Trinity Blood Fan Fiction ❯ I'll be missing you ❯ Chapter 1
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: C_Ravenlocke 
Being an eternal creature means watching everyone around you fade and go into death. DISCLAIMER: I don't own these boys. They belong to the late Sunao Yoshida.
Anime/Manga: Trinity Blood Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama | Type: Vignette | Uploaded On: 05.01.2007 | Updated On: 05.01.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 1.2K | Status: Completed
Being an eternal creature means watching everyone around you fade and go into death. DISCLAIMER: I don't own these boys. They belong to the late Sunao Yoshida.
Anime/Manga: Trinity Blood Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Romance / Drama | Type: Vignette | Uploaded On: 05.01.2007 | Updated On: 05.01.2007 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.3K | Visits: 1.2K | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I don't own Trinity Blood, Abel Nightroad, or León Garsia de Asturias. They are the property of the late Sunao Yoshida and the anime rights belong to GONZO. I'm just borrowing the boys for a bit.
“I'll Be Missing You”
by C. Ravenlocke
They had sentenced him to a thousand years in prison for what he'd done. It was better than the death penalty they'd sought for him originally. But even with all the time taken off his sentence for the work he did for Lady Catarina and the AX, I think he and I both knew he'd never experience true freedom again. That didn't keep me from trying to give him the closest thing to it that I could manage, especially as he grew older.
He aged very gracefully, his hair going straight from black to a distinguished silver white, forgoing that awkward gray so many people seem to turn. It almost matched the shade of my own hair, much to our mutual amusement. His face grew careworn, but never got the harsh edge so many lifetime prisoners seemed to adopt, still dusted with stubble, though time had stolen the color from it, leaving it the same white as the rest of his hair.
It was hard, watching time stealing him ever so slowly away from me. Partially because I knew it meant losing him someday, but also because I was forced to realize that I would never join him. I never said anything about it to him; a conversation on a subject such as that would have been unnecessary pain for both of us. And I couldn't bring myself to do anything that might upset that often sardonic humor he had, that humor that was his armor from the proverbial slings and arrows of the world.
He called me Junior almost exclusively as he got older, and it seemed to amuse him more and more the older he got. Sometimes, though, there always seemed to be something just quietly desperate about the ribbing, as if perhaps reaffirming my “youth” would somehow slow his own aging. And perhaps it did, to a degree. Laughter is supposed to be good medicine, after all, and it was hard not to be amused by the idea of being referred to as a youth when I was truly so many centuries older than him.
In spite of the light-hearted way he referred to my age, though, he and I had several long talks about realities I didn't want to face. We talked about where he wanted to be buried, how he wanted his grave marker to read. He told me what he wanted done with his personal effects. They were painful conversations, but necessary ones, and at the time, I couldn't understand why he insisted on telling me. What I did not know, what I could not know until he was found dead in his cell, was that his earthly remains wouldn't be leaving that prison until his sentence was complete.
After he died, they placed him in a capsule similar to the one that housed my dear Lilith. And as I had done with her, I spent a long time crying over him before I was able to pull myself together. And then, I was able to do so only because of the promises I made to him.
I had never met his daughter before, though I had seen her picture. Knowing her face as a child, however, did nothing to prepare me for the task of telling her that her father had died, and to give her everything that had been León's. She was very much her father's child, a spirited young woman with dark hair and León's quick smile. She also, I found, had very much her father's temper, and she met my declaration with a mix of disbelief and fierce anger. It was only showing her the locket that finally calmed her, and made her believe my story; she knew as well as I did that León would have never willingly given it to another otherwise.
And when I left her, it was that locket I kept. And perhaps, it was the best thing I could have kept. I knew how much he had treasured this particular piece of jewelry, how important to him that tiny picture of his daughter was. It holds two pictures now. The long familiar picture of Sana, and a picture of León, the one originally taken for his AX identification card, thoughtfully “acquired” for me by Tres, who had the easiest time tracking it down. And like León did before me, I haven't taken taken this locket off since I parted ways with Sana, not even nearly a millennium later. It keeps a part of him close to me.
Not that I need that reminder, not today. Today's a very special day, after all, one I've been waiting for a very long time to see.
Today, León is finally coming home.
§
I can't help but admire the place he'd chosen to be buried. It's a beautiful place, full of green grass and blue sky. The plot where he's been buried, alongside his long-dead wife and daughter, is set apart from the rest of the graveyard some. I've chosen a simple marker for him, black marble with the AX seal. It means that any defacement of the stone carries a strict punishment. It was the only way I could think of to honor him best. His name, which had always looked impressive to me in writing, seems even moreso as I look at it etched into that marble in an elegant, flowing script.
Tres and I are the only two to witness his burial, aside from the gravediggers who buried him. I give him a eulogy that I've been crafting in my heart, speaking my words to the wind, and to Tres, if indeed he's listening. In truth, I couldn't care less if he is or not, this equally eternal friend. These words aren't for him. They're for me, and for the love I'm going to be forced to leave buried here in this earth. Finally, the last words are spoken, and silence descends. As bittersweet in death as it was during his life, I know the time has come to say a final farewell.
I have no words left for it. I have no tears left for it. I've used them up tenfold, and it's an almost cold kind of silence that heralds me from the cemetery, my hand wrapped tightly around the locket I'm never without. And as I near the gate, I catch a faint scent, there and gone so quickly I can almost make myself believe it was my imagination.
But I know it's not; I'd recognize that scent anywhere. Something musky, a clean smell that hearkens back to freshly washed bronze skin, of a kiss tasting faintly of sangria wine, of strong arms that were an endless source of comfort when I had the luxury of them. And as it fades away, I can't help but smile a little, and my final words to him seem to hang in the air for a few moments before a cool breeze sweeps them away.
“I'll miss you too, Tovaras.”
“I'll Be Missing You”
by C. Ravenlocke
They had sentenced him to a thousand years in prison for what he'd done. It was better than the death penalty they'd sought for him originally. But even with all the time taken off his sentence for the work he did for Lady Catarina and the AX, I think he and I both knew he'd never experience true freedom again. That didn't keep me from trying to give him the closest thing to it that I could manage, especially as he grew older.
He aged very gracefully, his hair going straight from black to a distinguished silver white, forgoing that awkward gray so many people seem to turn. It almost matched the shade of my own hair, much to our mutual amusement. His face grew careworn, but never got the harsh edge so many lifetime prisoners seemed to adopt, still dusted with stubble, though time had stolen the color from it, leaving it the same white as the rest of his hair.
It was hard, watching time stealing him ever so slowly away from me. Partially because I knew it meant losing him someday, but also because I was forced to realize that I would never join him. I never said anything about it to him; a conversation on a subject such as that would have been unnecessary pain for both of us. And I couldn't bring myself to do anything that might upset that often sardonic humor he had, that humor that was his armor from the proverbial slings and arrows of the world.
He called me Junior almost exclusively as he got older, and it seemed to amuse him more and more the older he got. Sometimes, though, there always seemed to be something just quietly desperate about the ribbing, as if perhaps reaffirming my “youth” would somehow slow his own aging. And perhaps it did, to a degree. Laughter is supposed to be good medicine, after all, and it was hard not to be amused by the idea of being referred to as a youth when I was truly so many centuries older than him.
In spite of the light-hearted way he referred to my age, though, he and I had several long talks about realities I didn't want to face. We talked about where he wanted to be buried, how he wanted his grave marker to read. He told me what he wanted done with his personal effects. They were painful conversations, but necessary ones, and at the time, I couldn't understand why he insisted on telling me. What I did not know, what I could not know until he was found dead in his cell, was that his earthly remains wouldn't be leaving that prison until his sentence was complete.
After he died, they placed him in a capsule similar to the one that housed my dear Lilith. And as I had done with her, I spent a long time crying over him before I was able to pull myself together. And then, I was able to do so only because of the promises I made to him.
I had never met his daughter before, though I had seen her picture. Knowing her face as a child, however, did nothing to prepare me for the task of telling her that her father had died, and to give her everything that had been León's. She was very much her father's child, a spirited young woman with dark hair and León's quick smile. She also, I found, had very much her father's temper, and she met my declaration with a mix of disbelief and fierce anger. It was only showing her the locket that finally calmed her, and made her believe my story; she knew as well as I did that León would have never willingly given it to another otherwise.
And when I left her, it was that locket I kept. And perhaps, it was the best thing I could have kept. I knew how much he had treasured this particular piece of jewelry, how important to him that tiny picture of his daughter was. It holds two pictures now. The long familiar picture of Sana, and a picture of León, the one originally taken for his AX identification card, thoughtfully “acquired” for me by Tres, who had the easiest time tracking it down. And like León did before me, I haven't taken taken this locket off since I parted ways with Sana, not even nearly a millennium later. It keeps a part of him close to me.
Not that I need that reminder, not today. Today's a very special day, after all, one I've been waiting for a very long time to see.
Today, León is finally coming home.
§
I can't help but admire the place he'd chosen to be buried. It's a beautiful place, full of green grass and blue sky. The plot where he's been buried, alongside his long-dead wife and daughter, is set apart from the rest of the graveyard some. I've chosen a simple marker for him, black marble with the AX seal. It means that any defacement of the stone carries a strict punishment. It was the only way I could think of to honor him best. His name, which had always looked impressive to me in writing, seems even moreso as I look at it etched into that marble in an elegant, flowing script.
Tres and I are the only two to witness his burial, aside from the gravediggers who buried him. I give him a eulogy that I've been crafting in my heart, speaking my words to the wind, and to Tres, if indeed he's listening. In truth, I couldn't care less if he is or not, this equally eternal friend. These words aren't for him. They're for me, and for the love I'm going to be forced to leave buried here in this earth. Finally, the last words are spoken, and silence descends. As bittersweet in death as it was during his life, I know the time has come to say a final farewell.
I have no words left for it. I have no tears left for it. I've used them up tenfold, and it's an almost cold kind of silence that heralds me from the cemetery, my hand wrapped tightly around the locket I'm never without. And as I near the gate, I catch a faint scent, there and gone so quickly I can almost make myself believe it was my imagination.
But I know it's not; I'd recognize that scent anywhere. Something musky, a clean smell that hearkens back to freshly washed bronze skin, of a kiss tasting faintly of sangria wine, of strong arms that were an endless source of comfort when I had the luxury of them. And as it fades away, I can't help but smile a little, and my final words to him seem to hang in the air for a few moments before a cool breeze sweeps them away.
“I'll miss you too, Tovaras.”