#para:nikita

[shadow-gackt]

Samurai Shadow •§• Gackt&Nikita

It had been a very long time since the last time… The last time he’d unsheathed his beloved weapon had been that day months ago when blood had been spilt. A murder scene, basically, and Gackt had been the offender. Now though, the shadow clutched onto his katana without ill intent or the bloodlust he’d adopted all that time ago. He didn��t want to harm people anymore, not for his own peace, not yet. Instead, he’d decided to lift up the sullied sword and take a good hour or two of his daytime to spend it practicing his refined skills. Just a simple bout of self-practice, not that he needed it, but it would help pass the time and keep his mind away from the painful paths it normally traveled when left to ponder. That gave him a good reason to lift his weapon more often. Upon his arrival of somewhat stable mentality, he had decided to continue his training regiment during the early morning hours out in the dark forest. Out away from prying eyes of students and left to his own peaceful time. The sunlight was limited in here, only shining through little pinholes of gaps between the trees. It was daytime, you could tell that much, but when in the dark forest, it certainly didn’t feel that way. Perhaps that was a reason that the shadow was always attracted to this place. The shade of the forest promised him that he’d be safe from the sunlight that could cause him to feel ill if he wandered out for too long. Darkness was his home, after all. Wasn’t it only natural for a shadow person? With a deep breath, Gackt closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles. When he opened them again and exhaled, the hand holding the katana raised and his practice began. Out here in the darkness of the forest, he could easily concentrate upon the hilt of his katana and how it moved with precision with even the slightest influence of his wrist. His hair was slowly growing out to be shoulder length, and so he had plenty of black hair covering his eyes as he moved about agilely, but did not bother to try and brush it away. Not when he was so focused on his movement, the very art of handling a weapon such as the katana flowing from his body as though he were dancing. Perhaps only he could make something so lethal seem beautiful. At some point during his little game of sparring with his shadow, he let out a laugh that sounded triumphant. As if he were crossing swords with an old friend, and he might as well have been since the shadows were his family in a sense, he cheered himself on.