Friday, June 1, 2007
sad story!
You just didn't fall in love in their profession. You didn't become lonely, or depressed, or cry out for attention and love. You were an emotionless weapon by whoever had the coin to pay the price. It had been the name and game of shinobi as long as they had existed, and such practices were strengthened ten fold in an organization such as the Akatsuki.
As an artist he had always bended the rules, expecting attention and reaction from his work and speech. As an human being he broke them by unknowing falling in love with someone other than himself. Part of him doubted he realized he was here out of loving, lonely longing for another person. That person being dead now, this being the closest he could get to him.
He never even noticed.
He knew now though, facing into the strong winds as he gazed down at the ruined canyon. He had died down there. He was killed by his own creations, his own arrogance and confidence. He managed to lose the battle, not against his hag grandmother and the little girl, but himself, died because of himself. And he, himself, had scoffed at first, laughed at his dead partner even when the missing part of him had made itself known. He missed the other artist, and still he laughed.
Deidara finally turned away from the canyon, standing on its rim a moment further before bounding into the nearby trees. He missed the teasing, he missed the conversation about art and philosophy. He missed the impatience, the insults, the puppet-man and all of his quirks. Sasori, as another artist, as someone he had respected had left a void. Had left a realization.
As odd as it was, he had to managed to fall in love with the deranged puppeteer. He hadn't even noticed; how could he be so dense? Logic had made plenty of excuses for him, and when the laughter finally stopped there was still a huge chunk missing out of his life.
So Deidara laughed some more.
--Is To Heal--
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