Title: Wildflower (Part 6 of Torrent) - Chapter 3
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just another piece inspired by Kazuya Minekura's delicious boys.
Summary: "Bloom where you're planted." A long-overdue songfic of random ruminations by four souls bound by fate. Part 6 of the Torrent series.
Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine almost always makes me high
"Sunshine" by John Denver
It sometimes feels like I'm living inside a dream. The sun rises, the birds awaken, the wind blows through the trees, and far below in the distance the sea shimmers and sparkles as if it were laughing. At day's close the wind lies down to sleep on the soft grass, the birds coo good-night softly to each other, and the sun sets far away upon the sea, setting the whole water on fire.
And then, there are only dim shadows and soft shapes in the darkness, while the stars wheel overhead, twinkling in time to some unheard melody.
This is my world, for as long as I can remember. And I can't remember much to begin with – I can't recall, nor understand why I am chained to these rocks. Worse, why I'm chained and kept behind bars inside this barren, cheerless cave.
I wish I knew. But then again, would knowing really make it any better? I have tried to break free from this prison, short of gnawing off my own limbs; and even then these bars that lock me in are imperishable, as far as I can tell.
The fact is that I am chained, and that I can't escape. Sometimes I don't think I want to know why, really. Not being free is sad enough. I don't want to remember whatever horrible, unforgivable thing it was I did to have deserved this punishment.
But out of all the fog… the confused dreams, and the occasional moments when I'm convinced I've gone crazy… out of all the flashes, the images that fleetingly come back… there is one thing I do remember.
And it comforts me as much as my view of the outside world; and I am as grateful for it as being allowed to share in the life going on outside my prison, to share in it through my "window", if not to be a part of it.
I remember my name.
I don't know how I remember it, nor how I'm so sure that it is my name. I just know that it is. And more than that, I know that it is the most precious gift that anyone has ever given to me. The only gift that anyone has ever given me.
Yes, it was a gift, and don't ask me how I know that either.
And so here in my cave, held fast by shackles, and powerless to do more than just watch the clouds drifting by, I hold on to that one sure thing.
I am Goku.
Somehow, it gives me hope.
Hope for what, I cannot say. Even the birds that are my only friends leave me, year after year. They die, of course. Curiously enough, I go on.
Through the promise of spring and the new buds on the trees, through the brassiness of summer and the tempting sea breezes… through the sweet sorrow of autumn, and the last dance of the leaves, to finally the terrifying white of winter – the silence, and the cold, and the staring blankness that seems like it would never end…
I go on.
I think I truly go mad sometimes, and my mind gets lost, usually after another of my animal friends has died before my eyes… and I lose count of how many years I've spent staring off, not seeing anything. Or maybe I just sleep a really long sleep. Whichever it is, I know it's been years, because I wake up, or I come back to myself, and the trees are much taller, or a few have even disappeared – perhaps having been uprooted in a storm and withering away without my knowledge.
And still I go on.
I don't know why, really. I've never questioned how I survive. I just do, even though I see for myself year after year how living things grow old and die. Like I said, it's like a dream… where time doesn't matter, and things happen and you watch them go by while you're standing still… waiting…
Yes, sometimes it feels that way. Like I'm waiting. Waiting for something, waiting for someone.
Somehow, it's not so bad. My wrists and ankles may be chained, but I can still move around. And I may be locked up in a cave, but the darkness is only behind me.
As long as I keep my face to the entrance, I can see the sun. As long as my chains allow me to reach out and pet the birds, then it's enough.
Enough is as good as a feast, don't you think?
As long as I can feel the sun pouring down on me and touching my face, I feel happy, and thankful that I'm alive.
Alive, in this beautiful world, and watching the changing seasons behind my prison. The hope of spring. The carefree abandon of summer. The bittersweet melancholy of fall. And yes, even the harsh beauty of winter.
Because no matter what the season or the weather, my prison sits on top of these mountains. Here, where I see and feel the sun. By turns fierce and burning and unforgiving, and then gentle and warm, and so brilliant it blinds me.
I like the sun. It reminds me… I can't remember exactly what it is it reminds me of, but I know that whatever it was, it shone and dazzled and filled me with awe and reverence and pure joy.
As long as the sun is there… constant, never-changing, even if it storms, even if it's night time and I can only glimpse it reflected on the face of the gentle moon… as long as I know it's there, I don't feel alone.
That's the thing, you see. Somehow… I don't feel lonely, all by myself on what feels like the top of the world. Spring, summer, winter and fall – all of them seem to remind me of something that I must not forget.
Something that I'm a part of.
Something I belong to, and something that I complete.
Sometimes I wake up from a really deep sleep and I can almost, almost remember… Somebody with kind eyes and a gentle smile… Somebody whose towering strength both bullies me and protects me… Somebody to whom I have something really, really important to tell – the one who made a promise, the one who told me I was special…
And always, always the one who glowed like the sun.
But then another day comes, and ordinary things are in it, and everything fades away again, and I wonder how much of my dreams are true memories, and which parts I just maybe make up to comfort myself with.
Or maybe they're a sort of prayer… a way of calling out to someone, to anyone… to come and set me free.
So I wait. For my memories to come back, or for these dream shadows to be real, or maybe I'm just waiting to see how it ends. Waiting for an end.
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