This is from my "I'm bored, let me write you a story!" thread, but I think this deserves its own (in the right section). Please give tips and criticism!
I was asked to write the story about Haku and Zabuza.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What was this feeling? It was something he had never experienced before. No, that wasn't true. There was a certain instinctive familiarity to it. He felt no alarm or concern; almost as if his body was telling him that it was completely natural for it to be there. But, what was it?
The feeling was a slight pressure that began under his eye, and it tickled as it moved down his cheek. Zabuza reached a hand up to rub his face and pinpoint the cause of the peculiar sensation. Expecting to find a bug, or perhaps a small leaf that had fallen from the branches above, he was surprised to find a drop of moisture there. Suddenly curious, he lowered his hand to study it. The rays of the early-afternoon sun reflected off a clear liquid.
Zabuza didn't notice he had begun talking to himself. "Must be sweat." He unconsciously nodded as he formed the words. "Of course. Just some sweat."
A small, weak voice could just be heard underneath him. "I have never seen you sweat before. I'm sorry my failure only served to exert you.
Zabuza recoiled in surprise as he heard the words. His eyes darted around, frantically searching for the source of the voice, before finally settling on the lifeless form of Haku beneath him. Had it been him? No, that's impossible. He was weak and had died in the attack. The wound to his chest was severe, and Zabuza knew very well that the blood loss alone would have been fatal. After all, he had killed many of his enemies in a similar fashion.
Zabuza's eyes left his failed human weapon and scoured the site of the battle. A mound of severely disfigured bodies and severed limbs sat on the blood-red painted earth. He searched through it, wondering if it held someone who had escaped his unforgiving rage. A chuckle escaped him at the thought. He remembered the way he had brutally slashed at his attackers, and realized, with some surprise, that his onslaught had continued long after their deaths. That was unusual for him, he knew. He thought of his killing as more of an art form. Precise and efficient. However, as he studied the scene before him, he couldn't help but think he had walked into an outdoor butcher shop.
Could it be that Haku's death had.... had-
That thought was suddenly interrupted as he heard a cough from behind him. Spinning around, he saw that its source was unmistakeable. Walking over to the small form, he sank to his knees and leaned over to look into its eyes. Once again he felt that peculiar sensation, felt the pressure that tickled him as it ran down his cheek. Then that mysterious moisture ran off his face, falling on the one opposite him.
Haku's voice was barely a whisper. "Why are you crying, Zabuza?"
He turned away as a smile forced itself to his face.
I was asked to write the story about Haku and Zabuza.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What was this feeling? It was something he had never experienced before. No, that wasn't true. There was a certain instinctive familiarity to it. He felt no alarm or concern; almost as if his body was telling him that it was completely natural for it to be there. But, what was it?
The feeling was a slight pressure that began under his eye, and it tickled as it moved down his cheek. Zabuza reached a hand up to rub his face and pinpoint the cause of the peculiar sensation. Expecting to find a bug, or perhaps a small leaf that had fallen from the branches above, he was surprised to find a drop of moisture there. Suddenly curious, he lowered his hand to study it. The rays of the early-afternoon sun reflected off a clear liquid.
Zabuza didn't notice he had begun talking to himself. "Must be sweat." He unconsciously nodded as he formed the words. "Of course. Just some sweat."
A small, weak voice could just be heard underneath him. "I have never seen you sweat before. I'm sorry my failure only served to exert you.
Zabuza recoiled in surprise as he heard the words. His eyes darted around, frantically searching for the source of the voice, before finally settling on the lifeless form of Haku beneath him. Had it been him? No, that's impossible. He was weak and had died in the attack. The wound to his chest was severe, and Zabuza knew very well that the blood loss alone would have been fatal. After all, he had killed many of his enemies in a similar fashion.
Zabuza's eyes left his failed human weapon and scoured the site of the battle. A mound of severely disfigured bodies and severed limbs sat on the blood-red painted earth. He searched through it, wondering if it held someone who had escaped his unforgiving rage. A chuckle escaped him at the thought. He remembered the way he had brutally slashed at his attackers, and realized, with some surprise, that his onslaught had continued long after their deaths. That was unusual for him, he knew. He thought of his killing as more of an art form. Precise and efficient. However, as he studied the scene before him, he couldn't help but think he had walked into an outdoor butcher shop.
Could it be that Haku's death had.... had-
That thought was suddenly interrupted as he heard a cough from behind him. Spinning around, he saw that its source was unmistakeable. Walking over to the small form, he sank to his knees and leaned over to look into its eyes. Once again he felt that peculiar sensation, felt the pressure that tickled him as it ran down his cheek. Then that mysterious moisture ran off his face, falling on the one opposite him.
Haku's voice was barely a whisper. "Why are you crying, Zabuza?"
He turned away as a smile forced itself to his face.
