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Jul. 25th, 2009 03:18 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kh_drabbleChallenge: [194] Gift
Title: Prodigal Son
Word Count: 598
Notes: oh Riku, you and your rogue kick-my-other-ideas-out-from-under-me sudden plot ideas. :p Set post-CoM, pre-end of 358/2 Days. The way the timelines of those two games interact is really messing with my head right now; maybe it'll make more sense when I actually play Days. Just a touch of personal canon/theory in here.
One who swallows enough darkness to taste it in the back of their throat-- if one can withstand swallowing it, and be not poisoned in doing so-- has no more need of their eyes than a snake has of legs. The outward form, if one is fortunate, remains unchanged, but inwardly, the very senses are warped and distorted by the darkness coursing through living blood.
Immersed in darkness, the body changes, by and by, to seek it out-- to sense at all times its subtle flow through the worlds it touches, invisible to the eye but ever-present. Like air, it curls and forms, shapeless, around all things in its path; and by these subtle flows, a building may be discerned from a stone, a moving object from a still one. And, too, around the living and the not-living it flows differently, and all living things spare a few absorb some measure of it, large or small, into themselves. To each thing it imbues is a unique pattern, a taste, a scent, a thing indescribable by the words of common senses.
Those who can perceive its nuances are aware of much which escapes those who see by their eyes alone.
Riku perceives many things he does not want to know.
For several weeks now he has seen no light, never once taken the cloth from his eyes-- found himself surprised by how little it hampers him. At first he stumbled, confused by perceptions of which he still had little understanding; but deprived of sight to fall back on, his sense of the darkness sharpened, grew stronger through use. And the mocking whisper slowly wound into his thoughts.
Are you grateful to me? whispers Ansem, or his ghost, or Riku's fears given his voice, in the back of his mind. Every time he dodges a blow that would have eluded vision; every time he senses bloodlust lurking beyond the range of sight; every time he knows, before turning a corner, to prepare for a swift battle or a grueling one-- that whisper, always. And he, flaring defiance, answers it with unkind words-- but never answers the question.
You need me, after all, it says. You need my gift, and will even when you finish wasting it on these noble deeds of yours.
"We'll see about that." He answers it aloud, when alone. Lying on a riverbank after a tense battle, grabbing a rare moment of stray time to himself, he stretches out to rest on a riverbank, a place where he sensed the motion of swift cold water.
Has the darkness not its own beauty? the voice murmurs. Are you not glad that I gave you vision to see it with?
"Sure. But there are things I'd rather see. Things I'd give it up gladly to see again." Boots off, he extends his feet over the edge of the bank; trails toes in the water, cool in the day's heat. In the river, threads of darkness flow and swirl along with the eddies and currents.
Above him, darkness ripples, lace-delicate, in the air stirred by waving leaves; lingers in faint whispers in each fragile leaf.
In the sky above him, the sun is at zenith. Slowly, just for a moment, he slides the black cloth from his eyes, opening them wide enough to be dazzled and blinded by the light they've missed for weeks. White-hot pain stabs into them.
Fool of a boy, what are you doing? the voice hisses.
"I just wanted to see the light again," he whispers. "As long as I can miss it, I can't become like you."
Title: Prodigal Son
Word Count: 598
Notes: oh Riku, you and your rogue kick-my-other-ideas-out-from-under-me sudden plot ideas. :p Set post-CoM, pre-end of 358/2 Days. The way the timelines of those two games interact is really messing with my head right now; maybe it'll make more sense when I actually play Days. Just a touch of personal canon/theory in here.
One who swallows enough darkness to taste it in the back of their throat-- if one can withstand swallowing it, and be not poisoned in doing so-- has no more need of their eyes than a snake has of legs. The outward form, if one is fortunate, remains unchanged, but inwardly, the very senses are warped and distorted by the darkness coursing through living blood.
Immersed in darkness, the body changes, by and by, to seek it out-- to sense at all times its subtle flow through the worlds it touches, invisible to the eye but ever-present. Like air, it curls and forms, shapeless, around all things in its path; and by these subtle flows, a building may be discerned from a stone, a moving object from a still one. And, too, around the living and the not-living it flows differently, and all living things spare a few absorb some measure of it, large or small, into themselves. To each thing it imbues is a unique pattern, a taste, a scent, a thing indescribable by the words of common senses.
Those who can perceive its nuances are aware of much which escapes those who see by their eyes alone.
Riku perceives many things he does not want to know.
For several weeks now he has seen no light, never once taken the cloth from his eyes-- found himself surprised by how little it hampers him. At first he stumbled, confused by perceptions of which he still had little understanding; but deprived of sight to fall back on, his sense of the darkness sharpened, grew stronger through use. And the mocking whisper slowly wound into his thoughts.
Are you grateful to me? whispers Ansem, or his ghost, or Riku's fears given his voice, in the back of his mind. Every time he dodges a blow that would have eluded vision; every time he senses bloodlust lurking beyond the range of sight; every time he knows, before turning a corner, to prepare for a swift battle or a grueling one-- that whisper, always. And he, flaring defiance, answers it with unkind words-- but never answers the question.
You need me, after all, it says. You need my gift, and will even when you finish wasting it on these noble deeds of yours.
"We'll see about that." He answers it aloud, when alone. Lying on a riverbank after a tense battle, grabbing a rare moment of stray time to himself, he stretches out to rest on a riverbank, a place where he sensed the motion of swift cold water.
Has the darkness not its own beauty? the voice murmurs. Are you not glad that I gave you vision to see it with?
"Sure. But there are things I'd rather see. Things I'd give it up gladly to see again." Boots off, he extends his feet over the edge of the bank; trails toes in the water, cool in the day's heat. In the river, threads of darkness flow and swirl along with the eddies and currents.
Above him, darkness ripples, lace-delicate, in the air stirred by waving leaves; lingers in faint whispers in each fragile leaf.
In the sky above him, the sun is at zenith. Slowly, just for a moment, he slides the black cloth from his eyes, opening them wide enough to be dazzled and blinded by the light they've missed for weeks. White-hot pain stabs into them.
Fool of a boy, what are you doing? the voice hisses.
"I just wanted to see the light again," he whispers. "As long as I can miss it, I can't become like you."
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Date: 2009-07-27 06:21 am (UTC)I love the fluidity of your descriptions and the last sentence is just win. <3
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Date: 2009-07-27 08:03 am (UTC)