Born different.

‘You can only be born different.’
That is the only constant thought that hoards his mind.
Shivering in the cold January night, he pulls the coat tighter and hastens towards the building.
It is old, cracking, and breaking at its seams, left uninhabited for years. The nameplate is crusted with dust, remains of a name peeking from behind.

Professor TaeJun.

He once interviewed the professor, an incredible genius of their time, back when his articles painted the front pages of their magazine, and every word leaving his pen was filled with passion and brilliance.
Days that were now long forgotten.

“I’m this close, Tom” Professor had held up his hand, fingers pinched, a mere millimeter between them. “To achieve the key to the warping of dimensions.” Tom had clicked his pen and scribbled down the quote.
“You say that there is a condition?”
The professor smiled, the sparkle never leaving his warm gaze, “Not a condition, I would say, but a parallel.” He cocked his head to the side, his wispy strands of grey hair catching the shimmer of the sun. “After all, a man can only be born different once.” The professor had a certain way with his words. Staring into his hazel gaze, Tom, for a second, sees his reflection. An enthusiastic, passionate gaze, that perhaps in another dimension would’ve been his.

Sighing, he shakes his head. Those days of glory were long past. The professor had gone missing shortly afterward. After seven years, the search for him was closed, proclaiming him dead.
On the other hand, the glory of Tom’s literary career had remained for a year, before a single accusation had broken the castle, built of his blood and tears.

Now he lived as the worker bound to lower his head, and turn his gaze away, wincing at the sharp and hateful comments hurled towards him.
The last chance to redeem himself, the editor had said so here he was.
Reaching the door, he creaks it open. There is nothing left but dust and desolation.

The machines that had once gleamed were soulless.

walks towards the glass wall. From its murky planes, he can see life bustling across the market. It is a glamorous view, and hidden in the desolation of the building, looking at the heart of the city beating across the thin sheath of glass, his heart flutters, and he reaches out. His fingers barely graze it when the room lights up.
He whirls around, facing the capsule-reactor. It is beeping, and on its upper rim, words appear,

“You can only be born different.”

Something lodges at his throat.
The centre bursts into colours, whirling inexplicably into one another. On the panorama, syllables materialise.
“Beware of the condition.”

His hand moves forward.
“Say,” a voice speaks,
He halts, his heart palpating. His vision narrows until it is just him, this anomaly, and a voice whispering into his head,
Say what you want to be.”

Suddenly, his mind is focusing on his life. A tumultuous four decades. Forty years of self-loathing, forty years of incompetence, of defeat.
Tears well up and with a gasp, he reaches into the hole.
There is a coldness that sweeps him, and for a moment the only thing he hears is his own voice, “A man who has everything” until he vanishes into the bliss of unconsciousness.

When he wakes, the room is unfamiliar.
There is a vitality in his body that he hasn’t felt in a long time, a warmth in his chest that makes him smile.
He walks to the mirror. The face staring back at him is not his own.
It is chiseled, regal, handsome. The dashing sculpture of a man written in lores of Old.
There is another consciousness that seeps into his own, an onslaught of memories that surprises him, and he runs out, throwing open the oak doors to a beginning he once dreamt of.

You can only be born different.
He is now sure.
In this life, he is Diarmuid-uia-Diahibne. A warrior, a Knight, a noble.
In this life he has perfection and love.
In this life he has GrĂ¡inne.
Her sapphire gaze glitters at him, lips curling into a smile and he grazes his fingers through her soft locks, staring ahead towards the lawns, relishing in the joyous voices of his children.
In this life, he had triumphed over every obstacle.
Here he was born a charmer, to be everything that others couldn’t be.
Everything others desired, everything they admired.

He led a life of heroism, of the feats cemented in their books. He had led a life of victory, a life of love, and now he felt complete.
He smiles, drawing his love in for an embrace, relishing in the warmth he now knows.

In this life, he thought that he is a diamond; pure, crystal, unbreakable. Yet he remains a glass. In the sun mesmerising, yet fragile and with a single slip of the hand, shattering.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He is in pain. His every breath is a torment.
Fionn, his friend, his king, smirks, and steps towards the river.
That man has the power, Diarmuid knows, to heal a man with water that is drunk from his palm.

Above him the portal appears, the one he had seen years before. It is vibrant, gleaming.
No one gives it a look, no one can see it. From it a paper appears,
“Beware of the condition”
The words echo in his mind, deafening.

The papers falls towards him, catching the glare of the sun.
“A man who has everything,” his wish resounds.
His hand trembles, crawling forwards.
The paper crumples in his palm, and the words, black and admonishing, covered by the red misery of his blood, appear before his eyes.
A man who has everything, yet has nothing.

This was the portal’s condition.

He withers, gasping and shaking. His eyes are desperate looking at his companion, at Fionn, at the water that trickles through his hands, and the smirk that lines his satisfied face.

He pleads, he whimpers, yet there is no mercy that is dawned on him.
In the end, there is only a tear that runs down his face, and the cold hand of death grips his chest.
Why is it? He wonders at the brink of his consciousness, that he once ran towards everything when every man in this world is fated to leave with nothing.

The End.


Beneath his back, the ground is wet.

A clay that sticks to the remains of his uniform. There is a sickness in that wet soil, littered with shards and glass, a sickness that he cannot stand.
The mud sticks to his hands, it is clayey, matted with the moisture of blood, that raises bile in his throat.

But there is nothing left in his stomach to throw up, there is no energy in him to rise up, and no will to react to the foul smell that hoards his senses.

He had once been scared of small spaces, scared of being left in isolation and forgotten, but now looking with a blurred eye at the barely breathing bodies of his comrades, for a second he wishes that he were alone, isolated and forgotten, left to the shackles of his own solitude.

Perhaps then, this shard that seems to impale his chest, these cold hands that freeze his very bones, they will not exist.

There is a gasp, it echoes in the void. For a moment he stays still, wondering if it was his own.
Every breath through his nose agonies his shattered ribs. He doesn’t want to breathe, he tries, but there is a anguish in his mind that will not leave him in peace.
The gasp resounds again, this time there is a twitch of fingers that accompany it.

“Captain Trevor,” the voice is small, miserable. Nothing like the brave solider that Noah once prided himself as.
He struggles, getting to his knees, crawling, shuffling, forwards until he can see Noah’s face.

It is battered, nose curved to the side, the flesh of his cheek bare, the parts of his skull visible. There is one lone eye, that stares at him in despair. One eye that wet with the heaviness of it’s own tears.

“Th..” he leans forward trying to catch his murmurs, dropping on the fours, groaning at the pain that shoots from his broken bones, “They are not breathing.”
His face is lowered to the ground, his skull soiled with the goo of Noah’s blood and his eyes shut, trying to hold back his sobs.

Shame. Devastation.

He doesn’t know how to describe how he feels.
He should’ve been the first one to go. He should’ve been the one to protect them all, but here isolated in the cave, blocked from the help of the world by the fury of this mother earth, he can do nothing but see his men, injured and battered on the battlefield, starve to their deaths.
He waits a moment, trying to salvage his courage, for this little boy, for this boy that was too young to be in their platoon.

“Save your energy, I said,” his voice is thick, “They’re following those orders.”

He looks up. He is level with Noah’s gaze.
The misery they convey, he is sure his face looks the same.

“I never,” he gurgles again, “wanted to be a hero.”
None of them did. He wants to say. None of them wanted to die, caved in, isolated, miserable like this.

“I bet they’re sitting in their halls, with their warm meals, comfortable abodes, loud words, and we” he draws in another breath. “we are fighting a war that they begun.”
There is a bitter taste in his mouth when he remembers their base, remembers his commanders, his peers and all those old men, who can only talk and chatter, and send them to do their deeds.

“I wish,” Noah starts, his voice is thick, words desperate. The tears brimming in his eyes make contact with the ground, flowing in a row, shimmering in the glare of their torch.
“I wish, I wish to burn down that base, so that these sacrifices, they’re there no more.”

There is a gasp, and then quiet. Noah’s eyes are still open, still and resolute, glaring at the roof, hateful and defeated.
Trevor’s hands grip the mud, it’s sickness coiling his stomach.
Something clogs at his throat, a wetness that lines his gaze.

In the cave, there are only his screams of agony, desperate and regretful that echo across the range.

He comes to his consciousness several weeks later.
There is a curtain, pure white, that flutters at the window. The walls are creamy, unblemished.
It is serene, his surroundings.
For a moment he remembers nothing.
There is peace in his chest, he is numb to any pain, and his eyes flutter close.

The next time he wakes, the nightmares, the remembrance of past has already shattered his peace.
His nights are lined with sobs, his consciousness with mirages.
They’re everywhere, around him, beside him, talking, joking, laughing, with him.
They smile at him, clean and happy from the windowsill, Noah stands beside his bed smirking at their antics.

He looks around in wonder, his chest swelling with warmth, and then he closes his eyes.
The images of that day burn behind his lid. The putrid smell clogs his brain, the slashes, the injuries have marked their scars, and he opens his eyes, only to be trapped in this painful solitude.
He is alone in his room, staring at the roof, willing, hoping, begging the voices to stop, yet they don’t.

It is by accident he comes across the Lord, the great commander that controls their forces.
He had dreamt of this moment a million times, and everytime he wonders how he would impale this man, how he would make him realise the pain his guys suffered.
Then he comes face to face with Lord Rafael. He is smiling, shaking his hand, and pinning the badge of honor to his crisp uniform.

In that moment he realises that he can do nothing, that these men hidden behind the comfy walls of their castles can never know his pain, and when he is ushured out of the hall, with praises and salutes following his every steps he can feel nothing but regret and anger, a red hot and blistering feeling that keeps clawing up his chest.

He stands on the ledge of Lord Rafael’s room, hidden with the dark of the moonless night, with a gun shaking in his palm.
There is a guffaw from inside, the curtains flutter, this is his chance. Yet he stands there frozen, when he hears his laugh,

“Heroes?” there is a snarl from inside, “They only died an honorable death because of my commands, yet once they die, they’re always the heroes. ”
He stiffens at the words, straining to hear more,

“That Commander Jackson, is what you call common fools,” there is a grunt from the room that marks the presence of Trevor’s Commander also. Like a snake that has bitten his heart, his arm goes lax,

“Their lives don’t matter whether they live or die, and once on that battlefield, whether they did something useful or not, the media prints them as national heroes, even when we have to dispatch people to help those fools. Only death can make them a hero. It’s my time, to show them what a hero looks like.”
He should’ve been angered, that’s what he thinks.
He should be enraged, should clock that gun, and shoot that man right in his face.

But then Noah’s gaze filters by his gaze. Those frail bodies of his companions, beaten and battered, isolated in that cave, waiting for their people to send them some help.
“I wish that I would burn this base”
He closes his eyes, and inhales a sharp breath.
He puts his glock in, this was not his day.

He leans back on his chair, gaze sweeping lazily over the letters.
Picking up the pen, he signs his name, closing the letter and pushes it towards his assistant.
He stands, taking a large drag of his cigar.

“Commander Trevor!”
His subordinate steps forward with a salute, and picking up his fur lined coat from the stand, places it around his shoulder.

“The meeting will start in an hour.” the kid’s voice is meek, scared. Shenanigans of a new recruit.
He gives a sharp nod and with another drag moves towards the door,
He moves through the hall, his shoes snapping across the glinting floor.
It is a long way to the meeting.
His car tumbles across the subarban roads.
It takes an hour and he is again there, standing at the place where the floor had caved, where they had fought their enemies, where they had been trapped, and where the Lord had let them be, for they were common fools.

There is a new building there, an extension of their base. The tall structure gleams, it’s glass planes shinning in the diluted rays of the sun.

He takes a step forward, and his eyes drop to the floor.

He stomps, yet it is sturdy.

It was ironic how this very soil couldn’t bear the weight of five men, yet now it stands resolute.
The base is empty today. It is because of the meeting, the gathering of their high profile commanders.
It something that will determine the future of their society. Something which will determine when this war will end.
He has attended many of these. He knows that it will never end, not when these moles leading their armies are the ones soliciting the flames, the ones that keep flaring up the flame.

His steps echo across the concrete.
The hallways are dark, isolated, and he finds the main room easily.
One well placed shot and the gas pipe screeches. He closes the door.
Leaning on the wall he takes another drag of his cigar.
In its smoke he sees them laughing, like they once used to before the ambitions, the Greed of their Lords destroyed the Happy mirage of their life.

Steps echo in the hallway, they are measured, dignified. He has heard them long, he has traced them for a long time.
The Lord was here with his entrouge.

A smirk makes its way onto his lips. His hands twirl the lighter.

“Commander Trevor, ” the person says.
He cracks his eyes open, staring with a bored look at the Lord,

“Lord Rafael.” his words are drawled. Commander Jackson shoots him a warning look.
He straightens, his hand holding the doorknob. The lighter flares in his grip.
They stare at him. A question prevalent in their gaze.

“You wanted to become a hero,” he says, cracking the door open.
Lord Rafael takes a step forward,

“What is-”
He stops at the smile that overtakes Trevor’s face.
There is laugh, sick and breathless that leaves his body.
Then strangely, his eyes are cold, calculating.

A smirk plays on his lips, “Only death can make you a Hero.”

They’re too late to react.

The fire flickers, the gas sizzles.

The last thing he sees is fear, sticking and prevalent, on Lord Rafael’s face.
He closes his eyes, he is sure that this time, this time he will know the fear.

Their pain.

Their agony.

The fire chipping away his flesh hurts him no more.


“It’s simple,”

Zelzrynth cocks his head, a gentle curve of his long neck. He chest rumbles, flames blazing beneath his ribs. His scales glitter, shimmering in the fire that burned beneath.

Vahaelon, his master, his companion, laughs at his agitation, a guffaw that seems to echo. His grey orbs twinkle. There is a merry innocence, a spark of such contrast with his burly body.

He points upto the sky, upto the grey depth; to the bleak and dreary hollowness, promising punishment for those that rise against it.

“We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he knows this, to fly against this delicate balance. It will be a plight of resistance, of retribution, trying to break their years of suffering. It can never be simple, such tasks. Call it history, or call it the price of success, but these tasks, they never end pretty.

Still, he sees the cock of his master’s head, the easy smile that overtakes his features. He knows that Vahaelon is aware, and he doesn’t know whether his perpetual quietude is a sign of courage or insanity.

The moment his wings flap against the winds, with the weight of Vahaelon against his back and the cold waft tumbling through his scales, he concludes that it must be courage.

In the end, he is nothing but a creature, an animal bound to the fate of his master. They were awarded with grace, his race, they were awarded with wisdom, and a strength to crumble the soil beneath their claws.

It doesn’t matter, he realises, as another gurgle draws his breath away. They were awarded with strength and wisdom, yet there is not a single bone in his limp body that will move to his command. Perhaps that is why they say that they were rewarded. The heavens knew when to take back their blessings.

There is a finger that inches into his periphery, hair that trickle the soft flesh of his chest. It is twisted, the hand, broken, shattered, and yet it stands, pointing towards the sky.

“It’s okay Zelzrynth.”

There is a rumble in his chest. He is listening, quiet, bated.

They were given wisdom, his race, they were given foresight. That is why he knows, he knows when a man is speaking his last.

He wants to quieten him, if only it means he can inhale another breath. If only, on his enormous body, he can feel the heat, the life in his master’s body for another moment.

If it had been a novel, a legend of olden times, they would’ve had that moment. Perhaps they would’ve even lived. But reality shatters that delicate expectation. Life is callous, cruel at every instance, and while leaving a man’s body, it doesn’t wait for his tirades.

He waits for another word, another sound. It is a long bit filed with roars and cries, yells and blazes, filled with the agony that came with the war, but in his little bubble, there is just him and a body, on his chest, turning cold and slack.
If he closes his eyes, he can pretend, just for a moment, that he sees the grey, the twinkle of those orbs and that he hears a loud guffaw.

He shivers and grunts, and in the end raises his wing, pointing his sharp claws towards the sky.

It is grey again, dark and admonishing.

He closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear it, the baritone of his master, he can see the small smile accompanying his every word.

“It’s simple, We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he murmurs. They rose and they were beaten. The roared but they were silenced.
They tried to fly against the sinful heavens, but they were thrown listlessly to the hard ground.

It was not simple, he had always known. But there was no tale that followed the insignificant and no hero has ever risen without any sacrifice.

It wasn’t either, folly or might. In end, he realises, bravery was always tinted with a tinge of insanity.

The End.

A/N: If it’s not obvious, the story is about a Dragon and his master.

Clan of Hyuuga

The cold-blooded clan was what they labeled them but what they never realised was that it was the cost of their existence.

The Hyuuga were hailed as the masters of Byakugan. They were born with the untainted brilliance to perceive but what people forgot was that they were also born with the ability to feel.

Humans strive on the instincts to survive and it was their instinct that sealed their fragility beneath voracious stone.
Because from the beginning of life, no material force has let the purity survive. It is the feat of the world to taint the virtue of a man with the turmoil of the times.

In consequence, no hyuuga had lived with the delicacy of the heart and still lived with the orbs that hadn’t been defiled by the malevolence they saw.

Chain of Virtue

A short story told in first person narrative. (It may or may not be based on a teensy instance of my life.)

The sun was setting in the hues of purple, the sky shifting towards the starry dark of the night. The air was filled with the hum of the ‘Azan‘ and our car rolled to a stop at the large doors of the mosque whose bulb flickered menacingly in the dark, swarmed with a horde of mosquitoes dancing around the dim flicker.

Tired after a day of work, my mother sighed as we stepped onto the paved sidewalk seeing the car, that carried my grandfather, roll into the gates and vanish from the sight. Looking at the address written on the paper, of the wife of the Qazi who had once known our family, my mom held my hand. The heat of the July day was melting into the cool of the night and my mother, with a small look about her, at the isolated road took to the dark alley at the back of a magnificent house.

What a contrast was presented on the first view! Behind the patrician mansion, we came to the alley reserved for the plebeians. The trenches on the road were filled to the brim, their murky depths emanating foul stench that made me cling to my mother’s shirt.

The house we stopped at bore an old wooden door, ragged to its end and the walls of the house were cracking blocks of cement. With a moment’s hesitation, a knock resounded in the dark alley. The doors opened to reveal a woman covered in a scarf. The words (that my grandfather was saying his prayers just around the corner and we needed a space ourselves) were barely out of my mother’s mouth before, with a bare hint of surprise, she ushered us into the rooms. What should’ve been a satisfactory abode, was a shabby quarter bearing a tiny room and an even smaller kitchen. All for the family of the ‘Qaari‘ who led every prayer for the many ranks of people behind him. Yet, even in the run-down conditions, the home was furnished with warmth and the joyously flushed faces of the Lady and her small daughter made us relax into our seats.

Without any hesitation, we were allowed to pray and a sweet ‘Sherbet‘ was served whose cool, tangy essence made the heat of the day melt away. The conversation with the lady, who although was shy and demure was also amiable and had an elegance to her mannerisms that not many possessed.
We were taking up our things, about to leave when out of nowhere the question arose, “Are you acquainted with my husband?”.

My mother turned to her with a furrow in her brow, and a question at the tip of her tongue, “You don’t know who we are?”
With the same smile, she shook her head, her gaze falling down to her hands folded on her lap.
“Yet you let us in?” my mother’s words were now filled with an indecipherable hesitancy.
“How could I refuse someone who came to my door asking for assistance?”
Was the answer we received as the lady’s face bloomed into a smile that was no longer only demure but held a sweetness that seemed to shine from beneath.

It might’ve been a small instance, a few words or even foolishness in the eyes of some but that day, standing there as a small child of six who was growing up in a country caught in the crossfire of powers, where the peace of mind was nonexistent and where every man, even those with whom you associated love and compassion, was a stranger whom you couldn’t trust, she became a woman stronger than most I’ve ever seen.

In the end, the strength that we always measure in the grand gestures; in the thickness of the muscles or in the deepness of the pockets some people still measured their strength in the goodness that was inherent in a man’s soul.

What that woman did that day, was not just an act of kindness. To let people who are strangers to you feel comfortable and welcome while not a grand gesture, is surely a beauty that not many can contain. But what she’ll perhaps never know is that she made a small child, who would’ve grown with a mind catering towards only their needs, realise what the true essence of courage was and now as I type these words on the paper, I can’t deny that that small child whose days revolved around her own self grew into a person whose only mission in life became a struggle to hold upright the virtue of humanity.

They say that a single act of kindness can start a chain of beauty that can lend fiery compassion to the cold and stoic man of the twenty-first century, and that moment was a reflection of that truth.

A/N: Do you realise what I wanted to say, Cuz I sure don’t, lol :’)


What is the most heroic life?

They ask him, expecting some animated response. He is a writer, a man behind the greatest of the comics and so he smiles,

‘He is that character that rushes to help the person that struggles. The person that smiles, so that his own darkness doesn’t effect the others, the one that laughs so his own tears don’t mellow their hearts. He’s the one who lives, and lives with a love that is contagious. He’s the one that loves, and loves with a heart that is pure. Who is not willing to compromise, not when it comes to the joy of others. The one that hopes that beneath every smile, there is an even happier heart that follows.’

They stare, the oblivious heads coked. An old man, they call him, with ideas too unrealistic for life.

But what they never realise is that his heroes were never loved for the powers they boasted, they were only hailed for love that their meagre hearts possessed.

A Quick Reminder.

Not every moment of your life demands strength and courage, and that not every person in this world demands perfection. There are some that just want to know you, those that love you despite the tears, the failures, the imperfections. Those that embrace the broken pieces of your heart.

It is in those ‘Some’ that true joy of life is found.

Curse of Hatred

The Curse of Hatred was what they labeled it. But what they never realised was that it was the cost of their love.

No sharingan developed without the desire to protect and no desire ever stemmed without the roots of love.

It was pure in its execution this simple compassion. The world had never let the pure survive, the heart that had once blossomed was dripping with blood.

It was then that the tomoe began to churn.

Did you ever…?

Has there been a minute now, with all the anxiety riding your brain, and the heaviness weighing down your shoulders that you looked at something? Truly, for a fraction, gazed at it?
A still scene, so normal in its actuality that its serenity makes you stumble to a stop. That, perhaps, your gaze takes in the dew resting on the leaves. It shines there, does so every morning and in all the long hours of the night, but for once in that chilly January morning, you just see it. The glimmer catches your eye, draws you from your periphery, and you turn your face, an inquisitive little instance in your busy life.
For a moment you halt, and take in a breath. It is cold, it should’ve been stifling, but it’s pure, filtered calmness takes you by surprise. You breathe in, yet again, just to take in the serenity? That for a moment, you feel that the peace around you, the quietude, an order that prevails even in the calm breeze filtering through the leaves, was truly the intent of this world.

Did you perhaps smile at the colours, their bursting vividness filling your gaze? Or you scooted down a moment, caressing with a soft finger the velvet of the nature. That, perhaps, for a second, you closed your eyes to take in its fragrance. Letting the perfume trickle your nose, making you giggle.
Tell me did you ever take a moment to shake away your worries. For a moment it was you, smiling, content in the warm embrace of the ancient mother.
That for a moment you let the breeze ruffle your hair, you let the strands caress your face.
Tell me Amigo, that even for a moment, did you ever let the winds call you to their abandon?

Her standard of Handsome.

There is a charisma in the way he talks, something charming in those half smiles. In those clueless eyes, as her glare turns on him and in that gobsmacked expression when it’s her turn to sass.

People have their standards of what they call handsome, it’s in the looks, they say, in the courage, in the charisma and the strength.

But, in the truth, it is in the respect that follows his movements, the smile that touches his eyes. Its in the small ruffle of the hair or in the laughter that isn’t afraid to ring across. In the gait that can be clumsy and in the charisma that can be awkward.

In the end it is being human, that is the loveliest of them all.