[kingdom hearts] homeward
Dec. 12th, 2006 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gigantomachyNo spoilers, just speculation, set in the far-future. An abbreviated piece of something that will eventually be much bigger and more fleshed out. Sort of a response, or maybe an alternate ending, to this recent influx of Sora being left to go it alone at the end of things stories.
homeward
(but now the ink will fade before the night is through, my dear)
An old woman leans back and closes her eyes.
She glides across the golden beaches of her mind, momentarily freed from the strains of arthritis and age. The light is not quite as bright as she remembers, the sun not quite as warm, but she doesn't mind. She is grateful to have as much.
The ghosts of her life hold a mock tournament in her name. One, defined by silver hair and brilliant green eyes, parries a wooden sword with his own. The other laughs impishly, attacking with renewed intensity. She turns away, for a moment too overcome to continue. They spin around her, a dance of shapes blurred like pictures out of focus.
She absently brings a hand to her chest, thin fingers folding into a fist. Their laughter stills abruptly, two figures suspended in time for a precious moment before they are caught by a stray finger of wind, dissolving to glittering nothing as they race each other towards the sea. Something inside her quivers and shakes, the wings of an old weathered heart trying to beat itself free of its mortal cage.
It wants to follow.
Instead, she turns and slowly follows the path to the cave, passing objects half-buried in the sand: fragments of an old clay honeypot, a few stray playing cards, a withered paopu fruit, a half-unwrapped gift. Once the beach was littered with such things, but without the storyteller to revive them, most of the stories have fallen to disrepair and crumbled away, buried and forgotten. She cannot remember when they started to go, only that she wakes some afternoons to feel another undefinable little something missing.
In the cool dark grotto of her memory, she runs her fingers lightly across the years of accumulated chalk portraits, tracing the figures she once helped create. The edges have started to blur. Her steps lead her further into the cave, further into the memories she has gathered to herself.
In the corner, a girl: still fifteen and beautiful, pale skin shimmering like moonlight in the ether. She hovers like a ghost there, the damp walls reflected through the fragile color of her skin, and her eyes are milky-white. In her hands she holds thelassa shells, cracking at the edges.
Her books have been blank for twenty-six years.
Come home, she whispers.
When she wakes, she will realize it is not yet mid-morning. She will step outside and think that if the wind keeps blowing south, even her old tired arms could row a while. She will drift through her kitchen and pick just the right things for the journey (a boiled seagull egg, a handful of mushrooms, a few fish) and she will find that little wooden box beside her bed that holds her treasure, a slender silver chain twisted delicately around a dozen tiny keys.
And then she will gather these things in her arms and leave the door unlocked behind her. She will walk, steps slow and stately, to the shore.
It has been far too long, she will think.
And she will go home.
-fin
22.11.06
words: 518
homeward
(but now the ink will fade before the night is through, my dear)
An old woman leans back and closes her eyes.
She glides across the golden beaches of her mind, momentarily freed from the strains of arthritis and age. The light is not quite as bright as she remembers, the sun not quite as warm, but she doesn't mind. She is grateful to have as much.
The ghosts of her life hold a mock tournament in her name. One, defined by silver hair and brilliant green eyes, parries a wooden sword with his own. The other laughs impishly, attacking with renewed intensity. She turns away, for a moment too overcome to continue. They spin around her, a dance of shapes blurred like pictures out of focus.
She absently brings a hand to her chest, thin fingers folding into a fist. Their laughter stills abruptly, two figures suspended in time for a precious moment before they are caught by a stray finger of wind, dissolving to glittering nothing as they race each other towards the sea. Something inside her quivers and shakes, the wings of an old weathered heart trying to beat itself free of its mortal cage.
It wants to follow.
Instead, she turns and slowly follows the path to the cave, passing objects half-buried in the sand: fragments of an old clay honeypot, a few stray playing cards, a withered paopu fruit, a half-unwrapped gift. Once the beach was littered with such things, but without the storyteller to revive them, most of the stories have fallen to disrepair and crumbled away, buried and forgotten. She cannot remember when they started to go, only that she wakes some afternoons to feel another undefinable little something missing.
In the cool dark grotto of her memory, she runs her fingers lightly across the years of accumulated chalk portraits, tracing the figures she once helped create. The edges have started to blur. Her steps lead her further into the cave, further into the memories she has gathered to herself.
In the corner, a girl: still fifteen and beautiful, pale skin shimmering like moonlight in the ether. She hovers like a ghost there, the damp walls reflected through the fragile color of her skin, and her eyes are milky-white. In her hands she holds thelassa shells, cracking at the edges.
Her books have been blank for twenty-six years.
Come home, she whispers.
When she wakes, she will realize it is not yet mid-morning. She will step outside and think that if the wind keeps blowing south, even her old tired arms could row a while. She will drift through her kitchen and pick just the right things for the journey (a boiled seagull egg, a handful of mushrooms, a few fish) and she will find that little wooden box beside her bed that holds her treasure, a slender silver chain twisted delicately around a dozen tiny keys.
And then she will gather these things in her arms and leave the door unlocked behind her. She will walk, steps slow and stately, to the shore.
It has been far too long, she will think.
And she will go home.
-fin
22.11.06
words: 518
