Or Evangelion for that matter.
Bare, slender fingers of tanned skin reach toward the heavens. It was an elaborate strawberry swirl of crimson sky and pink cloud, gilded delicately by shining pillars of light emanating from the soft, bloody orb peeking over the horizon to the east. The fingers stretch and strain, yearning for a touch of that which was beyond the vast expanses of those scarlet, mind-consuming fathoms... for that which is seen and yet, unseen.
A faint rhythm of warmth pulsed through the fingers that desired beyond what the sky could give, flowing from beyond the heart of the young man who was the owner of those fingers that longed. The grass the young man stood upon swayed gracefully and whispered the sweet nothings of nature as the playful zephyr swept through his wolfish hair that was as dark as the retreating night to the west yet, as the clouds, were tinted gold.
An eternity has been exhausted, searching for that which would glean the soul's rightful ascension, the invocation of the deepest sleeper of the very being, the surreal realisation of true Truth. Kingdoms rose and declined, ideals touted with zeal, Gods conceived and worshiped, mighty armies fielded and routed... to find only seas of blood, bitter suffering, and most sorrowful of all, ultimate nothingness. What manner of desire lies within the heart’s depths, masked by deceitful words and disarming smiles?
Fruitlessly, the young man reaches stubbornly, propelled onward by the forces that spurred the greatest dictators and most enlightened prophets; to feel what could only be described as destiny burn through every nerve of his body into the fabric of his immortal soul… only to feel the aching reality of exhaustion and impossibility arc through his mortal body, which began its slow, but quickening decent to dancing and whispering blades below. As he tasted the unsettling feeling of his centre of balance being violated, his desperate clutches clasp around thin air, and his eyes watch as his soon fisted hand hid the spears of dawn from them.
This foolish boy who reaches for the sky… what does he reach for?
“What… a waste of time.†says a voice which was blurred slightly by the song of the flowing wind, from within the swaying long grass.
Fluffy dandelion seeds glided gracefully by, across the feathery clouded cherry sky, carrying away with them the sorrow, brought by the voice that spoke at the morrow.
A single finger of a slender hand, pure as snow and as smooth as silk, compressed a pearl white key, and a single note, deep and sonorous, issued from the tarnished brass pipes of the church organ, built of dark, marbled mahogany, and echoed about the snowy white cathedral walls. The note was held for a moment, just long enough for the next few, bright and cheerful, to take the listener by surprise. The tones, some soft, some sharp that flowed from the mind of the tried and practised musician and out of the organ’s many pipes weaved an elaborate and captivating pattern, a fluid procession of sound that lifted the mind and expelled contemplation of the world. Then the stream of shades slowed, but the tempo marched onwards.
Within a softly shining mosaic of a scattered rainbow, stood the rank and file of robed choir, silent as God, but observantly aware. As the melodies of the organ flowing around them reached the end of a period, a single voice, wholesomely masculine, and robustly lucid through the tones led the charge. It was swiftly flowed by a collection of similar voices, joining the first and blending themselves harmoniously into the heavy organ tones. The organist’s hazel eyes flew across the language written into the sheets before her, unobscured by her long and flowing dark blonde hair which was held to the sides by her ears, though a few stray fringes had broken free.
Such things of beauty, as the expertly played tones melded with heavenly calls, why do they exist? Why do the living bother living? When they are destined to become dead and lose everything? Dust to returns to dust, ashes return to ashes. That which is once dead comes alive within the mother’s womb, as that which is once alive will become dead with the passage of time. Plagued by doubts of her very existence, the organist misses a key, however, her natural mastery takes it in stride as if nothing had happened, sweeping it away like a speck of dust within a cascade of ordered sound.
That which has a beginning has an end. Soon, both the choir and organ pipes fade into silence, surrendering their melodies to oblivion. A patter of applause breaks out from the seated devotees before they rise and leave, when a young man with wolfish jet black hair, framing eyes that were as a clear night’s sky, fathomlessly dark and twinkling with stars, walked forward along the side aisle, towards the church organ. As he neared it, the organist, without a word being spoken, noticed him and turned her head to face him. For a second her eyes met his, before parting just as quickly.
“You were always good with organs, Hazel.†Said the man meaningfully, smiling confidently with a hint of mischief while wondering to himself how stupid he was to leave such girl alone for so long.
“You never change do you, Abel? Even if it’s a holy place…†Was the irritable, yet quiet reply, masking a feeling of excitement and joy that she was afraid to betray by looking into those eyes...
“That just makes it more exciting.†He said seemingly guilelessly, creating a vacuum of word between them for moments as Hazel drew the covers over the keyboard. He knew she felt the same way, simply because she sounded annoyed.
“Look at me Hazel.†Came his voice again, gentle yet firm, and devoid of the playfulness that was there before. Unable to resist his words, her gaze returned to his, her heart melting under the warmth of his gaze. She also noticed the scent of fresh grass about him, though she did not care enough to ask.
“Is something troubling you?†He asked, his eyes looking seriously into hers. There was definitely something changed about her, she was… sadder. He would never forgive himself if his absence was the cause.
“You can tell?†She quietly asked in affirmation as she looked down at her fingers, not minding his directness.
“One thing I shall never forget…†He sat down beside her, and leant his back against the organ. “…is that you smile while you play… not just with the keys.†He said as that old grin appeared on his face again.
“You vulgar little-†She scolded indignantly as a noticeable blush spread across her pale face, but was interrupted.
“Tell me Hazel. Tell me what has taken your smile.†He asked with imploring eyes. She loathed how he seemed to be able to manipulate his temperament whenever he wished, but only because it never failed to take her breath away. He edged closer to her, as her pause stretched into moments.
“I do not know what I live for, since I will lose… it… in the end.†She finally said meaningfully, staring into his twilight eyes. He looked back into hers, his eyes childlike with its thoughtfulness; he was actually considering her question. This was one of the reasons Hazel tolerated him above other men, his fearlessness.
“I live so that I may one day soar the heavens.†He said in a faraway voice, caring not for foolery already. “Even if I had a single day, I would seize it with all my might.â€
“How?â€
“By being at your side.â€
At these words, a warm blush crept over Hazel's features as she stared into his eyes. An overwhelming sense of nostalgic bliss washed over her being as she bowed down again, unable to look at him any longer. She then whispered the words only they could hear: “Please… don’t stop lying…â€
