[a cough can be disguised as winter's chill, can be blamed on illness that won't quite let go. these human bodies were so fragile, after all. and it's a good thing that Nikkari half of the time keeps to himself, floats around like the ghosts he can see. he coughs on his own, and the camelia petals that fall from his lips are a secret. a pale yellow, and he thinks it's as sickly as he feels, with this thing inside. a curse, maybe, but a curse doesn't make the heart ache like it does.
he starts taking more walks, so he can claim fresh air. so he can return, and be fine. so that when he needs to cough in a way that shakes his bones, spitting out the petals, no one might see.]
late.
[it's worse. it plagues him every day, and there's no denying it. there's talk of a cure, but frankly, he doesn't want it. to have it removed is acting like nothing happened, might as well make him a blade alone again. it plagues him, suffocates him, and yet Nikkari cannot let go of his feeling anymore than he might break himself in half.
so, in the early morning, before sunrise, he gathers what strength he has, and goes. where, he's not certain, but the only direction is away from the citadel. in this condition, it's not possible to go fast, but steady on - for as a sword, one should be stronger than this. before someone makes him deal with a surgery, before he has to waste away further. there will be, if he keeps walking, keeps pushing through the hacking fits that plague him, a quiet place to lay down and sleep. hopefully, not to wake up.
does a sword leave a body when they die, he wonders, or do they fade - only leaving the metal behind? he supposes he'll find the answer.]
no subject
[a cough can be disguised as winter's chill, can be blamed on illness that won't quite let go. these human bodies were so fragile, after all. and it's a good thing that Nikkari half of the time keeps to himself, floats around like the ghosts he can see. he coughs on his own, and the camelia petals that fall from his lips are a secret. a pale yellow, and he thinks it's as sickly as he feels, with this thing inside. a curse, maybe, but a curse doesn't make the heart ache like it does.
he starts taking more walks, so he can claim fresh air. so he can return, and be fine. so that when he needs to cough in a way that shakes his bones, spitting out the petals, no one might see.]
late.
[it's worse. it plagues him every day, and there's no denying it. there's talk of a cure, but frankly, he doesn't want it. to have it removed is acting like nothing happened, might as well make him a blade alone again. it plagues him, suffocates him, and yet Nikkari cannot let go of his feeling anymore than he might break himself in half.
so, in the early morning, before sunrise, he gathers what strength he has, and goes. where, he's not certain, but the only direction is away from the citadel. in this condition, it's not possible to go fast, but steady on - for as a sword, one should be stronger than this. before someone makes him deal with a surgery, before he has to waste away further. there will be, if he keeps walking, keeps pushing through the hacking fits that plague him, a quiet place to lay down and sleep. hopefully, not to wake up.
does a sword leave a body when they die, he wonders, or do they fade - only leaving the metal behind? he supposes he'll find the answer.]