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Infinitely wide, forever expanding.
Infinitely full, overwhelmed with stars, planets, solar systems, galaxies.
Infinitely dark, pitch black for the most part, letting the crumbs of light stand out within their lonely spaces.
Infinitely empty, deeming all that made it so full meaningless dust in the face of its never ending growth.
Upon the formidable darkness of the night, specs of light shine brightly, squabbling to burn the brightest amongst a sea of never ending competition. Constellations over constellations decorate the empty canvas, painting the stories of human creation and its formidable power. Maybe the only power humans truly possess.
It is quiet, if not for the sound of rustling leaves in the wind. The silence is comforting, all meaningless thoughts coming to a halt, letting the ‘brain’ breathe. His eyes rake absentmindedly over the picture above, paying no real mind to what it is he’s looking at. It feels pointless, contemplating something he knows is nothing but a farce. But what a beautifully lie it is, the blue glow kissing the auburn scenery below.
Moments of true peace are hard to come by, between the throbbing headache that are his duties and the pulsating storm inside his chest, there are few times when laying down on the grass brings him no guilt. He has no need for resting his body, no need to stop moving and he doesn’t crave it either. With his back on the cold, dew-touched grass, he can’t say he doesn’t see the appeal to it.
It won’t last.
He won’t let it last.
Standing still is simply a waste. So many cogs could move into place, so many springs could arch, so many pistons could start to pump. Or, maybe they couldn’t, and he is to make sure they do. What you set in motion will only ever move as much as you push it. There is no room for rest. Just movement. Continuous, unstoppable movement. Would it not be a waste of a perfectly good puppet if it just lounged uselessly around all night? Archons forbid it ever considered it during the day.
He , not it .
His body goes fully limp. If anyone were to pass by now, they’d think him a corpse. Laying motionless, eyes unwavering, unblinking.
The puppet is a he, not an it.
What a positively pathetic statement that is. None of his peers would give him the time of day if he tried to make that distinction clear. They’d all pompously take the piss, bar the doll obsessed freak who has never found it hard to address him as a person, but rather seemed to relish in it.
At the end of the day that’s what he is.
A person.
Well, a defective puppet. One filled to the brim with pathetic thoughts and feelings. The only thing separating him from the fragile construct that are humans is his physical durability. His one true asset, the reason he has been desired to begin with. But on a psychological level? He breaks just as easy as any human would. If his good for nothing creator is to be believed, maybe even more so.
She is a statue of a person but she does posses a heart, one that led to her down fall. Maybe they aren’t so different. His bothersome feelings got him where he is as well, but he doesn’t even have the excuse of possessing heart.
The only one he ever had in his grasp he slammed to the ground. How funny, to think he felt so strongly about holding the heart of an innocent in his still jointed hands. Now he has no problem ripping it out of their chests himself. Maybe it wasn’t the flesh that disgusted him so, or the assumed untainted nature of the one it belonged to, but rather having the confirmation that what he considered a true friend, a mentor figure even, left him to burn with nothing but a gruesome keepsake in the slim chance that he survived. Nothing new to him, even then. What’s a pumping heart, what’s a golden feather?
Niwa ran like a coward, using him to save their pathetic little village. It all fell apart in the end anyway, most of his spirit along with it.
How he wished to not hurt anymore when recalling the events of that day. How he wished he didn’t remember the knot in his throat, the water in his eyes. He long got rid of that useless functionality. Another joke his creator played on him. She gave him tears to cry and then left him to rot when he shed them.
How he wishes he could not feel.
But alas that is not possible, even the Doctor couldn’t get that done. Or maybe he lied to him too, maybe he didn’t want to go through with the procedure, a sadistic desire to see him suffer. Like the endless pain he felt during the ‘tests’ and ‘experiments’ wasn’t enough for the sick bastard.
Tonight is a moonless night, yet the sky doesn’t look any darker. It still is nowhere near as bright as the day. Stars twinkle just the same. They are still just as beautiful.
Beautiful huh? He hasn’t deemed anything beautiful in a long time. He can objectively determine when something or someone is easy on the eyes, but he hasn’t subjectively looked at anything and deemed it pleasant in quite a while, be it an experience, aesthetic, taste… There truly only is practical and impractical, helpful and useless.
Surrounding one with subjective pleasures is a waste of energy and time. Not like he’s lacking either, but the sooner he achieves his goal the better.
The sooner he gets his birthright, the sooner he’ll get to have everything he ever desired served at his feet. Followers, servants, admirers, recognition, admiration… a heart.
What is it he’s truly chasing?
It’s not something as childish as fame. He doesn’t shy away from the highs of praise, he relishes in the attention and respect, but it isn’t something he seeks. It’s something he already has, something he always deserved and always required of those around him.
It’s not people to follow his every command. He quite likes the thrill of battle and never minded mundane tasks back when he was still the naive eccentric.
So… what is it?
The wind picked up in speed, the rustling of autumn leaves cracking in the air. It’s getting colder, but the wind feels nice on his skin. The grass around him tickles his sides. If he doesn’t move soon he’ll leave an imprint in the dirt.
He doesn’t really want to move. But he doesn’t really know why either. He should be getting up and continuing his journey. And how corny, having his little pathetic emotional reflection on the hills of Tatarasuna, mere meters away from the furnace that he himself deactivated centuries ago.
They are to mess with it again soon. What a joke.
It will make everything absolutely meaningless.
He hates remembering those days, because looking back those are the only days of his longer than necessary life when he felt truly alive.
Ever since, life has just been a continuous quest for… for what exactly? Vengeance? Power?
What is he hoping to achieve with this? He wants his birthright, but why? What is he to do with the power? He couldn’t care less for Inazuma, he couldn’t care less for its people, he couldn’t care less for the fatui either.
What is he doing this for? The satisfaction that he did?
How… sad.
How boring.
How comfortable. The ground is so comfortable and his eyes are so heavy.
Oh, how soft the wind blows and how harmoniously the autumn leaves rustle…
——————
His eyes are trained on the wooden ceiling of the inn.
He needs no sleep, so he lays there uselessly, staring into nothing.
The wood planks are nothing like the starry sky. The lamp hanging from above makes the illusion of a moon that has no place being there to begin with.
By all means this should bore him to death, if not offend him, prompt him to stand up and get back to his duties.
What duties? He has long since been forgotten by his oppressors and he wishes to think he has long forgotten them too. Besides, he would not get up now if you had a knife to his throat. Not like it would do much, but that’s not really the point.
His arms envelop the sleeping man holding onto him. His lover’s heat seeps through his night clothes and never has he ever felt warmer.
His head is clear of worries for now, mind preoccupied by the overwhelming affection he feels for this human clinging onto him.
“Kuni, are you awake?” A raspy voice comes from between his neck and shoulder, the soft breath Kazuha lets out hitting his skin.
“You know I am” he half whispers, rolling his eyes endearingly.
“Mmm, yea I do.”
“What is it?”
“I love you” he breathes out, pushing up to barely place a kiss to his lover’s jaw. He then nuzzles back into his neck, his breath starting to even out again.
His chest fills with affection, a hand coming up to comb through Kazuha’s long hair when he feels the embrace around his waist tighten.
“I love you too”
And he has never felt more at ease with where he was. He fears the fragility of this blip in time they share, but he will live it before ever regretting its passing.
He will appreciate these warm hands, these soft lips, this lush hair his fingers are combing through, until they’re freezing and only then will he ever worry about the cold again.
The intimidating emptiness.
For now, his heart is more full than it has ever been.