfwood did come again, if you'd liked to know, my quiet listener. He did not say much, as he had the first time, and I had begun to feel lethargic, as I am now, so that I did not speak much myself. But having the company was pleasant. It some ways, it was most pleasant of all not to have to speak. I did not have to explain myself, and I was not in any danger of my silence. Curiously, merely having him come was refreshing in it's own way, perhaps because I did not have to be afraid.

The long time without Knives maybe has done me good. Ah, how odd, that I can write his name without shuddering. Though there is a twinge in abdomen when I think of him.

Ah, yes, that reminds me. I now know that he was right—for some reason I cannot bring myself to call him by his name now—about the child. The area of my lower abdomen has grown until it has become a small bugle. It makes it difficult to write this, while another part of my mind can't help thinking there is something odd about this. But I can't place it.

Whatever it is, I am no longer in any doubt, not that I ever truly was. But it is one thing to be told you have a child, and another to know you have one.

I have been…thinking of that. I cannot fathom, nor should I, what Knives—what he—has in store. There is a strange tear in my normal fear and submission to him. I know he could kill me easily, throw me away as he likely will when he is done with whatever twisted plan he has, but somehow something inside me cannot easily give in. I have not been able to figure it out, only that I can feel this child in me, a pulsating rhythm that beats along with mine. There is pain of course, but…it is only small bouts, twinges really. Maybe they are heartbeats.

Aaah. I cannot let Knives take this child from me. Or at least, I cannot let him take me away from my child, because that one is my child. I am the child's mother, whatever he thinks of humanity. I won't let him take me away from my child.

I wonder if this feeling…I wonder if this is what it means…to be human? I wonder…