[ a thousand eyes, a thousand mouths. a thousand voices raised in prayer, in some kind of deliverance or salvation or redemption. a thousand hands reaching out, and somehow vash can take none of them. he tries - he really does, but every time he grabs hold of one they end up shattering in his grip, scattering blood and bones like snowfall, like geraniums, red and white and black and red. somehow, he cannot hold on. he thinks he cries. he thinks he screams. the air is frozen still. these hands, one white, one green, are not enough. he is not enough. and then he finds that he has no hands at all, no voice to scream, and then
vash opens his eyes.
....oh, that's right. he came to the gardens - he remembers wandering around a little bit, letting the dips and turns of the paths dictate his way with no particular aim in mind. the motion of walking is comforting, in a way where it feels like he has always been walking somewhere, even if he has nowhere to go. the familiar act of putting one foot in front of the other means that he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to remember, doesn't have to know just where he is and what this place is. he doesn't have to think about what he had to do to get here. why is he here? why is he here?
there are a lot of flowers here. more than what he thought could be possible, in all the colours that he couldn't ever dream up in a hundred years, another hundred. he doesn't reach out to touch any of them. if one catches his eyes - a deep, bright blue that reminds him of- of someone; another, a bright yellow that fades into deep sunset; a thick cluster of red petals - he just stops to stare for a while, before moving on. it's easier to keep moving. something small and insignificant and infinitesimal. why is he here?
his stomach twinges a little, but vash is so used to going without food that the discomfort barely registers. if anything, it's somehow reassuring in the oddest sense of the word - but the little spikes of pain grow in intensity eventually, making him stop in his tracks, crouching down in the middle of the secluded garden walk with a little half-sound. ]
wildcardish!!
vash opens his eyes.
....oh, that's right. he came to the gardens - he remembers wandering around a little bit, letting the dips and turns of the paths dictate his way with no particular aim in mind. the motion of walking is comforting, in a way where it feels like he has always been walking somewhere, even if he has nowhere to go. the familiar act of putting one foot in front of the other means that he doesn't have to think, doesn't have to remember, doesn't have to know just where he is and what this place is. he doesn't have to think about what he had to do to get here. why is he here? why is he here?
there are a lot of flowers here. more than what he thought could be possible, in all the colours that he couldn't ever dream up in a hundred years, another hundred. he doesn't reach out to touch any of them. if one catches his eyes - a deep, bright blue that reminds him of- of someone; another, a bright yellow that fades into deep sunset; a thick cluster of red petals - he just stops to stare for a while, before moving on. it's easier to keep moving. something small and insignificant and infinitesimal. why is he here?
his stomach twinges a little, but vash is so used to going without food that the discomfort barely registers. if anything, it's somehow reassuring in the oddest sense of the word - but the little spikes of pain grow in intensity eventually, making him stop in his tracks, crouching down in the middle of the secluded garden walk with a little half-sound. ]