Akari means light.
Light meaning the only array of hope given to the Ayumu nation. One of the largest empires known to mankind.
When the empire suddenly disappears on the young girl's seventh birthday, an invasion erasing the nation forever, causing...
The light from the window shines light upon his pale skin further enhancing the boy's childlike features, his small face, and round-like eyes as they stare stoically ahead, the deep black wrapped around them, and the overly recognizable tattoo that lies upon his forehead.
My brows begin to raise with each second as my neck straightens itself, my mind not hiding my words before they come out.
"Gaara," I murmur.
...............
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(Four years ago)
It is moments like these.
Moments where the feeling of each small twig snapping underneath each frantic stomp and stride underneath my small flats create another anxiety for me, my ears absorbing the sound and further pushing me to run farther. The stealth that I have learned from my years of misery faltering to the point where I feel as if I am no longer.
Moments where my heart pulsates through my chest and I can hear it thud through my ears and I am reminded of what this world truly desires for me. Because now it's neither my once noble lifestyle, nor my leadership abilities—it is simply the title that hypnotizes their fascination, the shininggold headpiece of the crown princesses tiara blinding their morality and clarifying their sense of greed.
Moments like these are when I question the innocence of my world.
My chest heaves up and down as a small glistening sweat builds up on my pale skin, the sore and stabbing feeling that begins in my ribs, and despite the cold of the night, and the blue tint that illuminates my skin from the peeking moon, my skin is hot—it is burning.
What may kill us all? Shall it be hate? Or envy?
It is avarice.
A greed so intense that it swells your body into riches and chasing a young eleven-year-old girl to her death does not seem too awful.
Well, I cannot question the morals of anyone—not anymore.
My throat bobs up and down as I swiftly wipe my long white sleeve against my neck, the sticky sweat leaving and skin soothed by the cool night air.
Hours are what it is. Hours of these shinobi chasing after me. They remind me of roaches, they are always there and they never seem to leave my side.
I am afraid of roaches.
The three men that follow me are colossal, their legs outstretched farther than I ever could, their strengths overwhelming my own and for a girl as young as I, my chakra is good as gone. The men—their shoulders and their withering ferocity remind me of lions, their bulky king bodies reigning overall, and hunting the prey that scurries from their clawed paws. I find that I am neither a gisselle that gracefully prances with long outstretched legs or a zebra with their curved and enchanting stripes—I am something far smaller, and far weaker than the two. I am a mouse.
