sisyphus: xenogears; emeralda kasim (fading to fall)
ѕιѕуρнυѕ ([personal profile] sisyphus) wrote in [community profile] veiledallegory2012-07-31 01:36 am

31 Days: Cannot Change.

Title: Cannot Change.
Fandom: 31 Days prompt list.
Warnings: Meh.
Word Count: 855.
Notes: This kicks off the 31 Days challenge for writing that I'm doing. All ficlets will be original works, not related to any fandom.

Prompt: 1 - He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were.

He wanted to tell them. Nearly everything, really. There was so much that remained where they were--so little known, and partly, he knew, because of him; because of assuming, always, in the way people always do, that there was time left, time yet to say everything still. Because people were cowards, and he knew that--that they would put off things endlessly without thought or malice, but because of the idiotic human perception that the end was so far off.

And he was no different. No different. There were the things that one thought in darkness, with the knowledge that somewhere far above them their body was lying in a pool of its own blood. There were the thoughts that one thought when the knowledge set in--that their perception would never again lighten, that the darkness gained was absolute.

...So dramatic. He thought to laugh,and far off somewhere, he heard a wet gurgling cough slowly fading away. Maybe that was something allowed at the end--all the dramatics never used in life. Or maybe that was something that just transpired when things shifted that far, to a place that could no longer be recognized. Perhaps, then, that's the thing that you can be forgiven for, if only that. He felt he had digressed from a point he could no longer remember. A steady haze was thickening the darkness around him, making it all the more complete.

What was there left to say?

His thoughts were for his children, his partners. For the ones that fought beside him for a common bond, a focused goal: Was that all it was? It seemed past his ability to recall. Past the ability to ken. There was something of mourning in the thought, and he wondered--still, again--was that all it had been? He remembered, remembered that was how he treated it, that was the distance kept between: a dignified caution, an untouchable focus. There was no room for closeness, comfort, in the scenario presented. No room, and no need, for such unsightly things.

Then, why, at the undeniable end of things, did his thoughts return to those people? Not to the things left unfinished, but the burden they would carry now. Not the enemies hated, but those he had been trying to protect. That was what it came down to, wasn't that it? It wasn't about his revenge, or noble goals, or divine motivation at all. It was about them. About the world he had wanted to make for them. The world he would leave behind.

It came with a fierce clarity, a driving force, but there was nothing remaining to be done--no last choices to be made, no final actions to be taken.

Was it enough? Had it been enough? Fought, lived, moved, and died--was any of it ever enough? And how would they know--now--what was held inside his breast, the things he would never be able to say now? Was this the way things actually ended--not with the bang he had envisioned, but something less than a whimper. Remorse was a rolling, endless wave, but even that was lessening, leaking away with his life onto the ground. Powerlessness drove spikes into him, allowing a pain to be felt through everything. There was nothing--no, nothing anymore.

"Da-- Father!"

Far off and heard yet still, like a dream in fragments when one was close to waking. Something wanted, cherished, and there was a part of him left that smiled. Closer, though, opposite, through the haze and the black, was a set of footsteps drawing near, slow and precise. The knowledge of the owner filtered into his slowing mind without thought--he had grown through the ages with this one, after all--knew all aspects and movements entirely.

Except, he thought, for the most important one.

There was so much he wanted to tell them. Nearly everything, really. He wanted to explain the futility of one's actions when driven only out of hatred, and lacking love. He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were. He wanted to give them his reasons and motivations, and all the knowledge they should know that he had always planned on telling them one day. He wanted them not to trust his murderer, and not to follow him into the dark. He wanted to remember their voices--their faces--but everything was flitting from his grasp now when he tried to reach. Slipping from his mind when he tried to hold on.

A woman-- "You have such gentle eyes." A child-- "Daddy, do you see the butterfly, do you; it's so pretty, Daddy." A comrade-- "All of us, we're with you all the way." A friend-- "It can't be healthy, keeping all of that inside." A lover-- "It's killing you! You need to just let--"

One closer than blood-- "You never even looked my way in the investigation, did you? Sentimentality."

A boy-- "I'll do better next time, I promise I won't disappoint you agai--"

No, he thought gently. You never disappointed me, my son.

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