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By Luka on Friday, September 14, 2001 - 08:53 pm:

O_o

Okay, now for the post I've been trying to put up for the last two days:

For Those Who Fight....
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They chose an evening when the beginning of it had passed over, or close enough to it that the humming of shock had just begun to fade and bleed over into the surreal numbing that made laughing all too easy and the future a mocker’s game. Luka had indulged in too much coffee, as she always did, for comfort and for the desire to think clearly for a little while by making herself nigh-sick enough to achieve it. Behind her eyes the souls stirred and reached out to reassure themselves all were where they had been left, and one of her brothers had pulled her giggling aside to give the woman a shake and ask if she didn’t want to let it rest a few more days first, if she wanted anyone else with her.

She’d said no, or someone had, which was good enough for the wavering edge of what reality liked to call itself of late. The brother had left with a last warning look, recognizing the way she shone. It was her flaw though. She could taste death as well as the rest of them, could grow sleek from it and strong, but she was a cradle for harboring ghosts.

They’d flown down early for night, late for eve, and it was just now turning cold. The desert had little room for leeway. Luka could already feel the chill past her suit on the exposed flesh and swallowed a shiver, while her companion made no sign of discomfort, being used to the temperature changes, though he did look to her in silent question briefly. She waved it off. The coffee clung to the roof of her mouth and between her tongue and gums in souring cloy—the solution of this was only to drink more, and more still, in elegant denial with cream and sugar.

In her hands she brought out the ivory silk that had been borne down as a treasure to the sands. Unwrapping brought the sudden rush of it all back to her, and Luka felt the blood drain from her face as surely as she knew the color must be slipping from her hair.

She closed her eyes against the rush of the presence so close to her now, and even as the light was blotted out did the world unfurl into brilliance. Feathers stretched, other senses opened, and no matter how she did not wish to look she could not escape the flood of sight. The desert stretched out wide now to her widened awareness, in shades of grey and in color, numbers and lines ranging over, insects chirping as loud as cannons, pang pang pang all like that. Without her training, she could have been drowned under the information; she was drowning now.

Sorrow, confusion, betrayal. Peace, acceptance, lingering fear but only for what came now.

Against her skin she could feel the long strands of hair shift through the fingers which pulled the hank free of its funeral shroud—they were as glossy, as dark as hers had once been before she too had been forced to rebirth, these thicker than Lucas’s fine wisps though, strong enough to take the weather, strong enough for steel. Against her back she felt the wind as it lifted, as did her hands, letting the last physical remnants of an Aveh guard blow free into memory.

“You were not the first casualty,” Luka murmered, as the sands took back their own, “and you will not be the last. But rest now, Tsukai... rest your sadness and your tears. The fight for you is over now--take what happiness you can, for you deserve it. You’ve done enough. Be at peace… and dream.”

As the desert breathed in slumber, she turned and began to walk back, eyes still closed and eyes wide open, to the blond companion she knew would be there behind her.

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For the officers, emergency workers and firefighters who lost their lives trying to save those of others:
You all did only what you could. Thank you from the Delta players. Rest well.