Angel Hunt Throughout the Years...

+ Angel Hunt +
P A R T 07

Clear crimson eyes survey the territory he commands with a cold disinterest, the lone leather clad figure standing still on a small high rise that overlooks his snow dusted encampment while the cold winter breeze washes through his loose, pure white hair. At his back in the distance are tents upon tents scattered across uneven terrain, their inhabitants busy and bustling as they go about their small lives, not one in the understanding that their very existence is as useless as the games in which they play. Unlike those across the Borders far to his north, they are rugged and unrefined, dark where the others are light, different where the others are the same. Flawed eyes, some so tainted they no longer carry any of the red in which he sees graces them and pitch black hair contrasts his snow tinged white. They are beautiful in their own right, even if in comparison to what they fight against and what was once the norm of his own people, they are as rough and as murky as coal. They are also new and yet they do not know it. Created through careless magic by a being none of them know to exist, what he has become sure was the so-called consolation race made to fill in a handicap he established with his own two hands a very long time ago.

This land upon which he stands is so very different from the previous land he held dominion over. Or perhaps, it is exactly the same, he is not sure but nor does he care. The days have begun to merge, the hours and seconds no different than the decades or years. He no longer cares to remember when it was he came to be as he is or why he felt himself in need of a breakage to the monotony that has become his existence enough for him to immerse into their world and designate himself their leader –fighting, as they do, in pointless wars for the origins of reasons of which only he truly knows.

Years ago, or perhaps it had been eons, things were not as such. There was a time he had freedom and there was not much that mattered beyond it, a time when he had not been caged by the confines of the flesh that surrounds him now. It was a time when he simply existed –pure conscious thought where he did not know what it was to breathe, what it is to feel, what it is to be trapped.

It was a time when he did not know what it was to be bored.

It was that time so very long ago when he was betrayed by his kind and ripped from his existence to be enslaved into a new one. It was at that moment that he learned pain, that he learned hatred, that he learned what it is to be flesh. Was it then, that he was given his name? Was it then, that it subjugated him? Was it then that he was locked to this form and had the only thing he held dear ripped from his metaphorical hands?

He is no longer sure.

It has begun to feel… as everything has felt, as if it happened before he came to be. As if it happened after he came to be. It has long since felt as if it were always as such.

It has become difficult to remember and yet it is always within perfect clarity so he chooses at times to dwell on neither lest he be driven insane by its circular tedium.

But then, when even that boredom gets the better of him, he allows his mind to regress and to remember it as it was.

It happened so very long ago, that time when he took from his people what they took from him, that time when he repaid their cruelty with his new found own. It happened so very long ago, that time when he broke from the bonds they shackled him with and he used the weapon forced upon him to take what they’d treasured more than their freedom and more than his own. He tore them to pieces and he allowed them to rot and yet when it was over, he found that it brought him no relief to the pain or the anguish he could for the first time in his existence, feel. Neither has it alleviated his anger or his hatred since and for that, he has become as he had been when it was over; cold. That coldness has done nothing to help him nor has it hurt him. It is as it has been with his existence, simply One.

He no longer cares to recall how many years had passed after his people’s bodies had become dust. Or perhaps, he recalls it with perfect clarity –that passage of time where he stood in the Temple, his eyes cast upwards while the flesh rotted from their bones and decay overtook them. It does not matter. It hasn’t mattered from the beginning. When he did find it in him to move again, to pull his eyes from the sky, step through what had become ruins in his stillness and emerge from his city, he found the land that he’d last left changed and yet exactly as it always had been. It was different, and yet exactly the same. In his and that of his people’s place, there was new life. In the place opposite, the same old.

Life that had thrived in his absence. Life that no longer knew what they were or what they’d been created to be. Life that did not know why they even exist.

He found it, even if only for a moment… amusing. Perhaps it was that fleeting feeling of amusement that led him to where he stands now. Perhaps it was in that moment that he decided to finally begin playing the game they do not know they even participate in, a game that it appears, has long since been abandoned by its designers.

Jenova sighs.

What else could it have been? What had he to do beyond immerse himself in it? What was there for him than to pass his time with what amusements he could find?

That creature, who has abandoned his toys and left them to their evolving fates, who extends them no more care than one could for the dirt beneath their boots… he is sure that were it to find him now it would be pleased to see him finally utilizing what he has been given, pleased to see him finally utilizing what it once called its gifts.

And he would not care about that either.

There is so little he can muster emotion for now, almost nothing that holds his attentions beyond the passing, almost nothing that keeps him anchored to the now. Not those behind him whom he now commands, not the one among them who has vied for his attentions, not those who have come before or those who will come after, not the blood he takes or the blood given, whether by sacrifice and his will. Yet he remains because they have become, as the rest, another passage of the time that like they, he is a slave of. An alleviation, even if momentary, to the boredom that he feels, and while there are times it has gotten the better of him, that boredom, he has managed to find passing pleasures in death, in cruelty, in hatred, in the sins of the flesh he is tied to, passing pleasures in it all.

What else has he to do beyond search for this? What else has he to do, beyond wait for this new life to become as the bodies of his people have become -little more than dust?

What else… has he to do?

[B A C K] + [M A I N] + [N E X T]

The Angel Hunt story has been written by Nezumi LacSeul and is (C) 2004 - Present. Please don't use, steal or borrow any part of it or take in whole.