Salvation Never Apparent

– - –

You try to laugh every time a young girl wishes herself away to the elves or the princes or the vampires or the Goblin King, but you can understand all too well why they might try.

– - –

what kind of world to WE live in?
where love is divided by hate
losing control of OUR feelings
WEre dreaming THIS life away

– - –

If he has anything, it is an endless stockpile of questions.

Every day at lunch, it's a different person–sometimes a guy, quite often a pretty girl. They always have problems, and few of them are interesting or unanswerable, but he thinks about them anyway and helps the questioner reach a conclusion by guiding them to the proper facts without throwing instructions in their face–his penchant for subtlety has developed over the years, but it is fading with each passing day his father spends on the battlefield.

Light Yagami is becoming quite the dramatic soul, and as you recognize this, you are thankful that no obsessive (everything he does is obsessive) love of art and music has manifested itself as he ages, because were he gifted with something even somewhat resembling artistic talent, he would not need a gun or blade to kill.

Knowledge alone is nowhere near as formidable as knowledge and emotion together and no being would give such power to a human; not even this human.

He is declining, though, you can see–it shows in the tired, dull gazes he gives . Deteriorating, disintegrating, deflating as his world collapses around him. As brilliant–as intuitive–as he is, he is too young to understand the unknown and it is killing him because he knows that there is something lying just beyond his grasp of reality and that that something is the essential key to one of his thousand shackles, but he can't reach it no matter how much he squirms and struggles against the sticky sheen of inexperienced, tainted innocence that wraps itself around his perceptions.

He is weary.

To him, life is all about knowing and it seems to you that he deals with the questions for the sheer sake of the questions themselves, but there is more there, a hollow in the pit of his stomach and a drive that you have seen time and time again in humans that pushes him towards something new, but he doesn't even know what he's searching for and you've never been able to decipher this longing. Even with the snitches of emotion you steal from him and the insight they bring–even with the ephemeral connection you have found from his conscience and his soul to whatever it is that constitutes your being, you cannot puzzle out this particular facet of his.

All you know is that it makes him ask the questions over and over and over and makes him count the spindly lumps of ceiling again and again and again as he lies awake at night, squeezing his fist against the writhing in his gut.

The questions dictate every aspect of his life and his existence revolves around the point at which they are answered–or not answered.

Questions, questions, questions. You are beginning to wonder if the question matters more than the answer–he has so many that sometimes, you have to admit that he already knows the answers and is simply asking the questions again, again, and again in the desperate hope that someone will be able to step up and lie, because no one ever really wants to know the truth; most certainly not him or you.

– - –

what kind of world to WE live in?
where love is divided by hate
selling OUR souls for no reason
WE all must BE dreaming THIS life away

– - –

Death traps wreak havoc on soldier morale, which is unfortunate, because the vengeful general is rather fond of dragging his men into them.

The frosty numb of stone is affecting you and with every fleeting echo, shudders reverberate through the silken cords of nothingness between the creeping shadows and your sinuous presence. The building is a prison and the halls are dark–outlines of shape and color are fleeting and valuable in the dusky world, but in comparison to the silent screams wailing in the minds of the husks of life chained within the rocky walls.

For a high-priority prison stuffed with political prisoners, security is surprisingly lax. Suspiciously lax, but he knows where he's going and he knows how to get there and he's certainly not going to complain if it just so happens that no one gets in his way.

They round another bend, and another, and another, and they are suddenly struck with the uneasy feeling that no one is watching them because no one can find them and that this hole buried deep beneath the fortifications of the Fourth Wall has never been successfully penetrated and escaped for a very, very important reason that had nothing to do with armed, competent guards.

Everything looks the same, everything sounds the same–everything is the same.

It is a maze.

You can see his apprehension in the tightness of his shoulders, but he halts before a door and twists around, gesturing at the line of soldiers behind them. Frantic scrabbling ensues and within moments, the door has been evaluated and measured and hung with explosives, and then it is gone in a bang of smoke and clatter and all you can hear are bells–silver bells, horrible, ringing bells–and screaming and pain.

There is a groan.

He walks forward with careful steps, and then he's at the wall and his hands are all over the chains and his fingers fumble with the keys as he realizes that the prisoner may well be dead because he's barely breathing and he's so skinny you can see his pulse dripping through his entire body with every beat of his heart, and he doesn't want to lose the prize.

The chains clatter against the wall and the older man slumps down, curling in on himself before the soldier lifts him slowly, gives the troops a nod, and begins to wind his way back through the tunnels, completely ignorant of the watchful enemy commander whose past and future coincides alarmingly with that of the man he carries.

And in that moment, everything as it has been changed collapses together in your mind and you are certain of what is to come, and the force behind it is deadly.

This is new and this is wrong and nothing you have foreseen has been anything like this because you look at the dark-maned skeleton collapsed in his arms and you know that–praise the heavens–you have finally found the missing variable that, somehow, never existed before this point; you look and you know that (thank you, thank you, thank you) this is the key and it is slipping away, sliding away, wasting away into absolutely nothing because it wants to (and for humans, want is more influential than their religions and their needs and their families), but you know that you can stop the corrosive path he forges toward the edge of that particular slope.

This is the man who will save Light Yagami, and for that, you are going to save him.

– - –

in a world SO cold

– - –

You are Fate and you know everything that is, was, and will be and how to change it, but you choose to let life fold out as the forces of the universe intend.

– - –

in a world so COLD

– - –

Almost always.

– - –

A/N: If you've gotten this far, you might be interested in the story that this was based on. It was penned by The Carnivorous Muffin and me. www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/s/4797162/1/Mors_Vincit_Omnia

–IGC t DM+