Where were you? Where are you? Don't leave me. Help. Help.


I hate you.

Ghostly dancing shapes, twisting and writhing at his feet. Ungodly forms cast into existence by Lady Tsukuyomi's light as it filters through the tangled branches of a bare poplar tree.

Ahhh. It's… unh… where? Help. Please please just-

Like most nights, these dark plays are interrupted as tracks break the snow they had called their stage. Shoes barely lift against the soft powder that dusts them with feather light caresses. Caresses that threaten to chill and take if left ignored for too long.

Hot, it's anh.. so- hoootaaAHH!! Stop! It hurts, please, no... where-where?

He stops. The boy whom has taken to these nightly strolls as of late. His eyes stay focused at his feet, every moment or two his view is obscured by the quick puffs that are his breaths. He hasn't brought his jacket.

I'm scared. Help. No, d-don't just, ahh! dont Watch. Help me, you said- you said you would- nononono stop, please.

You said you would protect me, Aniki. So why are you just sitting there? Help me. I'm scared.

I hate you.

S-Stop unh- no… please, no.

'Does it feel good?'

Eyes- as void as all that which is contained between Tsukuyomi and her stars raise themselves to that very place. The darkness that threatens to consume those points of light, but never can. He stands unmoving, in the middle of a deserted road in the dead of a winter night, and ponders on it.

'Does it feel good?'

He figures, as the cold sets in and he loses the feeling in his cheeks, that the night sky is like a pond- filled to the brim with glass. Shattered, dangerous edges- He imagines- glinting in the light of a thousand candles, and reflecting every moment the children of every generation had ever felt hurt, abandoned, alienated, and scorned in their depths.

This is the Void of Space.

But scattered amid the pond's jagged waves are pillows. Yes, He smiles- he smiles and sees them with his head tilted back and eyes wide, though they aren't seeing the sky. It is the pillows, Made of the down of countless doves, sewn together with the love of a new mother, and kissed right in the center, for good luck. And these blessed- his smile grows- these few, so very few, blessed packages: to touch them is to relive every tender embrace shared between the young and in love. They taste of innocence.

These are the Glow of Distant Suns.

But they fade so in the presence of the main attraction. His mind recalls this familiar image.

That within the pond of shattered glass, and the sparse comforts of the mother's pillows, lays an angel. She bleeds atop the glass, her pale skin marred by many a scratch and scar. By bruises and tears. And of course, blood. Gallons of it painting the scene around her body, dousing the glow of those blessed pillows, and dampening the slash of the pond's waves. It soaks into her hair, her wings, her torn white gown, and it stains her lips. She is dying there- Though he is not saddened by this, not in the least. Because while she dies, lying unmoving in this stagnant pool of despair and hope. Hurt and comfort. Her exhausted eyes remain open, and her arms are outspread- she allows all to look upon her battered form. To gaze upon her beauty from the shore, or perhaps from the murky depths of the Void, and know that she will shine brightly, for the rest of your days.

Because those who have gotten close enough to see her, and the blood which leaks from her mouth and finger tips- have gotten too close. And won't live much longer.

She is Dying, she is Lady Tsukuyomi. She see's you, and escape from her- why would you try?

She is Captivating.

And he stands in the middle of the road in the dead of a winter night, and his hand is lifted out to her, that smile on his face. Her light enveloping his being, and dragging him closer.

He looks all that of a madman.

'Does it feel good?'