A/N: Pote that I have forewarned you, right here, that this piece has
absolutely no plot whatsoever - it is true fluff! However it was created
in my too-long-idle mind through a moralistic conversation with a friend, I
felt it would make an interesting Farfie piece, though I'm not sure if the
moral in discussion really comes into play. Either way some people may be
disturbed by this piece, due to Farf violence, possible blasphemy depending
on which way you look at it and possibly the moral in question.
Therefore to avoid flames about under-rating my fic, it is rated R, whether
or not it should I couldn't decide - so I erred on the side of caution. If
you feel in any way disturbed by any of the above listed things or think
that this fic might not be up you alley, as much as I like reviews, I
suggest you stop reading here. What am I doing scaring off the readers?!
I don't mean to scare you off, I just couldn't forgive myself if someone
got offended or anything from this fic.
Please R & R, I quite like feedback on good/bad points in my fics. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Farfarello (much to my disappointment but I don't
think he'd like being "owned" by a fan-girl.) I do own the other character
in this fic, he doesn't have a name, feel free to name him for me!
Only When I Sleep
The Irishman walked slowly down the middle of the deserted road. The
surrounding area was darker than pitch, the only light was created by a
flickering street light a feet hundred metres ahead. The heavily scarred
assassin took in the area with his single, uncovered, and seemingly
deadened, amber eye. He absentmindedly ran his thumb along the shining
silver edge of the blade in his hand, leaving a dark crimson trail where it
had been. The Schwarz bladesman seemed not to notice. After all, what was
pain in the whole scheme of things? He didn't know and he didn't care.
He paused for a moment, just outside the flickering street light's aura,
which it had cast out in the night's murky depths, washing away the dark
shadows. It was as if he was afraid of the light, as if it would expose
him, burn him, desecrate him beyond description. His lone visible eye
showed no clue to his inner thoughts; it was hollow, glazed and almost
trance-like. As if he were a mere ghost walking in the realm of the
living, with no real place in the world he found himself in. He blinked,
and in the fraction of a second his eye closed, his deadened gaze shifted.
When his heavy eyelid reopened he was looking, not at the foreboding light
that fought a desperate battle with the silent night, but towards the
ground, where the light pooled upon granite coloured tarmac.
Lying in the middle of the pool of, to the Irishman, seemingly unstable,
unsafe light, was a man. His face was etched full of deep lines, that
covered all the places one could think of when the human face changes
expression to one of thought or anguish. His facial hair was past the
point of being mere stubble or fluff, but not yet long enough to be
classified as anything more. He was curled up against the concrete gutter
in an almost fetal position. His hair had obviously once been a rich
mahogany colour, but it had faded and was now heavily threaded with smoky
coloured strands. The man's clothes consisted of a mismatch of colour and
style that would easily surpass a certain German Telepath*. His was clad
in a red and black checked shirt, worn grey tracksuit pants and grubby,
once white sneakers whose seams seemingly served no purpose, except perhaps
decoration. The entire picture gave the impression of filth, bad hygiene,
early aging and depression.
To the momentarily paused Farfarello it seemed almost ironic, to his
currently partly lucid mind, that he was wary of the light, trying to avoid
it if possible. While this man seemed so scared, as if this flickering,
unstable light source was his only sanctuary. The Irishman's keen eye
sighted from his own, far less well- lit, sanctuary, that this man was
asleep. This awakened more thoughts in the lucid section of the Schwarz
Has God forsaken you too? Do you hate him with the same loathing I do?
The man stirred but a little before continuing on in his slumber.
Peace - have I ever experienced peace?
The silver haired man's golden eye sparked slightly in the closest thing to
emotion it was liable to show. It disappeared almost instantly but
Farfarello was disturbed by his own thoughts, and almost instantly the
dominant emotion in his closed heart reared up - anger. His amber eye
slowly started to glitter maliciously and a bloodthirsty hunger began to
grow within its depths.
"You think you have the right to be peaceful, when He ruins lives?"
As he whispered this he glanced down at the sleeping man, weighing his
blade, still edged with his own dark blood, in his hand before slowly
wrapping his pale fingers tightly around it's familiar hilt.
"What gives you the right to need the light to feel safe? Don't you know
He basks in light?! Don't you know he will destroy you life?! TAKE AWAY
The lucid state that had trapped a part of Farfarello's mind shattered as
he leapt silently forward, no utterance of his famous battle cry broke the
ebony depths of the night. His mind was twisting and writhing, one phrase
screaming at him,
"TAKE AWAY YOUR PEACE?!"
Landing the fatal blow on the sleeping man, his long, already bloodstained
blade easily slicing through the checked shirt to cleave the unknown man's
internal organs past the point of return. The Irishman glared down at the
soon to be lifeless man, his blade still embedded in his victim's side,
breathing hard his single amber soul window gleaming wickedly as he panted,
"You all want to die in your sleep - every human's ultimate way to die,
peacefully in their sleep. Thank me for giving you your peace before He
could take it away."
With that the silver haired psychopath pulled the blade freed from the
man's side and the unknown victim's thick, dark ruby coloured, life fluid
ebbed from the wound. Farfarello turned and as he walked away from the now
"truly peaceful" man's body he raised the dripping knife to his lips and
ran his tongue slowly along it's bloody edge. Feeling another emotion
twinge within his anger - satisfaction.
* I truly do appreciate Schuldig and count him as my second favourite Weiss
Kreuz character, after Farf, but it does take a special person to match a
Hawaiian shirt with an olive green trench coat.
A/N: For anyone who got this far - well done! I thought I'd scared you off
with my first A/N, obviously not. For those who were wondering - the moral
in discussion which caused the creation of this fic, was: "People want to
die peacefully while they're sleeping, then why is it such a bad thing to
be killed in your sleep? Feel free to comment on the subject, either by
emailing or reviewing! ^_^