Hands

It was time for them to say goodbye to him.

Or, to be more exact, it was time for him to say goodbye to them.

He went amongst them, clasped their hands, trying his best to not let his tears show. For he knew that if he showed his tears, their tears would show as well. And so, he clasped their hands, knowing that if he let go now, he could regret it forever.

./. dragon ./.

One claw chipped. Two others broken. Three more gone forever. He lifted these ancient hands to his lips and closed his eyes. These hands which had lain themselves upon the pure, sinless body of a princess for so long were useless now. But it was clear to him that these were not just mere commoner's hands: they were once the hands of a powerful king.

./. racer ./.

A hand like this could hardly handle the wheel of any car. A hand like this, with all its grooves and tracts, had once seen adventure. A hand like this, he knew, longed to be behind the wheel one last time.

./. chimp ./.

There was once a time when these hands had seen the world from a vine, a branch, a banana tree. There was once a time when these hands had handled guns, jetpacks, and numerous gadgets. But now these hands were small, frail, and, in every sense of the word, heartbreaking.

./. ape ./.

Big hands. Strong hands. Hands that once marched to their very own beat. He had once been afraid of these hands. Now, as he held them, he saw that there was nothing too fair.

./. doctor ./.

These hands were gloved, because they had seen so much. These hands had mingled with blood and stains and bacteria like no other hands had done before. These hands were once masters of their craft. These hands were frail now, needing to be treated by the hands of a new master of the craft.

./. bird ./.

These things he held were not hands but wings. Wings that once shone with pride and valor. The feathers were bent now, devoid of color and life. In these wings he felt a kindred spirit. In these wings, he saw what could never happen to him.

./. fox ./.

When they were not handling a gun, they were handling the controls of a mighty airship. When they were not doing either, they were used to hold a young woman close to his heart. That is what he saw in these hands.

./. wizard ./.

Hands that thirsted for naught but power, that longed to hold power itself. He could see the echoes of blood thirst, the merest hint of malice. But these hands were long past their prime. They would hold no power now.

./. ice ./.

Hands that had scaled mountains, defeated hordes of enemies, and soared to the highest peaks. These hands were those of close friends, so similar in look that they were nearly indiscernible. THey were hands that showed true loyalty.

./. mercenary ./.

These hands knew how to work. They smelt of gold and sweat. They were the hands of a sellsword. But at the same time, they held a fiery blue flame. A flame that, if ignited once more, would put them to work again. But the flame was long guttered out and, if not ignited soon, the owner of these hands would fade as well.

./. balloon ./.

They were as soft as he thought them to be, round and enticing. They were light, but strong, in spite of the knolls and gnarls all over them. He held these wrinkled prunes to his forehead and closed his eyes. He heard her croon a gentle lullaby and knelt there for a while, listening. He wanted to join her. In song, in voice, and in sleep.

./. king ./.

These hands were quite large. Gloved in yellow, their knots and gnarls were hidden from his view. But through these gloves, he could feel the loose layers of skin they had become, a by-product of years of wasteful living. In spite of this, though, he knew that they could still swing the dreaded hammer without fail. It would simply take practice first.

./. star ./.

These were the hands of a child who had not come from this world. They looked younger, stronger, pinker than the others, with only a small spot or two marring their surface. Yet he could see in the owner's eyes that he was far away and there was little chance that he would ever come back to use these hands again.

./. aura ./.

Hands that flared with a power greater than anything he had ever felt before. Life and time itself seemed to floor from them. They were in constant meditation, as it was the only way to keep the life flowing out of them moving. Once the meditation was broken, once the connection was severed, the life of these hands would cease to exist.

./. child ./.

A child no more, it seemed. How long had it been since the first time they had met? Certainly not nearly long enough for the child to grow and become a man. One look into the eyes of the Smasher, however, told a very different story. Yes, the child had become a man. But the he had remained unchanging.

./. green ./.

Pale hands that had not seen enough light. For too long did these hands touch the shadow of greatness. For too long did these hands grovel for their goals, only for the fruit of their labors to run even further away. Silver light bathed these hands and, for a moment, they were made young and whole again. But soon, they reversed, back to their broken form, with dreams unfulfilled.

./. prince ./.

It was rare to be able to bend one knee, to kiss the royal hand. Rarer still was the opportunity for the royal to take the hands of the commoner and kiss them. And yet the Smasher wasted no time, taking youthful hands within aging ones and pressing his lips to the fingertips. There was nothing that needed to be said, after all. There was not enough time in the world.

./. warrior ./.

Yellow eyes that could no longer see. Wings that could no longer glide. A mouth that could no longer speak. And hands that could no longer feel. Was this truly what all warriors strove to become?

./. psychic ./.

Taking the powerful hands, he could not help but wonder: If he could read his mind now, what would he see? Would he see the glimpse of the intellect? Would he see the sadness and regret?Would he see joy and contentment? Or would he see nothing at all?

./. flat ./.

Deflated hands, shriveled like paper, black as night. Fragile and faded with time, these hands were no longer what they once were. Rotting before him, these hands were a pitiful sight to behold. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. The owner of these hands was a friend through and through. A true and loyal friend, with true and loyal hands.

./. boy ./.

What had happened? When did the boy grow up and become a man? Had so much time truly passed already? The boy had already been strong when they met and only grew stronger as time went on. There was no room for weakness; weakness only led to misery. These were times to laugh and play, as well as times to work and train.

./. friend ./.

Two friends had once fought side-by-side. Two friends had once clashed on the field of battle. But when battle was done, two friends would sit down and drink. They would laugh and sing and praise their goddesses. They would exchange stories and jokes and simply waste the night away. Two friends had clasped their hands together, promising to be friends forever.

./. princess ./.

She had endured so much, only to come away with so little. Her purity was the only thing left. Beauty had faded long ago, but still shone. Kindness had given way to empty eyes, but still, he saw the goodness within her. When she smiled at him, it was a smile of both the greatest of friends, and the most distant of acquaintances. Though it was said that the memory was always the first to go, he hoped that the memories he had forged with her would stand the test of time itself.

./. baby ./.

He had been there during the first match, when there was scarcely a spark before the announcer called for his elimination. He had been there during each night of training, of wishing to become stronger. He had been there when, for the first time, he had ascended the winner's platform and received a golden medal for his victory. And now he was here for the final battle, a battle that was hard-fought, but worth every tear if won.

./. mouse ./.

When they had first met, he felt unworthy; for how could one so small be so strong? He had no idea the loyalty the two would share, the adventures they would embark on. After every battle and ever quest, did it truly have to come down to this? These small, yellow hands were gnarled and old, but still, they endured the test of time. He saw loyalty, friendship, and gratitude within these hands. When the wrinkles of these hands smiled at him, he smiled as well. There was no room for sadness here.

./. master ./.

Skillful hands that had mastered everything they needed to survive. He could see the deep ravines where a fishing pole was held, the small crevices where berries were picked. The fingers were slightly rounded, as if grasping the powerful devices of his youth. He pulled one of these devices and placed it in these hands. There was no stopping the smile when he saw how happily they grasped it.

./. rust ./.

These hands were gone, rotted away after so many years of use. He could still see the light layer of rust that had robbed them from him. But though there were merely stubs now, he could still see the loyal, skillful hands that had helped everyone and everything every single day. He could still see the hands of the supporting player, who always knew when they needed to step in.

./. lord ./.

A strong man could not rule without a strong hand guiding his nation. These hands were no different. Gnarled and spotted though they were, they still carried the vigor of youth. These hands were hands that alone could still guide a nation through a war and into worlds beyond. These hands were hands of a steadfast general, of a clever tactician, and of a loyal friend. These hands were the hands of a noble lord.

./. hunter ./.

Proud as ever, she sat upright at his approach and took his hands in hers. Eyes that had never lost the cold calculation looked into his and quietly wished him well. Her grip was strong; he nearly had to pry himself free. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words could be spoken. She was a hardened huntress, after all. She always let her eyes speak for her.

./. soldier ./.

Callused, gnarled, and rigid; these hands had seen many things. These were steady hands, perfect for performing first aid or holding a gun. These were strong hands, perfect for throwing grenades or snapping necks. These were stealthy hands, perfect for picking a lock or hacking a mainframe. These were honorable hands, ideal for a tough and loyal soldier.

./. hedgehog ./.

Clad in white, fringed in blue, these hands had never known a slow day of their life. Always in motion, living in a blur, these hands knew how to get a job done. Though time had taken its toll, the motion remained. Fluid, strong, and above all, fast.

./. wind ./.

When these hands reached out, so too did the wind itself. These were hard hands, hands that knew how to handle a life at sea. Rough from the handling of rope, strong from the grip of a sword, and loyal from the meeting of friends, these hands were truly amazing.

./. ware ./.

At first glance, these hands were disgusting; unwashed, uncaring, and unclean. But a closer look at these hands showed the perseverance, the hard work it took to run a company on their own. These hands wished for the freedom of the roads, of the wind at their fingertips and the road at their palms. These hands wished for so many things, but had received so little in life.

./. wolf ./.

The claws chipped or broken. The knuckles large and inflamed. The fingers bent with rheumatism. In spite of all of these, the grip was still strong and unbroken. These hands were fighter hands. Hands that, in spite of everything, still fought to remain the strongest hands around.

./. island ./.

Once upon a time, these hands had lived on an island far away. When these hands arrived for the tournament, they had been put to use in fighting the toughest of opponents. But though the fighting was finished, these hands still long to once again touch the island sands. Even now, as he held them, they pointed towards the sea, at an island far away, where the sands awaited their touch.

./. young ./.

These hands were rough from years of fighting, hardened from a lifetime of work. They had handled everything from a shield to a sword to a cucco, fighting to live one more day, to sleep one more night. These hands had retained their youth, but even now, that youth was fading. These hands were hands that wished to remain young forever, but knew that no matter how hard they tried, eternal youth would always be out of their reach.

./. queen ./.

Soft hands. Regal hands. Hands that had touched the furthest boundaries of the Arcane Arts. Wise hands that, when they grasped his, searched for deeper meaning within the youthful bounds of his palms, asked questions through the tips of his fingers. He felt unworthy to press these hands to his lips, yet at the same time, he had never felt more proud. For it was rare indeed to kiss the hands of a queen, but rarer still to be able to look upon the hands of a goddess sent to earth.

./. hero ./.

Gnarled as they were, scarred as they were, they were still the hands of a hero. Strong yet gentle, he knew that he would miss these hands. These hands had taught him the finer points of swordplay. These hands had, more than once, taken his arrogance as they pushed him off the stage. These hands had, out of all the others, remained brave, dutiful, and strong. These were the hands of a true and loyal friend.

./. red ./.

He bowed his head and said nothing. There was nothing to be said. For the hands of the greatest hero of all had not withstood the test of time. He felt these hard, brittle lumps once prided so well and held onto them tight. For these hands were the ones he would miss the most.

His goodbyes done, he bowed once more and spread his wings, feeling the power of his goddess coursing through his feathers. He looked at them, caught their eyes, and, for the first and only time, let a single tear show. It fell like a clear pearl onto the marble floor. He heard their whispers in his ears as his feet left the floor, felt their frail goodbye waves on his back. But no matter how much it hurt him, he did not look back.

Immortality was his greatest curse.