Memory Lane

It looked more shadow than human, the being that glided silently up the walk, its very existence jarring, clashing with the soft gold sunlight that lanced through the cool green treetops, illuminating sprigs of flowers that bordered the white stone walkway. Ice-blue eyes bored holes through whatever they landed on, a hard, cold gaze devoid of feeling, devoid of happiness, eyes that stared hollowly at the world from beneath a rogue shock of wild gold hair.

He hated this - these annual excursions into this world, into the world of light and joy and memories - painful memories that sliced into his calloused, scarred soul like so many tiny knives. Memories like sharp, poisoned knives that sent pain into his heart, that showed in his usually cold eyes and hard, set face. But he had promised to do this - to visit every five earth-years. To force himself through memories. To see his friends- all that kept him alive, now. All that kept him human. And he'd kept his promises, ever since...

He shrugged off that painful thought; sloughed it off him like a tattered cloak he'd started to put on far too often. With that thought, that memory lay pain, and brokenness; tears and weakness. That road of memory held grief and death, ending in broken depression. It was a worn, overgrown path he cared not to tread; a burdening cloak he cared not to wear. His jaw clenched, then settled, the clean-shaven features of the man returning to smooth, immobile, unfeeling stone. The face of an experienced killer.

He stopped at the door, ran a finger over the vertical nameplate, the Japanese characters. "Kamiya," it read, and just the word jolted memories... The man's gloved fist tightened, slammed against his thigh, the trivial bruising shoving away the dangerous memories, the weakening thoughts. It slammed a heavy door on the painful remembrances of joy and laughter, and one face in particular -

Oh, how he wanted to see that face and yet did not want to - did not want to cry, did not want to remember. Did not want anything to scrape away at the scars on his calloused heart, long since healed, but leaving jagged scars that would never disappear. Scars so easily opened with a word, a face, a thought...

He pushed the thoughts away, again clenching his fist. Had to get this over with, this hated trip that kept the scars from truly healing, that forced him down memory lane. Hated, beloved, painful memory lane... The man reached out with a finger and pressed the doorbell, then tucked his gloved hands into worn and threadbare jeans.

"I'll get it I'll get it I'll get it!" a small voice yelled. Footsteps pounded, a quick patter on the wooden floor...

...footsteps pounded on the grass as laughter reached his ears, a jubilant voice shouting in exuberation...

The door opened, and a young voice called up at him. "Hello! Are you Daddy's friend? He was talkin' about ya comin' here soon!"

The man looked down at the child, an innocent, cheery face framed by wild golden hair, blue-blue eyes filled with laughter gazing up at him. He drew in a sharp breath, eyes widening, pain and memories stabbing like a knife as the child smiled up at him...

...an innocent face of hope, cerulean blue eyes filled with laughter, a blonde lock poking halfway down a sweet face from beneath a green helmet...

He could only stare, could barely hold back the roaring memories of decades ago - centuries? Or only years? - that assaulted his soul and mind, crashing against the walls, some slipping through and slicing his heart, his soul.

The child saw the pain, the agony in his face - the sheen of saltwater wetness in his ice blue eyes. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked, face filled with concern.

He winced as if from a physical blow at that voice, so much like-

"NO!" he gasped out, fists clenched, teeth gritted. He grabbed hold to that defiant word as a drowning man to a wooden spar. The child jumped, frightened, as he whispered it again. "No." Ice blue eyes looked at the boy, and then away in pain. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

"Ker!" It was a brown-haired, brown-eyed man, looking somewhat frazzled. "Go outside and play. Karai's out there."

The boy's face lit up. "She is? Great!" The child's bubbling laughter as he ran outside was a volley of arrows assaulting the man, piercing his heart with each fading giggle and welcoming shout. He closed his eyes and put a hand on the door frame for support as a laugh reached his ears from the blonde kid in the yard...

...playful laughter from two young throats reached his ears, their eyes shining as they beheld a friend or toy or potential playmate, the light blue eyes mirrors of his own...

The brown-haired man looked over the other adult before him. His style of dress hadn't changed much - jeans, a loose green shirt, brown gloves, brown boots - but a belt held a finely made blade, a green-hilted scimitar topped by an ice-blue sapphire. There were other differences: his face was scarred, and his arms; his clothes were ragged and worn. His face was darkly tanned and creased from sunlight, wind, and years of pain usually hidden, but now brought out by the sight of the gold-haired, blue-eyed child.

"When you said you were adopting a child, I didn't think he'd be so much like..." The words were a whisper in a voice rough with pain.

"He reminded us of Ta-"

The blue eyes flew open wildly, pain and fear evident in their shadowed depths. "Don't! Don't say his name."

"Yamato..." the other man began, concern in his gold-brown eyes.

The blonde man's eyes bored holes in the other's. "Don't, Taichi."

Tai studied him silently a moment, but finally nodded. "His name's Pakeru. Not a traditional name, I know - we named him after your broth-"

"I know. I can tell by the name, and I can see why," Yamato said shortly, curtly, voice tight and brusque with pain. "You know I hate these trips into the real world. Though I'm not sure which one is 'real' anymore..." He laughed - a harsh bark that held no mirth, only agony and bitterness.

Tai looked pointedly at his ragged clothes and changed the subject. "Thought you could find new clothes in the Digiworld."

Another bark of laughter - it scraped against Tai's soul, slicing into his heart. It was so hard to see Matt this way... "These are new. I wear them out quickly."

"You wear them out trying to kill yourself."

Two pairs of eyes turned to meet the red-brown ones of the new speaker. The auburn-haired woman was looking at Matt with pity and anger. The woman's friendly features were worn and fatigued - probably from the ball of energy dubbed Pakeru.

"Not trying to kill myself, Sora," he said, taking off his sword as she glared pointedly at it and hanging the blade, belt and all, on a hook well above a child's reach. "Just trying to keep peace in the Digiworld, is all."

"Peace." She laughed, almost as harshly as Matt. But not quite. Sora had healed long ago. "Peace the digimon can't keep on their own?"

His eyes clouded, and he brushed past her to the living room without an answer. The television was blaring on the sci-fi channel. Screams resounded through the room, beckoning more memories...

...screams resounded through the air, familiar screams. Pain contorted faces, one in particular. Couldn't move, couldn't help as the blade...

Click.

Tai bent over and turned off the TV, then shrugged helplessly at the stiffened Matt. "Sorry, Matt… Matt?”

The man shook himself, composed himself - pushed away the memories that always assaulted the walls around his mind, his heart, his soul. Memories that poured through the slightest crack to slash and bite and…

He sat on a couch, face and eyes holding a haunted look. Tai noted then that he was gaunt, his eyes sunken and shadowed, face sallow and drawn. The man gave his friend a look of concern and suspicion.

"When did you last eat?"

Matt was silent as he thought - then he shrugged bony shoulders devoid of fat. "Dunno. I don't really notice when I eat."

A plate laden with several sandwiches landed on his lap, and he stared into Sora's face. Her mouth was a thin line of fury. "As I said, you're killing yourself." The accusation grated from her, hit Matt - but he could care less. He shrugged and took a mechanical bite, chewed without looking at or tasting the sandwich, and swallowed.

"And when did you last sleep?" Sora queried vehemently. Again he shrugged, barely listening. The woman threw her hands into the air in exasperation, then glared at Yamato. "I can't talk to him right now - he doesn't hear me! Tai. You try talking to him. Ten years since T.K. died and..."

The plate crashed on the ground as it fell from nerveless fingers, crashed and sent splinters of glass skittering across the floor like...

...drops of blood, flying through the air from a young chest, an undeserving body. The sword protruded grimly from the flesh of the boy, and a dark laugh rang through the air at the dying screams- one a boy losing his life, the other a teen losing his soul...

A gloved hand darted to a mouth as Sora gasped - gasped at the broken plate, gasped at her accidental words... gasped at Matt's pale face and clenched hands. "Matt, I..." Sora stammered.

“Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Leave.”

She looked over at Tai, a grim expression on both their faces, and left the room, shoes clicking on the wood floor.

A low moan of grief and despair wrenched out of Matt’s throat, and his head fell into his hands as tears burst from his eyes, as memories burst from the walls, assaulting every corner of his being. He shouted - a loud “NO!!” It drove back the torrent, ceased the flood of tears and painful memories… temporarily, at least.

He was insane. He must be, he thought as he stumbled out the door and drank in the fresh air, as he ran falteringly down the road. No one could lose what he’d lost, could go through what he’d gone through and stay whole, stay sane. No one! He ignored Tai’s cries of “Matt! Wait!” and sped onward, his speed that of a garurumon’s. He ran - from his memories, from his friends, from his destiny and his pain and his past - and then he stopped.

He was in a graveyard, standing before a small - pitifully small, for one with such a big heart - grave, a stone marker topped by an angel above a crest- the crest of hope. “How ironic,” he gasped out - half laughed. Hysterics… “I run from my memories right down memory lane. Right to the end…” …and to the beginning, his thoughts added where his voice fell silent. To T.K.’s grave. It wrenched a laugh of irony out of his tortured soul, a laugh that choked, strangled, and then twisted into a sob. He collapsed in front of the stone, blue eyes not needing to read the script. He had read it far too many times not to know it now…

Takeru - Your hope and innocence lives on. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten.

He was crying uncontrollably - hot tears burning saltwater trails down his scarred face, shoulders heaving with long-held grief. “T.K… T.K, you fool… Why didn’t you let Assassimon take me instead! You sacrificing fool…”

The walls broke, and he could do nothing to stop the memories now. He watched, helpless, as…

…T.K. laughs, racing Patamon down the field. I can’t help but grin at the kid’s playful carefreeness… A tall man - or was it a man? - steps out from the trees, red eyes glowing sadistically beneath a black cloak of shadows. T.K stops, as does Patamon, and we catch up with them.

“Who are you?”

Tai. No need to ask - Tentomon gives the answer. “That’s Assassimon! He’s an expert at killing, and no one knows all his weapons!”

The digimon all digivolve to champion level, but Agumon and Gabumon stay rookie, ready to go Mega if needed. Assassimon laughs and looks at us with a twisted smile beneath his dark hood.

“Really, you eight… You should be less suspicious!” He throws back his hood, and his eyes turn blue as light hits them. His hair is brown, as is his beard. He spreads his arms. “Do I look evil to you?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I say coldly.

His jaw clenches, then he smiles. “Well, then…” A flicker of his hand, a barely visible movement, sends a dagger toward T.K. No shout of an attack to warn us- this is a weapon, not an attack.

“T.K! Watch out!”

Funny how Angemon and I say the same thing. The angel’s closest- he gets there first and shoves T.K. away, getting the dagger in his chest, all the way up to the hilt…

There’s a flash as he turns into Patamon, and then disintegrates…

“Noooo!! Patamon…” T.K.’s voice is a strangled sob and a grieving moan. Tear filled eyes blaze at Assassimon.

Gabumon and Agumon digivolve to MetalGarurumon and WarGreymon in a flash and charge the murderer…

“Concealing Shadows!”

Darkness whirls over Assassimon at his hissed command, and the digimon miss. He appears before me with a rapier in one hand, hood replaced but not hiding the grin of malice and wicked delight on his features. The blade starts toward me…

…and T.K.’s small body inserts itself between us. I watch, frozen, as the blade sinks into his chest. He screams, a cry of agony cut off by a gurgling hiss as his lungs are sliced by Assassimon twisting the sword. Someone is still screaming…

It’s me.

The scream transforms into a yell of fury and grief and hatred. I leap at Assassimon as he yanks out his sword from T.K.’s body, leap at the evil digimon as blood splatters, leap as my brother - my innocent, playful young brother who does not deserve to die - falls lifeless to the ground, leap with hands curled around empty air and rage contorting my face. Then they’re curled around cold metal, green metal, a sapphire-tipped hilt ending in a silver-blue curved blade- a scimitar. It bats aside Assassimon’s sword and drives into his stomach, then upward, savagely - then out. He dies, and I watch, hatred in my face, tears in my eyes, a bloody blade in my gloved hand.

When the others left the digiworld, I stayed, with a promise to visit every five earth-years. I stayed wanting to forget, wanting to die, taking hopeless risks because I wasn’t brave enough to slit my wrists or neck on my own. Taking risks, beating the odds, and living… living a tortured life with a tortured soul.

The memories left him gasping as the sobs subsided, as footsteps entered his awareness, crunching the grass, as Tai’s voice reached his ears.

“Thought I might find you here.”

He stared at the grave, lost in thought, in silent contemplation.

Tai shifted uncomfortably. “You forgot your sword.”

He took it finally, drew it out of the scabbard, watched light dance on its blue-silver blade. “Odd thing,” he said quietly, blue eyes running over its deadly length. “Just appeared in my hands. And I had the skills to go with it.” He turned the blade, touched the edge lightly. “Even Izzy couldn’t figure it out.”

“He figured out the age thing, though.”

He nodded, conceding the point, remembering how years - centuries - in the digiworld went by with him looking about as aged as he would if he lived on Earth and went by that time… rather than the speeded digital world time. Izzy guessed that one aged by only their home universe or dimension’s time. He’d lived for centuries… yet only ten years had passed in the real world.

“Why can’t I die?” Matt said suddenly, quietly.

Tai was silent, taken slightly aback by his friend’s words. The wind ruffled the flowers on T.K.’s grave - he stared at them without really seeing them. “Maybe because you aren’t living in the first place.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he gasped, the words striking him as true- he’d been told the same phrase by Gabumon… and he thought he knew its meaning.

“What I said, Matt! You run around in the digiworld taking impossible risks in order to kill yourself. You have never recovered, not really, from T.K.’s death. It’s haunting you, following you as it has been since that day with Assassimon. You live death, Matt! Your life has no joy; no love, no hope… and those who try to help you are pushed away! You can only live if you want to live!” Tai’s voice was earnest and pleading, his eyes filled with concern for Yamato who was staring emptily, almost hungrily at the sword in his hands. “Please, Matt. Put up that sword and come back to Earth. Literally. Leave the digiworld. Live? For T.K.?”

That struck Matt like a physical blow, but he looked at himself with more clarity than since T.K.’s death. He saw the pit - the mist and darkness like the physical one he’d barely escaped in the digiworld… but this time the pit had him - indeed, had trapped him ever since T.K. died… and hope died with him.

Tai tried once more. “He died because he didn’t want you to die. Now his death is in vain because you’re too selfish to live?”

Matt’s eyes closed in agony. “I… can’t… stand…” The words were spoken haltingly, harshly, the whisper of a dying man. “…the pain…”

He stood - a broken spirit, dead in soul and heart. A spirit devoid of life and devoid of hope and devoid of happiness. Hope was dead with his brother - the embodiment of hope and life and joy and youthful exuberance. He turned, looked at Taichi with dead eyes, and shook his head slowly, sadly. “I don’t know if I can…” he whispered, barely audible. He drew in a shaky, rattling breath.

“Please, Matt… Just try to live? Just try?” Tai pleaded.

Silence. Finally Yamato spoke. “I’ll try.”

The other man let out a breath of immense relief. “Do you need help finding a home?”

Matt shook his head. “I’m not living in the real world.”

Brown eyes widened. “But you just said…”

“I said I would try to live,” he corrected Tai. “I’ve lived for centuries in the digiworld. Centuries, Tai. Centuries with Gabumon- he’s Garurumon now, you know, all the time. Centuries fighting with this blade, centuries as a warrior, centuries traveling… The digital world is my home; the digimon are my people.” He looked at Tai, eyes haunted but earnest, and old - so old, a spirit that had seen too much and known too much and experienced too much. “I have to stay in the digiworld… I don’t think I could live in a house and stay in this world. I can’t…” He blew out a deep breath. “I’ll try to live - I promise you that, Taichi. I’ll try.”

At that moment, Yamato was more of a stranger to Tai than ever before. His words were a window into his life - his life of so many centuries, a concept that Tai’s mind had a hard time grasping, open as it was… He realized that he didn’t really know Matt. Not anymore. He nodded and held out a gloved hand. Matt took it, and they shook firmly, solemnly. “Goodbye, Yamato,” Tai said quietly.

Matt’s blue eyes searched his brown ones, and then he returned the nod. “Farewell.” He turned slowly and walked a few paces a way, then took out his digivice. A shaft of colored light whirled up from it, aimed upwards. He floated slowly into the opened portal, floated up without looking back at the world that was once his own, ten years but several centuries ago… and was gone.

He landed in front of a blue-striped wolf and got onto the wolf’s back. Garurumon was silent, as silent as his digipartner who was lost in turmoiling thought. But he would keep his promise - he would try to live. Garurumon began running as Matt started down his memories to the life at the end, the life past the pain at the end of memory lane.