sightless.
Tuesday, May 14th, 2013 01:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sisyphus posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
evolutionaryTitle: sightless.
Warnings: All that includes.
Word Count: 459
Characters: Alan.
Notes: Heavily references something not yet written in full, as well as Gentle Homicide.
Summary: Evolution has been labeled a crime, while development called as an art. Speak truth of both: Nothing can be created without being destroyed.
Gentle is the song that’s sung, beneath the open air of tombs. Peace above and blood below, from crying eyes and life that flows. This is the quiet cry: Let all who live now learn to die.
-
This is the way the world ends. Red and wet, matting hair and the senses. Speaking riddles in sensation, and quiet whispers against skin. It’s raining, and that’s nothing a surprise. It’s raining, and--
He has killed ten men. He has killed more. His eyes cannot piece together the parts enough to make more bodies whole enough to count. Once, perhaps, this would have made him retch and his vision darken. Once, maybe, but maybe again, not at all. He’s always been a beast of men, a creature above many, and it was only Alan really who was the last to learn the difference.
There are steps taken to separate men from their humanity, and there are steps of varying degrees for men whose mentalities have further separated from the aspect of humanity before the thought even occurred, and Alan has taken them all without a thought, spared nothing for that foreign concept, and it’s obvious, as it’s always been without him focusing on the idea. That what was for others--
--Was not for him.
There is crying in his ears. He cannot find the one who makes the sound. His vision is reddened by the blood pouring from his hair into his eyes, the rain not enough to dilute the color away. There are no sounds from the bodies around him, for it had been a long time since they could rightfully be called bodies. There is an absence in his chest, and instead of a lack, it feels like far too familiar. Another not himself had felt the same thing, he thought. But that one had placed it near and to the side, and never, ever, face on.
Alan had been given the geis to not look away. And here again, he had held that promise in full.
Had she known it from the start, what she had required of him? Had she planned this perfectly, thought out those eight moves in advance as the world’s most perfect player, to carry forward a weapon forged by a universe’s will, without any locks or holds in place-- Without the pretty words of nobility and honor and even will?
Will would hold a person in check by allowing them focus, perfect and complex, would let them take the most perfect actions, to look away from points to keep to others, but Alan would not look away.
He had honed that pure and perfect thing, into a ceaseless song.
The rain would continue, for now, yet again. His vision continued to be marred.
He saw only red. He had long forgotten blue.
Warnings: All that includes.
Word Count: 459
Characters: Alan.
Notes: Heavily references something not yet written in full, as well as Gentle Homicide.
Summary: Evolution has been labeled a crime, while development called as an art. Speak truth of both: Nothing can be created without being destroyed.
Gentle is the song that’s sung, beneath the open air of tombs. Peace above and blood below, from crying eyes and life that flows. This is the quiet cry: Let all who live now learn to die.
-
This is the way the world ends. Red and wet, matting hair and the senses. Speaking riddles in sensation, and quiet whispers against skin. It’s raining, and that’s nothing a surprise. It’s raining, and--
He has killed ten men. He has killed more. His eyes cannot piece together the parts enough to make more bodies whole enough to count. Once, perhaps, this would have made him retch and his vision darken. Once, maybe, but maybe again, not at all. He’s always been a beast of men, a creature above many, and it was only Alan really who was the last to learn the difference.
There are steps taken to separate men from their humanity, and there are steps of varying degrees for men whose mentalities have further separated from the aspect of humanity before the thought even occurred, and Alan has taken them all without a thought, spared nothing for that foreign concept, and it’s obvious, as it’s always been without him focusing on the idea. That what was for others--
--Was not for him.
There is crying in his ears. He cannot find the one who makes the sound. His vision is reddened by the blood pouring from his hair into his eyes, the rain not enough to dilute the color away. There are no sounds from the bodies around him, for it had been a long time since they could rightfully be called bodies. There is an absence in his chest, and instead of a lack, it feels like far too familiar. Another not himself had felt the same thing, he thought. But that one had placed it near and to the side, and never, ever, face on.
Alan had been given the geis to not look away. And here again, he had held that promise in full.
Had she known it from the start, what she had required of him? Had she planned this perfectly, thought out those eight moves in advance as the world’s most perfect player, to carry forward a weapon forged by a universe’s will, without any locks or holds in place-- Without the pretty words of nobility and honor and even will?
Will would hold a person in check by allowing them focus, perfect and complex, would let them take the most perfect actions, to look away from points to keep to others, but Alan would not look away.
He had honed that pure and perfect thing, into a ceaseless song.
The rain would continue, for now, yet again. His vision continued to be marred.
He saw only red. He had long forgotten blue.
