Disclaimer: I don't write Guyver, Yoshiki Takaya does; I don't own Guyver, Yoshiki Takaya does; I just like Guyver. So I write for it.
He had always known that he could never make any real progress in his fight, knew that with his body as screwed up as it was that the best he could hope to do was make them remember him.
He knew that fact from the start; had raged against it, had hated the ones who made it fact, had wondered if there would be any way of changing the fact; but he had known it all the same.
Still, he would make them remember him.
When he'd met the others like him, the ones who had a power like what had been forced upon him, the ones who had found what his enemies searched so long and hard for, something that he had entertained ideas of getting his hands on; he's wanted to laugh and scream at the same time.
Instead he settled for helping the younger one out of trouble. He didn't trust the older, darker one very much.
But him, the young boy who had reminded him so much of his own boy, he could be trusted.
There had been others, many others, but he couldn't remember them now.
But he could remember his son; his son with bright eyes and a warm smile; his son with light laughter and a resilience that always amazed him when he saw it in action. His son with eyes the same color as his mother's.
She who had loved him; she who had held him in the lonely times of his life; she who he had loved; she who was now cold ashes in an urn buried in a place he didn't even remember very well.
Ashes, that was what he was becoming.
There was some kind of fire in his mind, eating away at everything he had ever been. Somehow it didn't feel like he was dying, but maybe that was because he was already dead.
Yes; he remembered now. He'd died under the mountain; then he wondered how it was that he was still thinking. Still remembering, even if there were things that were slipping away from him.
Being burned away, rather.
Fire had always been something double-edged for him; something to be hated and praised almost in the same breath. Fire destroyed, after all. There were some things that needed to be destroyed, of course.
But there were some things that fire should never touch.
The fire, it was everywhere now; burning away things that he was certain had once meant something to him. Still, nothing of the fire touched his son.
He was pleased about that much, at least.
With everything around him either being burned away or changing form, it was comforting for him to have something solid to hold on to. With everything around him turned to ash by the fire, it was good to have something that remained.
As the fire rose around him, he stared into the eyes of his son; deep eyes the color of ocean water. Water to protect him against the rising fire.
Still, the fire had its own cruel beauty about it; he thought that even as it washed over the both of them and left nothing recognizable in its wake.
It would take time for him to learn the details of what had happened to him, since he was by now at least reasonably sure that he wasn't dead. Still, there was one thing that had endured through the fire.
One thing that he could hold on to. That would be enough.