Double Drabble: Si c'est ici le meilleur... (AU, Hisoka, YnM)
Si c'est ici le meilleur...
A Yami no Matsuei Double Drabble
By Dorian Gray
AN: Alternate Universe challenge. Written November, 2004.
The grey-white blur of the sky has grown darker lately, but through the window Hisoka sees the first snowdrops, indistinct white smudges that are the only markers for three little graves -- that is as far as he has parted from tradition. He is not an old man, but his hands are gnarled, his face lined, and he wraps himself from head to foot in heavy robes.
There was perhaps a time when he did not deserve this, a time he had wished for any other fate, no matter how hard or painful, but rage and resentment are both gone now. He has come to understand the cruel indifference of his father all too well. Thinking of his dead father, his dead daughters, his living son, are all painful, so he does not. He's become good at summoning this blankness of mind. He looks out at the snowdrops.
Soon, he thinks, his vision will dim entirely. He no longer cares.
But there are days, when he looks out over the repeated circles of the rock garden framed by the delicate branching of black twigs and sees only a vague shifting play of light and dark, he wishes he'd been born different.
--
A Yami no Matsuei Double Drabble
By Dorian Gray
AN: Alternate Universe challenge. Written November, 2004.
The grey-white blur of the sky has grown darker lately, but through the window Hisoka sees the first snowdrops, indistinct white smudges that are the only markers for three little graves -- that is as far as he has parted from tradition. He is not an old man, but his hands are gnarled, his face lined, and he wraps himself from head to foot in heavy robes.
There was perhaps a time when he did not deserve this, a time he had wished for any other fate, no matter how hard or painful, but rage and resentment are both gone now. He has come to understand the cruel indifference of his father all too well. Thinking of his dead father, his dead daughters, his living son, are all painful, so he does not. He's become good at summoning this blankness of mind. He looks out at the snowdrops.
Soon, he thinks, his vision will dim entirely. He no longer cares.
But there are days, when he looks out over the repeated circles of the rock garden framed by the delicate branching of black twigs and sees only a vague shifting play of light and dark, he wishes he'd been born different.
--