(no subject)
Once upon a time, I had this idea for a story based on D.Gray-man. I pitched it to Momo and Sarah because I'm interested in it, but prefer RP over fic. It might become something more one day, but I'm not sure yet. In fact, I'm honestly not sure this is ever going to get past the prologue.
Now, without further delay...
It's been seven years since Allen Walker disappeared into the light.
Ever since the end of that war, things have been changing constantly. The world changed its shape every passing moment until it became utterly unrecognizable. The inventions that were once held in secrecy by Vatican, now inhabit every corner of the streets. Firearms and death machines have drained all sense of morality and justice from war and left behind bloody tactics and heartless weapon races. Politicians found lying more useful than keeping keeping secrets. From a cruel and romantic fairy tale, the world has turned into a perfect well-oiled machine.
Sometimes, it feels like the only ones who never changed are us. The ones who witnessed that war and remained behind to remember the day when Allen Walker disappeared into the light.
Last week, I received a postcard from Komui... A small hand-made painting of the Chinese countryside on one side and a letter that smelled of fresh ink on the other. It arrived on a small golem that could travel faster than sound. Even in these changing times, his efforts are astonishing and his words summon a nostalgic smile.
He wants us to celebrate the western New Year together. In small letters written in graceful cursive, he complained about how boring it is to hide in China, where his hometown only summoned a small margin of fascination the London streets gave him. He had no choice, he knew that. Vatican was always on his tail ever since the day when he celebrated the end of the war by turning his back on all but people who he cared for. They couldn't stop him. It would take a single essay of his to bring down the entire church. But they could try to silence him through people he held dear, and he couldn't risk that.
Speaking of people, it seems that our sweet Lenalee has baked a birthday cake this Christmas once again. It was a chocolate cake decorated in white crowns and roses. When Komui tasted it, he felt disappointed. Once again, she refused to add even a single droplet of liquor. He tried to complain, but that got him nowhere. Lenalee refuses to change that recipe. Every year, when asked to do so, she says he wouldn't like it. Of course. Among all of us, she was the first to reach to him. Even now, she's still waiting for him to come back for his birthday.
All of us are waiting.
Well, except maybe Yuu... He was never the kind to wait for luck to shine down on him. When I passed through Germany last week, I ended up staying at Miranda's. Yuu was there mere days before me. At first, the two of them barely spoke... Even Marie couldn't force a word from his old friend. But one day, they were awakened by loud noise in his room and rushed to his help, only to find blood all over the sheets. That's right... The scar he received that day is still hurting.
Maybe that's why he cannot wait like we do. He has something to always remind him of those days. That's why, even if all of us are resigned to waiting, he will always search for his own answers.
"What are you thinking about, Bookman?"
A deep, soft voice echoes through the carriage and makes me abandon the world in the distance in order to focus on the world in front of me. The first thing I notice is a tall pale man smiling at me from the door. That's right... Krory. On that day seven years ago, Krory lost his reason to fight. Somehow, in the end of that very long day, we made our first step in the same direction and, with one thing following another, found ourselves traveling together for all these seven years.
"Nothing worthwhile, Krorykins," I mutter in a dull voice and give him a lopsided grin, easing away his worries. He answers with a smile of his own, and then suddenly raises his hand in a quick motion. A small object travels through the carriage and lands onto the cloth in my lap with a soft thud.
"Look at what I found," he speaks and I answer by lifting the object in order to look it over. On the cover of a large book bound with a thick silver-gray cover, beautifully printed letters invite me to read 'The Millennium War, or the fantastic tale of the boy who killed time'.
"They even have it in Russia," I comment off-handedly as he climbs into the carriage and spreads his tall, thin figure all over the opposite seat, making sure to brush every little bit of snow off his clothes as he does so. I look at the book one more time, flip through several pages to find perfectly familiar words and letters, and finally offer the book to him.
"Did you like it?", I inquire as he wraps his gloved fingers around the book and pulls it closer.
"With the story told in this book left so long behind us..." He sighs softly as he raises the book over his head and swings it open. "...it reads like a beautiful fairy tale. I truly hope a lot of children read it and grow up to be like him. I'm sure he would like it, too." He pauses for a brief moment, and then allows himself a dull chuckle. "I'm surprised grandfather let you publish it, however."
"I'm surprised, myself," I echo through a peaceful grin as I follow his cue and move to make myself more comfortable. The peaceful rhythm of the moving carriage hits my mind like a bottle of good wine, and I find myself drifting into sleep.
"Hey, Krorykins..?", I mutter sleepily.
"Yes?", he echoes as he flips the page of my book.
"Could you read the last paragraph to me?"
"Of course," he answers through in dull amusement, and then flip another few hundred pages until he reaches the very final one. His expression hardens into the kind I rarely see these days, with his fang digging into his lower lip in that manner where I almost wonder if he's going to bite it through. His eyes darken and, a harsh sigh later, he starts reading.
"And now, those gentlemen and wonderful ladies who have honored and graced me with their attention by reading this book, listen to this plea. If, in your travels through this life, you ever find yourself visited by a clown with a scarlet star carved into his forehead, please do as I request. Tug on his silver cloak and tell him to abandon all he does and, next New Year, visit a small village in the north of China, where mountains and rivers are still pure and violet butterflies will guide his way. Tell him to pay a visit to a small town in Germany where time once stood still and visit a couple running an antique store. Or better yet, tell him to come to London and visit the house on the corner of Baker Street where windows shine every midnight.
"And if he asks you why, do look at him sternly and remind him that there are those who remained behind on the day when time was killed, those who are still waiting for him."
That's right. Even if seven years have passed and the world changed completely, time was killed for us on that day. Even if our war seems to have ended, we never received our promised happy ending.
We are still waiting for the boy who killed time.
For Allen Walker to return from that light of seven years ago.
Now, without further delay...
It's been seven years since Allen Walker disappeared into the light.
Ever since the end of that war, things have been changing constantly. The world changed its shape every passing moment until it became utterly unrecognizable. The inventions that were once held in secrecy by Vatican, now inhabit every corner of the streets. Firearms and death machines have drained all sense of morality and justice from war and left behind bloody tactics and heartless weapon races. Politicians found lying more useful than keeping keeping secrets. From a cruel and romantic fairy tale, the world has turned into a perfect well-oiled machine.
Sometimes, it feels like the only ones who never changed are us. The ones who witnessed that war and remained behind to remember the day when Allen Walker disappeared into the light.
Last week, I received a postcard from Komui... A small hand-made painting of the Chinese countryside on one side and a letter that smelled of fresh ink on the other. It arrived on a small golem that could travel faster than sound. Even in these changing times, his efforts are astonishing and his words summon a nostalgic smile.
He wants us to celebrate the western New Year together. In small letters written in graceful cursive, he complained about how boring it is to hide in China, where his hometown only summoned a small margin of fascination the London streets gave him. He had no choice, he knew that. Vatican was always on his tail ever since the day when he celebrated the end of the war by turning his back on all but people who he cared for. They couldn't stop him. It would take a single essay of his to bring down the entire church. But they could try to silence him through people he held dear, and he couldn't risk that.
Speaking of people, it seems that our sweet Lenalee has baked a birthday cake this Christmas once again. It was a chocolate cake decorated in white crowns and roses. When Komui tasted it, he felt disappointed. Once again, she refused to add even a single droplet of liquor. He tried to complain, but that got him nowhere. Lenalee refuses to change that recipe. Every year, when asked to do so, she says he wouldn't like it. Of course. Among all of us, she was the first to reach to him. Even now, she's still waiting for him to come back for his birthday.
All of us are waiting.
Well, except maybe Yuu... He was never the kind to wait for luck to shine down on him. When I passed through Germany last week, I ended up staying at Miranda's. Yuu was there mere days before me. At first, the two of them barely spoke... Even Marie couldn't force a word from his old friend. But one day, they were awakened by loud noise in his room and rushed to his help, only to find blood all over the sheets. That's right... The scar he received that day is still hurting.
Maybe that's why he cannot wait like we do. He has something to always remind him of those days. That's why, even if all of us are resigned to waiting, he will always search for his own answers.
"What are you thinking about, Bookman?"
A deep, soft voice echoes through the carriage and makes me abandon the world in the distance in order to focus on the world in front of me. The first thing I notice is a tall pale man smiling at me from the door. That's right... Krory. On that day seven years ago, Krory lost his reason to fight. Somehow, in the end of that very long day, we made our first step in the same direction and, with one thing following another, found ourselves traveling together for all these seven years.
"Nothing worthwhile, Krorykins," I mutter in a dull voice and give him a lopsided grin, easing away his worries. He answers with a smile of his own, and then suddenly raises his hand in a quick motion. A small object travels through the carriage and lands onto the cloth in my lap with a soft thud.
"Look at what I found," he speaks and I answer by lifting the object in order to look it over. On the cover of a large book bound with a thick silver-gray cover, beautifully printed letters invite me to read 'The Millennium War, or the fantastic tale of the boy who killed time'.
"They even have it in Russia," I comment off-handedly as he climbs into the carriage and spreads his tall, thin figure all over the opposite seat, making sure to brush every little bit of snow off his clothes as he does so. I look at the book one more time, flip through several pages to find perfectly familiar words and letters, and finally offer the book to him.
"Did you like it?", I inquire as he wraps his gloved fingers around the book and pulls it closer.
"With the story told in this book left so long behind us..." He sighs softly as he raises the book over his head and swings it open. "...it reads like a beautiful fairy tale. I truly hope a lot of children read it and grow up to be like him. I'm sure he would like it, too." He pauses for a brief moment, and then allows himself a dull chuckle. "I'm surprised grandfather let you publish it, however."
"I'm surprised, myself," I echo through a peaceful grin as I follow his cue and move to make myself more comfortable. The peaceful rhythm of the moving carriage hits my mind like a bottle of good wine, and I find myself drifting into sleep.
"Hey, Krorykins..?", I mutter sleepily.
"Yes?", he echoes as he flips the page of my book.
"Could you read the last paragraph to me?"
"Of course," he answers through in dull amusement, and then flip another few hundred pages until he reaches the very final one. His expression hardens into the kind I rarely see these days, with his fang digging into his lower lip in that manner where I almost wonder if he's going to bite it through. His eyes darken and, a harsh sigh later, he starts reading.
"And now, those gentlemen and wonderful ladies who have honored and graced me with their attention by reading this book, listen to this plea. If, in your travels through this life, you ever find yourself visited by a clown with a scarlet star carved into his forehead, please do as I request. Tug on his silver cloak and tell him to abandon all he does and, next New Year, visit a small village in the north of China, where mountains and rivers are still pure and violet butterflies will guide his way. Tell him to pay a visit to a small town in Germany where time once stood still and visit a couple running an antique store. Or better yet, tell him to come to London and visit the house on the corner of Baker Street where windows shine every midnight.
"And if he asks you why, do look at him sternly and remind him that there are those who remained behind on the day when time was killed, those who are still waiting for him."
That's right. Even if seven years have passed and the world changed completely, time was killed for us on that day. Even if our war seems to have ended, we never received our promised happy ending.
We are still waiting for the boy who killed time.
For Allen Walker to return from that light of seven years ago.