Aeal

Rain

Blue, dark sheets of anger flowing from him, as the soft mist gently surrounds him, caressing; what is the reason for such terror from those dark blue spheres? Hard eyes

melting with these tears of the sky, he stands

alone with his heart, hoping for a bit of sun to clear his inner storm, but no light comes. Only the cold shine of his sword pierces the night, only the desperate glare of his shrinking pupils meets the sky, pupils open, but unseeing, unflinchingly feel the tears

of joy long reft, long dead, forsaken. Unknown

dark liquid falls from his sword, glinting

blue under the veil of cloud cover against the lost and aching sun, liquid suspended

for a moment in the night, then fleeting, merges into the darkness. His heart aches with the pulse of the swiftly falling water,

aches with the silent beating of the sodden earth,

until only his own blood fills his ears, rushing, roaring, devouring. Relentless

still fall the tears, unforgiving in its soft wonderful touch, wearing down his soul. The sword drops― but no sound upon the earth― and carries with it his last resorts. He has no strength to stand

or fall, no will left, but eyes still hating with their unfocused gaze. So long,

for eternity, he drinks of the sky, the anger of the clouds upon him, the sorrow of the mist surrounds him, the soft cruel

whisper of his own heart echoing against him. In despair he stands, somehow seeing the dark-stained hands that hang limply at his side without ceasing to stare at the sky. The sword lay close by him, but a thousand leagues

apart, and like the man, forgotten.


Do the words one utters before death tend to be truer, or can they be a lie?
--Subaru, X/1999