Fairy tales don’t tell children that dragons exist, Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be k i l l e d
Everyone has a dragon.
One that has to be killed before they can live normally. Without defeating the dragon you live in fear of this dragon as it terrorizes you with teeth and claws and raging fire.
Sometimes there is a knight in bright shining armor that swoops in and saves the distressed from their raging dragon. Other times you are left to defeat this beast on your own, and occasionally… You perish.
Allen did not know where he fit. He felt as of he should have been the type with a knight. Or multiple. An army. Surrounded by so many to help him defeat the terrifying dragon.
Yet he had not told any of these soldiers where the dragon resided and so he was alone. They could not find the beast’s cave because he had never disclosed the information.
And as gold eyes flickered back to vacant silver—
As porcelain gray skin faded to that as pale as the snow his wounds stained red—
He stare up at the bright, empty sky as his last breaths left him. Felt the last of his life filter away and all he could think was—
Such is the fate of the one unlucky enough to be their own
“He’s an irritating little bitch.” He’d started off, and then over into every single flaw about Allen Walker he could think of. To scrawny, whined too much, didn’t work enough, complained, probably a flaming homosexual.
He went on and on, a glass of Romanee-Conti in hand that swished about as he sometimes used his hands to gesture with his words. His explanation was filled with sighs and scoffs and shakes of the head.
And she just sat there and listened, running a brush through her dark hair that reminded him of the midnight sky. Every so often she would laugh at a tiny bit of a story he’d mention, and her gentle smile stay present on her lips the entire time.
When he was done he brought his glass to his lips and took a sip. He glanced over at her, and she sat there with the brush in her hands— expression thoughtful.
After a long, long moment— or what seemed quite long— the smile reappeared as she spoke, “I’m surprised.”
He gave her a questioning look, cocking an eyebrow.
“You speak of him as a father would his child.”
Of course, the thought horrified him. That brat, his child? Really, the woman was mad.
But now, sitting in his hellish room under lock at the Order, a glass of Romanee-Conti in hand as he sat against the window sill and stared out at the blackness of the midnight sky…
He stood in a daze, cobalt eyes fixated skyward. For hours he’d stood at the entrance to the Order, watching as the sky dropped cold, white purity down in small flakes. The ground was covered in it, turning the air a bitter cold.
Everything was covered in white. White, white, white— he really hated that colour. It was an empty colour that masked itself as pure. In reality, it was a void colour, it held nothing deeper than just being… well, white.
And it reminded him of things. Horrid, disgusting things. The wind-chime laugh, or the childish smile. The fake happiness that the brat carried with him until the very end.
He grit his teeth, glaring up at the sky. Up to where Lenalee swore Allen was. But Kanda had never been all that much of a Catholic.
What he was, was upset. Angry. Bitter. Towards that stupid brat who tried so hard to save every single thing he could, friend or enemy. Like the snow that tried to cover everything it could, only to melt away in the end.
“Fucking asshole, saving people and giving them freedom.” He muttered, “What are we supposed to do when there’s no one there for us to spend it with. Selfish prick.”
Everything is placed so perfectly in his façade that even the most skilled cannot read through it. He’s spent so long convincing himself of his weaknesses that he’s learned the perfect ways to tuck them away.
His personality is naturally irritable. He snaps so easily. But to train one’s self to have perfect control of their emotions is no easy feat. To make one’s self so empty and void is truly a challenge.
And to not only train yourself to lock away your emotions— but to then go back and force yourself to snap on command, only when it seems suitable for your character. To have control even when you ‘lose’ control— that’s true mastery.
But there comes a time when even that is not enough.
When everything is so drastically falling to pieces that you cannot even comprehend that perfect control. When literally every support has fallen from beneath you and you’re falling,
Sleep is never an issue for him. He goes into that state of unconsciousness just fine and wakes up all the same.
But there are times when that is not completely true. Vivid, real depictions of a sea full of lotus flowers…
Dead and rotting.
There are times when there are flashbacks of sorts. Two innocent children who bickered over everything— who tried to maintain their innocence even after it was so violently ripped from them.
The vast room. The bodies, the blood.
No one should have to murder their best friend twice.
It was a disgusting thing— that’s what he decided.
It went against everything he wanted. He wasn’t supposed to give a shit, he wasn’t supposed to worry. He wasn’t supposed to have these goddamned feelings— this was war. In war people died and you couldn’t be bothered to care about it. But there he was, giving a fuck because he couldn’t fucking help it.
Because—
What if the brat fucking died?
He’d beat the little shit. Bring him back to life and pummel his punk ass.
But doing that meant he cared that the idiot was in danger.
They should put a warning label on the feeling of love.
Warning: Violates every fucking thought you’ve ever fucking had until you want to claw out your fucking eyes and become a serial murderer.
Once Badou asked him if he saw the world in black and white.
It was a smart-ass question, of course, likening him to a dog. So his only answer was a swift smack to the back of the ginger’s head.
No, he didn’t see the world in black and white. Though, in their time, it might has well have been. The constant murk of the atmosphere saturated the colour spectrum, making everything dull and boring.
Everything… Except that dumbass.
He was a flurry of oranges and reds and colours, colours, colours.
So much so it almost hurt Heine’s eyes, watching that idiot scramble around pumping bastards full of shitty-tasting bullets.
The colours were as irritating as the man himself.
But if ever there came a time where he did see the world in black and white— he prayed to the God he knew didn’t exist that he’d at least be able to see those obnoxious oranges.
