Work Text:
Leonard's fate was to fall...
The ground was covered with a canvas of the night sky, on which a galaxy of bright stars were scattered. As if a single tear rolled down the cheek of the kind-hearted Goddess of Eternal Night and broke in the darkness of the sky to give her followers and all the unfortunate souls peace and quiet. A young man with shining green eyes watched this inspiring spectacle from the second-floor window of the Blackthorn security company.
Humming a ballad about a hero he had heard, the young Nighthawk extended his hand to the sky. A satisfied smile spread across his lips.
Today, he became one of these stars that protected the peace of people.
Today was the day he became Sleepless.
Today was the day he began his path as the main hero of this era.
Leonard was so inspired by the new environment, the people around him, who did not resemble either the moralizing nuns, who still made allowances for his charismatic character and charming appearance, or the other children in the church orphanage, who crowded around with admiration, then with envy, and the taste of the potion, that he sat there by the window, watching the starry night sky with a stupid smile.
And then, the next morning, when the newly-minted Sleepless greeted his captain and new colleague, he stumbled on the stairs and rolled down with a crash. Under the laughter of the accountant Thorn, he covered his reddened face with his hands. What a shame.
... he fell down the stairs,
Little habits, barely noticeable to others, could tell a lot about a person. For example, one Midnight Poet from Tingen liked to sit by the window, throwing his feet on the table. He placed a book of Roselle's poems on his face, as if hiding behind a wall of something beautiful and lyrical from the boring routine, and hummed one of the songs he had heard from the nuns at the orphanage.
The corridors of the Thornwood were caressed by the daylight, and the newly hired Seer rubbed his tired eyes as he walked along them. Surrounded by the Sleepless, Klein was so envious of their ability to do without sleep.
A melodious voice touched his ears along with the creaking of the floor, a pleasant fresh breeze blew from the staff room. Passing by an open door, he looked in and met one of his fellow Sleepless, who looked so relaxed, like a carefree baby lying in his cradle.
Carried away by his current thoughts, Leonard did not notice the person standing at the door, and when the attention-grabbing knock was heard, the Midnight Poet, confidently rocking on his chair, opened his eyes in surprise under the pages of the collection, and a crash was heard.
"... where is the coffee."
Klein did not have time to finish his question, covering his face with his hand to barely audibly laugh. His dear poet was innocently sweet, like a small child, when he lay like this on the floor, not yet fully understanding what had happened. Not every adult man could retain such childish charm.
he fell from his chair,
The pen touches the paper to tell a new, fascinating story. It must have a beginning, a plot, a climax, a denouement and a happy ending. And right now, Leonard stepped onto a path of winding ink, guiding him on a long and difficult journey.
His body felt like lead, pressing him into the floor, it was so quick, so fleeting, before his eyelashes, fluttering with pain, closed. They were calling him, repeating his name over and over, while drops of scarlet blood rolled down his pale face. Like a baby who had fallen asleep after crying, Leonard's face was strangely calm.
And there was a battle going on nearby.
Until he was useless.
Until he was the only one left alive.
Until the relaxed hero became a vengeful spirit.
He lost consciousness…
A soft twilight enveloped him in familiar embraces, while gray fog swirled around his high boots. The Red Glove did not know if it was his fault that goosebumps ran down his body, or if it was because of this strange gathering and the eyes riveted on him. Putting on a calm look, he leaned back on the stone chair and said,
"I need an artifact."
A question was immediately heard.
"Which one?"
"I don’t know…"
This was the beginning of his fiasco. Wanting to dissolve in this thick fog, Leonard pressed himself into the back of the seat, enjoying its cold. No one could notice it, but his face slightly blushed with embarrassment, he had never been so disgraced. Black strands fell on his face, making him look younger and more like that innocently sweet Midnight Poet from Tingen. What a shame…
… he fell in the eyes of others…
When the story begins, behind the overwhelming passions and exciting events, you will not even notice how the time of partings will come, the time of the end will come. It will be very quiet, covered with a veil of mystery and sadness, accompanied by the reading of prayers and the flapping of doves at the entrance to St. Samuel's Cathedral. When an unknown former colleague sits down next to him on a bench and folds his hands in a prayerful gesture, without saying unnecessary words.
Neither tearful promises of a meeting, nor embarrassing teasing, which were before.
And leaving the end of the story open, a gold coin remains in the donation box. Its shine is reflected in green eyes, which splash too many feelings to be called "sadness".
It was the longing of a dark sky for extinguished stars.
It was a cold hearth in a once warm house.
It was a hand torn from a desperate grip.
Leonard was just a weak former colleague to stay close and wipe away a lonely tear running down his cheek. It broke on a cold stone and could not become for someone a bright constellation of stars that could give peace.
... he fell ...
Barely noticeable habits could say a lot about a person. But even more so their disappearance. For example, the high-ranking deacon Leonard Mitchell sat demonstratively straight at his desk, while his hand left one elegant line after another on the sheet, and the stacks of papers never ended, hiding his figure, it is unclear from whom.
There was always a forgotten cup of coffee on his desk.
His hair was in disarray.
In his arsenal there were only business smiles.
He liked to look at the starry sky.
There was a name that he never said. But if you mention that person, you can notice how the fingers in red gloves squeeze the sheet of paper or the air, as if wanting to grab something. How the indifferent gaze of someone who has reached the 3rd sequence narrows, wanting to remember something or see something long forgotten. Something inexpressible splashes in the green of his eyes, and those around him feel a surge of longing for loved ones, which quickly passes.
And the once melodious voice says hoarsely:
"This information is available only to the highest echelons of the church."
And then he leaves without turning around, or buries himself in documents, letting all other words go in one ear and out the other. And then, for the first time in weeks of continuous work, he goes home to pour himself a glass of whiskey and look at the starry sky. And a thought flashes through his head:
So he was not a dream.
…
A gray fog covered this world, creeping across the floor like a monochromatic canvas of a lazy and brilliant artist, instilling in his viewer an atmosphere of mystery. There was nothing here except a heartbreaking emptiness and a lulling silence with an eternal sleep. It was a dream for its owner, who lay motionless here, not wanting to open his eyes.
There was no room for bright light in this place.
There were no wishes to make...
And then a falling star lit up above the sleeping man. The gray fog gently embraced the guest, stroking the bleeding wounds on his body with sadness and consolation, but the Angel did not even feel them, his gaze, all his thoughts and feelings were directed at the owner of this place. Taking a deep breath, he released all the feelings that had been weighing him down for these 10 years, no, even more,
"Klein!"
Stretching his arms forward, he repeated the forbidden name over and over again with a smile on his lips all this time. Tenderness, resentment, affection, longing and the desire to reach this fragile and small man, who had languished here for too long, splashed in his eyes.
All this time, his eyelashes, glued together by the weight of the burden, fluttered, and with a sleepy look, Klein looked at his dear poet. Tears ran down his warm cheeks, scattering in different directions like little stars unnoticeable here, and a faint smile appeared on his lips.
He opened his arms and caught his falling star. Too beautiful for this world.
… Leonard's destiny was…
In this lonely world, there were only two who clung to each other in an embrace. One wiped away the tears rolling down his cheeks, the other laughed merrily and pressed the other's waist closer to himself.
… to fall into the arms of his God.