White is For the Pure
A/N: I started this fic a little over a year ago, but I deleted it, after receiving a review awhile ago that bared the very soul ofwhat I wrote.I spent months thinking about what I wrote. I decided it wasn't lacking anything, and it wasn't trying to sound mature. It was written straight from my heart. Granted, portions are somewhat forced, but due to certain events from Hell, I think they deserve pardon. Please enjoy this next piece. Which has been entirely revamped from a collection of drabbles to a full-fledged tale.
-Fallen Seraphim Azarael
Petals of silk scattered softly upon the sodden ground. One would almost expect the world to weep, for it to clean with its tears the wounds of life, of humanity.
But no, the smiling face of the sun continued to greet the faces of the dead, the mutilated corpses of the Tuatha de Danaan.
One would almost expect it to be silent upon the field of blood, for there to be silent tribute to the lives of so many. The lives sacrificed as meaninglessly as the sweet daisies crushed beneath the feet of thousands. As the missiles reached their targets, causing an eruption of coarse screams of agony.
Oh no, no reverence paid to the dead by the sweet-singing birds of mid-afternoon, the gentle summer of late April.
It was almost obscene, to be perfectly honest.
Yet, the wind seemed to be screaming a touch more demanding today, the greenery seemed a bit darker today. Even the beautiful sky above appeared to be scolding the unchanged earth.
Though no one was here to see such things, to taste the salty remnants of human sweat, blood, and tears present in the air. No one to see the tell-tale signs of a battle fought and lost. None even knew a war had raged on this tranquil meadow where the children of the village played.
It was impossibly obscene, appalling to even the most stoic of the race. The lack of compassion evident, the truth lost and muddled within a cauldron of glorified shame. Finally, a phrase that could so accurately sum up the drastic faults that riddled the very fabric of the human nature.
Soon some unsuspecting victim would come upon this field of death, the departing of agonized souls. Perhaps a small child, scampering about the woods for flowers and herbs, only run screaming home to her mother. Oh woeful that it is that such a demise would have been chosen by one man.
A man that lived with and without a soul, one who survived on the barest hints of humanity. Who could live without a kind word from another for years, or rather, any contact whatsoever. He was cold, impassionate, a splendorous diamond chipped from the ice of Hell.
Fire and brimstone, the spawn of Hell? Ah no, the confusing myths of the Christian Hell. Hate is not the opposite of love, for both involve a person actually concentrating on another. Indifference. That would be the word. This man was indifferent to all he met, and dealt with on a consistent basis.
This man had chosen this as his ending in this world, his finale farewell.
Innocent life be damned.
… . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . … . …
Sometime later, a small child of about eight years came skipping into the meadow, a contented smile spreading wider as she heard the shouts of her friends. She raised her hand, admiring the bright violet bracelet against her pale skin. Her first day in the real light of day, out in the open with the birds and the trees-
Her smile suddenly dropped off her face, her hand hung loosely at her side, the other clamped tightly over her eyes. As if wishing this sight didn't exist. Carefully she moved her index finger up, to allow one eye to glance at the meadow again.
A scream rent the air, not the first of the day, but by far the most heart-wrenching. The silence became instant, even the birds took to quieting themselves in the face of such unbelievable misery.
And as the villagers came rushing to the aid of the little girl, as they stood by in horror as the girl rushed to each fallen man, tears in her eyes and water in her hands, they could only feel pity. Water droplets dribbled over each man's face, into their mouths and nostrils, some into their eyes. Each time the little girl drew a small cross over the faces and apologized, saying,
"I'm sorry sir, I don't know what the priest says over you, but I know he draws crosses with water on your face."
Each villager who heard her soft innocent voice say this felt their own faces feel wet with her cross. One piped that they should search for survivors, but an odd silence fell over the group.
There could be no survivors in the blasphemous catastrophe could there?
But lo and behold, behind one of the M9 mobile suits, there lay a man pinned beneath the arm, both legs broken and bones protruding at odd angles. His eyes were half-lidded and feverish, words tumbling out of his mouth oddly, hair mussed and caked with blood.
The little girl neared him slowly at first, then with eyes wide-open with tears pouring out of them, ran to him, nearly slipping on the blood-puddles soaked in the soft grass. Her hair-tie came undone, the soft black hair cascading over her shoulders and pastel dress, now stained with the wounds of war.
He gave her a glance, and raised a shaking hand to her cheek. He accepted her small gift of water with grateful smile. He could see no other than this innocent girl.
And he didn't wish to see anything else either.
He knew well what lay around him in this miserable meadow; he had caused a decent portion of it. His blond mane felt that felt once like a cape of gold now felt much like chains, bloody chains restraining him from grasping the sweet death he so wished for.
The little girl tugged at his ripped sleeve, reminding him that she was still there. At first, no words could he hear from her swiftly moving mouth, and then a fast torrent of panicked sentences.
To come with her, to let her mother help him, she was a doctor, she could make him all better. Just come with him…
He laughed, almost. Inside he laughed. Oh the innocence of youth, that all problems can be solved so simply. Even better the fact he couldn't walk. He knew he couldn't, he was sure he would never again.
Though for some reason he held no animosity towards his injury. It simply his punishment for being unable- no. Inability was an excuse- an excuse he would not accept. His incompetence and lack of skill resulted in this bloody end. Not nearly so many of his comrade's lives would have been extinguished if it hadn't been for him.
No, the inability to walk he would never curse. This was his punishment, something that he rightfully deserved. It was his fault.
It was something he could bear.
He smiled again at the little girl's teary eyes, her splotchy cheeks and puffy nose. No, he wasn't going anywhere he told her, though undoubtedly she hadn't hurt him. What was his name, she asked? Well, no harm in being buried with a name on his tombstone.
Kurz, Sergeant Kurz Weber, of the Tuatha de Danaan at your service ma'am.
Yeah, that was the way to do it. Service with a smile, death be damned; he would laugh and smile all the way to Hell. Ah the pleasures of delirium. There was always some small comfort in death, a little ray of sunshine if you will. At least those babes in Heaven would weep and pine for poor, poor, Kurz.
A/N: I hadn't counted on ending it quite that way, but at least this ends on a bit of a lighter note. This was also written from my heart, picturing in my head a very poetic setting of war. (Blame Peacemaker or Rurouni Kenshin. Not my fault!)
Review only if you like, no pressure, though it is always appreciated. Ta!