AN: Because there is no fanfiction for Rubel. That makes me sad. Although I feel like he's a bit OOC, warning you ahead of time.
Claymore is absolutely fantastic. I should have gotten into it earlier. I'm prolly gonna write some more fics for this amazing manga and anime.
*Disclaimers* I own nothing.
Behind him, there lies nothing. Nothing but desert and isolation and the world he has let behind, no sign of civilization, no sign of contact with life. There is naught but the swish of a black cloak and the footsteps of heavy boots pressing into the sand. In front of him, there is wasteland. Parched earth scorched by too many days of heat, once magnificent boulders weathered into meaningless lumps that curl into the sides of dunes that provide no shelter.
And yet, he is here anyway. He doesn't mind really, trekking over miles of desolate tract to deliver cries of sorrow. He doesn't even care that the card that he now holds is the key to the survival of a life that the fate of 46 rests in the pocket curling around his thigh.
He brings the burden of another to one who may be able to save. Elena, who once walked the world as a Claymore, is almost a Yoma now. Her time to Awake is coming soon. He had seen it in her eyes, the way they had flashed from silver to gold and back to silver once more.
So this is all he can do for her. He moves with a subtlety unmatched by even that of the whispering winds, flies across the land with speed and strength and determination, hidden under not only a cloak made of fabric, flesh, and blood, but of nighttime, stars, and the clouds that make to cover the moon.
He knows that everyone falls, that all civilizations have fallen and will fall, that towers shall crumble and colors shall fade. Within the twisted crevices and corners of his mind, he watches the world as it falls. Sure, he gives the missions to Clare that allows the world to continue on its way. But that slip of ebony cardstock that he slowly pulls free from black-gloved fingers proves that he is also an ender of life.
For every human life he saves, he lets the Yoma take another.
He watches the card glint in the dim light, watches the symbol shimmer and morph, until what was once an individual mark becomes a haze of gray ghosts.
There is a Yoma to slay, a life to be taken.
There is a Yoma to slay, and he can feel the swell of bloodshed rising in his bones.
There is a Yoma to slay, and he relishes the thought.
There will be killing later. Killing and wounds and scars, vision slipping into black and all conscious thought dissipating, all upon his hands. His hands are covered in blood already, covered in scars that never seem to fade.
Not just his scars. But the scars of his victims as well.
When he reaches the edge of firelight, he holds the card up for her to see. She is emotionless, as she should be. Claymores were born and bred from the very beginning to live beneath a veil of stoicism, like the veil of lies that he hides behind.
It's time, he thinks quietly to himself. Time for another kill.
With that, Rubel leaves her and travels back to The Organization in a shadowy haze of silence.