• 優しいだけの言葉なら今の僕は癒せない



    I stand in the eye...of an inn. Looking out at this world, watching the dark clouds roll above the treeline, the dark silhouettes of the raging sea of leaves whipped up by the wind which also makes the building I stand in creak and cry out...odd, for something so dead and abused. As the sky grows darker with it's anger, I can feel my own rising to meet it. I do not move, do not speak, but my breathing is ragged, excited and my eyes wide as I watch...feel and listen to the voice of the wind. Gods, it teases and rages before me...the atmospheric current roaring above my head, above the roof, almost mocking my mortal form...

    It knows me...my thoughts...my heart...my soul. And in a flash of jagged lightning searing it's path through the air to the earth below, it's rage and pain is reflected within my eyes, further reflected by the windowpane separating me from the wild wind on the other side. Gemstones don't burn, but this emerald glare I see staring back at me gives even me, its owner, a shiver of fear...how can such a person hate so much? Where does this rage boil up from?

    Another flash, blanketing the dark cloud in a second of white light, and more is revealed to the windowpane. Moon-touched skin...sapphire hair, cascading around dark leather shoulders, the rest of the form fading into the darkness of the light-less room I stand in. The personification of exotic beauty, but those yes...gods, could I tear them from me and cast them away...yet just as much I wish to hold them to me, let them burn dark holes into me, through me, devour this pitiful form and all its done...

    With a soft sigh, I push the self-mangling thoughts aside just as the wind rises in pitch. Murmurs beneath my feet from the common bar room below reach my pointed ears, tones of concern over the storm...how pathetic. To complain...the tripe below my feet are not even fit to pay homage to my great wind even if they had the brains to do so. Why am I here then...I care not for them...I walked away from my own even...so caught up in trivial politics and worthless word games. And this lot, these humans...rushing to their final moments day in and out and slobbing away on the finest gift ever given...how can they spit on their mother?

    So, then why...am I here? Dear Wind, why do you mock me when my fleshy bonds are not of my own doing...you know me...you court me...yet you continually make me feel as wingless as the butterfly with its wings picked by some horrid child.

    As if in answer, the windows rattle, drawing my gaze to them, eagerly watching as the wind slips its fingers between the cracks between pane and sill, trying to wrench it free. And I leave it locked still, wanting to see it torn away, to see the dead wood splintered and dry and tossed high in the air. But it only shakes and quivers...the lock holds. This simply won't do. Not after everything...

    "Why do you not reach harder for me?!" In my impatience with the great tempest I lift my hand, balled into the small fist and punch through the glass. That not being enough, despite the small cuts and sore knuckles, I wail my hand and wrist about, knocking free the large shards that would have trapped my hand there, welcoming the gush of wind that blows the scent of my blood and the energy charged air outside straight into my face and hair.

    My hand does not shake. I do not shake. Only the tears of my innermost struggle tremble upon my lashes as I peer out into the night, my hand held out in offering to the gusting beast that has tested my patience and great desire for the last several hours. The blood slips down to my elbow, I can't even tell how many cuts I have, though I suspect the blood loss could be great...

    The portions of glass not broken away by my short tantrum are splayed with streams of my blood being swayed this way and that as it continues to slip over my ever pale skin, dripping from the wrist and back of my hand and fingers. My eyes do not waver as I watch the blood flow free of me...

    ...and at last...that tell-tale touch...invisible to even my eyes, the gentlest breeze escapes the ripping gale above and caresses my bloody hand, warming the chilled fingers, wrapping itself around the small sacrifice...

    ...it is not so different from a lover taking my hand, wishing only to protect my soul as I lay dying still, with no end to my torment.

    Such understanding...is not mortal. A slight bow of my head causes a rogue bang to slightly obscure my vision, this also is gently brushed aside from a tendril of the warm breeze just within my reach. A small smile appears...and I nod once.

    "...not yet...I know...until the end."


    果てしなく続く戦いにこの身をすべて捧げるだけ