Fan Fiction ❯ chase after the wind ❯ 1 ( Chapter 1 )

" Vanity of Vanities" spoke Quablic, " all things are vanity and chase after the wind"

Ec 1:2

Rated : PG-13 ( for now)

Disclaimer: Don't own, not mine

Authors notes: Well, I don't have much to say... I wrote a story called sympathy for the devil that can be seen as a prelude to this, but neither story depends on the other...In any case I will shut up now and hopefully let this speak for itself... please R and R....

It was a cold and rainy night. A night from whence monsters and nightmares were born. A night where the souls of those who were dead seemed to scream in one loud voice, in chorus with the thunder, `we still live'. The earth was soaked and emitted the same smell as that of a dead corpse. Nothing seemed right with the world. Indeed it was as if it was ripping itself apart, rather then face what was coming, the coming of fate.

It was through this wasteland where dead and living intermingled, where the real and the nightmares seemed to be one and the same, that the stranger past. Normally she would have been stopped long before she had gotten this far into the woods, but even the most vigilant guards were still human. She walked slowly and deliberately, the wind fighting her every step of the way. She wore a cloak with a hood that hid her face in shadow. She stood about 5'7 and looked to be more of a dream then an actuality. The only way that one could tell her sex was due to her garments sticking in certain places. Other than this she appeared to have no distinct attribute and had a surreal feel about her.

The woods she was deep in were ones where just about anyone else would have been killed. It was the last refuge for the shinobi, the great fallen warriors of a dead era, an old ideology for an even older race.. It was ironic, she thought, that it was through them that a rebirth would occur. The woods, which took on a particularly ominous look at night, now seemed pure evil. They seemed a place of nothingness. The trees swayed in the downpour as the water feel threw the leaves like the blood gushed from an open and deep wound. It did not help matters that every sound took on a threatening and potentially deadly quality to her ears. The wind seemed to howl at her to stop and she was quite sure she had heard her dead master's voice telling her to turn back several times, but this didn't matter. She was not content, as her master was, to allow things to occur. There is a chance, she kept repeating to herself, there is a chance.

She was `gifted' with the same `blessing' that was given to Cassandra or Terraces. She had the gift of foresight. How it worked or why she did not understand, nor did she no how to turn it on or off. To her it was as constant as the thunder that seemed to beat out a heavenly rythim. Perhaps it was because of the causality of the universe or perhaps because the gods had chosen her. In any case, it was because of this power that she ventured into the ever worsting storm. It seemed to her appropriate that this tempest outside of her, which threatened to destroy her body, should parallel the maelstrom inside her that threatened to devour her soul.

Her eyes scanned the bleak and desolate horizon that seemed to contain nothing but hopelessness, looking for a sign. She was searching for a very particular abode. One where the daughter of fate lived. It was she who would decide the fate of the race. Ever since her master had died she had been having more and more trouble focusing her visions. Yet she had managed to pyt together that some altercation in the very nature of human life was about to take place and that it was this girl who was the variable.

She had seen things. Such horrible and unrelenting truths that it was a miracle that she had maintained her sanity. Even this was fleeting, for the question of reality still roared in her mind. If there was only one reality, one unchangeable principle of the universe, she had already lost, for her's was a struggle against fate.

Her weary and tired eyes came to rest on ad small light. It was the only thing that cut through the infinite darkness and seemed, to her at least, to be the last glimmer of hope. She pressed onward towards the light, always heedful of the things that may lurk in the shadows. As she drew closer to the house she began to take note of it's more delicate features. It was in the traditional style of a Japanese house, but it was very small. It seemed to be more of a hut then a house. The walls seemed hastily constructed and were already showing wear from the storm. It did not seem to be a happy house either, for she could sense the presence of years of suffering and pain. This was someone's refuge from the cold and desolate world, and it seemed wrong to disturb the scene, albeit un-serene.



She no longer had a choice though and she approached the door. It was through this door that the key to the future lay. For it was the one who resided in this house who would either bring salvation or utter destruction. It was the homeowner's fate to rebuild the world, or burn it to ash. It was with these thoughts that her shaky hand neared the door. She turned the knob and the door seemed to fling itself open of it's own accord. It was as if the door had been made for the sole purpose of allowing her entry into the chamber of fate.

What happened next, occurred in a time that was as fast as one could blink, and yet the sequence appeared to her to move in slow motion. Silhouetted in the light that poured out of the house was a sole figure. The door's opening had made it impossible to gain a subtle entry, though the cloaked woman was quite convinced that any entry would have alerted the houses resident. The resident was a woman, who was extremely beautiful, but with a deep sadness that seemed to pour from her essence, as steadily as the pounding rain. Such beauty didn't seem to fit the heavy heart and the soulless eyes that were interwoven in her. Her hair, which was purple, moved carelessly as she sprang up and grabbed the woman in the cloak. Their eyes met and the prophet uttered one word that caused this purple haired woman to spare her life. The word was `Ganre ( Spelling?).'

" Who are you and what do you want?" The woman asked in a cold and stoic, though annoyed, voice. The prophet was still pinned against the wall and knew that it was now her fate that hung in the balance.

" I have come to tell you, you must choose correctly." The woman said, hurriedly, in fear that she would be dead before her message was relayed.

" What does that mean..." The other asked, still in the cold and emotionless voice.

" All things happen for a reason... Look I can't explain it to you, frankly I don't know myself."

" Then why are you here?" There was more anger in the purple haired woman's voice now.

" Because I exist, because I am real, because I can't stand by idly and watch fate pass me by... You of all people should understand that ideal, it could be said to be the only one you possess."

" You know nothing of me" The woman snarled in retort.

" I know that when you were 4 years old you knew that there was something wrong with you, and that you have been searching for a cure ever since then. I know the only man you love, is a love that is forbidden by just about every system of ethics ever. I know you killed your father. And I know that it is your choice."

For the first time the purple hair woman's eyes betrayed her otherwise cold and emotionless persona. Her eyes showed surprise. "Then why not tell me what choice I have to make" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.

" Because I only know that you are the key, I don't know why or how, but it is you who are the variable in a system of absolutes. You must follow your heart, not your memory. Remember, vanity of Vanities, that is all we retain from our past..." The cloaked woman spoke this and then disappeared into a cloud of smoke and the night, leaving Ayane with nothing but her thoughts....