Kyou Kara Maou Fan Fiction ❯ Wasting Words ❯ One-Shot

Title: Wasting Words

Author: Alexandrina Hollingsworth

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou

Pairing: Conrart Weller x ??

Rating: PG

Summary: “The funny thing about fate is that we never expected any of it to happen.”

Warnings: Er..., language, I suppose, but the most vulgar word that you'll find is `damn'.

Note: A quick one-shot. The ending is as it should be. Use your imagination. ;)

Disclaimer: Kyou Kara Maou does not belong to me; the credit goes to Takabayashi Tomo for the original story, and to Matsumoto Temari for the original character design, and to several others who made Kyou Kara Maou what it is today.

 

Wasting Words

By Alexandrina Hollingsworth

 

The funny thing about fate is that we never expected any of it to happen.

 

Clairvoyance, premonition, the ability to predict the future—or what have you; you and I both know, and all of Shin Makoku knows that those `predictions' can change any minute now. Fate is never the same one second after you find out what's supposed to happen in your future. One moment, you can be destined to die; and the next, you'll be allowed a body and soul healthier than it'd ever be believed to be possible.

 

Fate is a strange thing: When you think you've grasped the basics, you've finally understood its foundation, it shifts and goes through a, literally, life-changing metamorphosis. There will be those, like we were once, a long time ago, that will not give in to their fate, who will fight until the end of their days to live life the way they wanted to live it; and there will also be those who, like us as well, although in a time much farther back, who will simply give in to the rigidity of this concept we've named `fate'—or destiny, or karma, or whatever term is up your sleeve.

 

I had thought, so many, many years ago, that I would never feel the way those around us have felt—truly happy. This is all, I suppose, thanks to our new demon king and his pacifist ways that have established our kingdom's new era. But, then again, I am suppose that I am to think you and I and all of us are part of this, too; well under His Highness's influence, but a part of this change nevertheless.

 

Years and years ago, I'd thought that I'd never be able to use that four-lettered, one-syllable word that so many others around me and around us have been able to use. That one word—home. Its location is as unpredictable as that fickle thing—fate—and perhaps it is ever-changing; but then I realized something through the course of the years we've been alive. Home is not one place I can be—at least, not without you. The defining moment came to me while you were away on that ridiculous mission with His Highness and His Majesty; I had long ago, as you know, hypothesized that home was as stable as our castles in Shin Makoku, but then I was wrong, and I am not ashamed to admit that I'd been wrong. `Home', as I know and as I hope you now realize as well, is where you will be, and where you will be, I will be.

 

And because we are speaking of `I'd never', I'd never thought that I would ever be this open to you, never thought that, out of all the people I could've spoken to, I chose you. It's funny what... `fate'—I can see you smirk, and I'm guiltily indulging myself in that image, you see—actually holds in store for us; more often than once, I've already surprised myself. You and I know that “our choices today will affect our futures tomorrow”, but no matter what we do, it appears as though our `tomorrows' have already been planned for us. Whether or not I decide to kill that one stray man who will not give his loyalty to His Highness; whether or not I will decide to strike down my foe or decide to be merciful and let him live.

 

But there is one thing—and, from the views of so many others before us and among us and with us, one thing only—that Fate cannot change; and this is our heart.

 

Love, as you and I both know very well, can be that double-edged sword; either it will bring back joy and whatever emotion we could not have felt before into our lives, or it will completely rid us of happiness when it goes away. You could treat it as the hardest gift to give—you never know if you're ever going to get a gift just like it, and if you do, you don't know if the one who gives it to you will ruthlessly tear it away from you as though when that one gave it to you, he meant it as nothing more than a cruel joke; and you are the only one left to know that it wasn't as meaningless as that one who gave that `gift' to you believed.

 

The fires of my candles burn low now.

 

I wrote this for you, but looking over it, I realize that I've revealed too much of myself; this bit of me that I don't want anyone to ever find out about.

 

Alongside that, I realize that I never truly did get to my main point.

 

But my main point is of no importance if the attempts of pursuing your heart are futile and worthless.

 

As I'm not sending this to you, however; I love you.

 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

 

If you knew, and you didn't believe me, I would have told you that I would say anything, anything at all, anything that you want to hear to make you believe me; and I would have told you, then, that I hate wasting words that are utterly flavorless in their meanings.

 

I hate wasting words like this.

 

I hate this, and I hate you because you unwittingly know that I can never hate you enough.

 

And I hate you, because I love you.

 

And I hate you, because this is the worst crime I could have, in my whole life, ever committed.

 

Damn you, damn me, and damn us all to hell, Conrart.

 

 

The candles have burned out, and so the name signed at the bottom cannot be seen. But as the writer of the letter calmly sets aside the sheet of paper along with his ink and his quill, the moon gently takes a small peek inside the high windows of the room, and its silvery rays catch glimpse of that one name written on the bottom—

 

—and then the curtains are tightly drawn together.

 

 

04/16/07

Text © Alexandrina Hollingsworth