Title: The Pearl
Author: Ravynfyre ( email@example.com )
Archive: GW Addiction, Darkflame
Category: Angst, Shonen-Ai hints
Pairings: 1+2 hints
Standard Disclaimer: All parts of Gundam Wing are Not Mine. It's all Theirs. *sigh* Too bad, but otherwise, I guess I'd never get anything done *happy hentai thought*. Anyway, not makin' any money offa this so dun sue me. You'd only get some college debt, a few dogs, and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers anyway. Ya know... blood. Turnip. Do the math.
Warning: Mild angst
Notes: None really. Just a short lil stream of consciousness bit of angst. Feedback: Yes, please. All comments welcome (although flames may be fed to my dogs, who, since they have notoriously gassy intestinal tracts, will be spending the night with the flamer afterwards)
Long, long, long ago, far in the depth beyond human consciousness, lost in the time of emptiness, there was a vast pool of... Nothing. There was no darkness, there was no light, there was no sound, there wasn't even truly Nothing. Nothing is still something, even by its very non-existence.
In a paradox of antiquity, it was simply... the Nothing that Wasn't.
Some say that within that vastness of Nothing, there was a Mote that didn't exist just as much as the Nothing didn't exist, and that, in an instant of eternity, it exploded. And from that explosion, came Something. Everything.
I pause and stare at the grain of sand held securely between the tips of the chopsticks in my hand. Within that pale amber speck of silicon, I can see a microcosm with my mind's eye. A miniature Universe set spinning within the vastness of that fleck of matter.
And if, within that tiny, minute little Universe, there sat another boy dressed in black, holding his own grain of sand between a pair of chopsticks, if he were to look beyond his Universe and see me sitting here contemplating the tiny realm he dwelt in... Would he think of me as God?
I turn then, staring up into the darkened starry sky, peering out through time. Yeah, time. See, the light that makes up the pinpricks of stars has been traveling to get here for longer than I've been alive. Most of it at least. When scientists peer out into space with their telescopes and instruments, they aren't seeing across vast distances, so much, as across vast spans of time itself.
I wonder, sometimes, if perhaps what they are really looking for is the face of God peering back at them.
And if they found him... Would he have violet eyes like mine? Or cobalt like Heero's? Maybe even emerald like Trowa's.
Would our God be nothing more than a young man... a boy, like us, fighting to bring back the smiles to people who'd rather see him shot in the street than help him win their freedom again? Does our god sit awake at night wondering about the souls he's snuffed out that day, or the blood he's shed? Does our god wait for the sun to shine again each morning, convinced that he darkness within his own heart has snuffed out the star for good?
Or does our god sit alone on a beach waiting for the tide to wash away a stain that's as deep as the soul he's not even sure he still has?
The wave recedes, leaving my dark pants wet and soggy, clinging to my legs grittily as sand slowly works it's way through the weave with the help of the musty salt water. I tear my eyes away from the grain of sand, letting them fall upon a shell that the water washed up. It could be a clam; it could be an oyster. I'm not sure. It's a bivalve, that's all I know for certain.
With my free hand, I reach down and pluck it gently from the soggy beach before the next wave rushing in can wash it out of reach again. Salt spray flicks up into my eyes as I examine it for a long moment.
It's whole, complete, both sides unblemished and unbroken, unlike the god still clutching that microscopic Universe within a Universe.
A strange impulse takes me by the throat, scooting me back from the encroaching waves just far enough that I can carefully set that minuscule grain of sand upon the black leg of my trousers. With both hands free, I take out my knife and very gently work the shell open, laying the two halves out across my hand and propping them apart with the flat of the blade.
Taking up the chopsticks again, I pick up that Universe and very carefully deposit it within the folds of greyish muscle within the mussel, working it deep into the pale flesh. Once accomplished, I carefully withdraw the knife again, smiling in satisfaction as the shell closes once again with a sharp snap.
I wonder if our god does anything more than simply sit, peering down on us while we murder and maim and burn our world down around us. Does he care that, but a few short months ago, an entire colony blinked out of existence in a brief flash of fire and blood and rage? Did he hear the screams of the population upon it as they willingly leapt into the Void to join him?
The rough edges of the shell dig into my skin as my hand tightens around it, leaving deep red and white lines across my flesh. For one insane moment, an old lesson about the Stigmata flashes through my brain, but then the marks fade, leaving behind nothing more than a memory of fleeting pain and an odd, fishy smell of the sea.
Before I realize exactly what I've done, my arm comes back, almost to the ground behind me, and then catapults forward. Like a small explosion, the shell is flung from my hand, fingers ejecting it from their grasp at the apex of my throw, tumbling end over end over end until it's swallowed by the deep black and teal waters with a tiny splash. Back to the safety of the womb of the Earth.
In time, if the mussel survives, that bit of sand, that microcosm of magnitude, that Universe, will slowly be encased in layer after layer of ivory pearl. A shield woven by the shell's inhabitant to protect itself from irritation that will, in all actuality, save that miniature Universe from the world beyond. For even if that shell is once again plucked from the sea, found again by another god's hands and cruelly destroyed for the prize within... That god will treasure the prize, keeping it from harm, and inadvertently treasuring the Universe within.
The waves have returned. They fling themselves up onto the beach even further now, destroying themselves with each ebb of the tide, only to be born again just beyond the shelf. Their motion is ceaseless, just as the dance of our own Universe is never ending. For a long moment, I let the dull crash and soft roar of the water cresting over and around me lull me into mindlessness.
The perfect moment is broken by that single word, shouted or whispered, I'm not really sure which, upon my floating consciousness.
Returning to myself, I glance up the beach and watch him approach, the wind mussing the dark chaos of his hair indiscriminately as he pauses beyond the touch of the brine. There's a look of quiet understanding in his eyes as he peers at me sitting in the surf, and he reaches out, offering me a hand up. He doesn't care when the hand that's raised to clasp his drips with crimson stains of shame. He doesn't care that the boy he helps to his feet cries out silently as the darkness of his soul screams into the night a litany of names of the Dead. He doesn't care that not all of the tracks and trails of salty moisture slipping down the face of this other child comes from the vagrancy of the sea.
He understands. He doesn't forgive, because, between the sinners, there is no need to. There will only be more sins to account for by the next dawning. Better to wait until the gods are needed no longer, and repent together in one, final burst.
I feel a flush of warmth shoot through me as his fingers tighten around mine for a moment, the scarlet of our mutual stains commingling, joining, cleansing in blood and fire. Then, without another word, he releases me and walks away, but the warmth within me remains.
I pause and turn to give the ocean one last glance before I join him. The waves continue their tireless dance. The stars wink down obliviously upon the glassy surface. God continues his ceaseless observation. Deep under the waves, a Universe is inexorably encased in security. Turning back, I run to catch up with Heero and wrap my fingers around his, smiling as he holds them firmly.
I may not be a real God... But perhaps... Perhaps I can join the other four and we can be the oysters that this tiny grain of sand called Humanity needs.