Disclaimer: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle belongs to CLAMP.
Author natterings: Another Fay-and-his-past piece. Seriously, he won't leave me alone. He just screams for ambiguous angst/tragedy.
The Fay I write has the same general (ambiguous-just-enough) past, but the focus is always tweaked a little. So if by chance you have read my other Fay stuff, try treating this like you haven't.
Thank you for reading. As always, feedback is love.
Heartcold
Upon their touchdown, Fay sensed something amiss. It was not approaching. It had boiled already to full steam, hissing and clattering its chains, a ghost on the hunt. Snow was falling over glass.
"Where are we now?" the young girl asked, yawning. She was drowsy, leaning into Syaoran.
By the time Fay had the cold cut through his hair and frost his already pale face, she had fallen asleep. His practised breathing came again, to combat the merciless cold. The word caught in his throat. "Seresu."
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"Is he alright?" the would-be archaeologist whisper-asked Kurogane.
The ninja hunched further over his tea. "No."
Syaoran cast a worried glance the magician's way, certain the man would feel eyes on his back. The fur of his coat merely shivered with his body. Syaoran felt rise in his chest an inkling of pity. "... Will he be?"
Kurogane merely closed his eyes, matter of fact.
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He knew they were worried for him.
This sympathy was a thorn in the sole of his foot. Syaoran, straight-faced and too young and with concern laced all through his voice, had said they could leave, feather or no feather. Fay had said no, they would stay. And when Syaoran protested, Fay wanted to smack him for all his sympathy.
Because sympathy was concern was worry was not understanding. Because the ninja had killed too much. Because the boy was too young. Because neither had killed too much too young. Neither had sparked thunder from the very blood in their veins, run it over armies and comrades alike. Neither had summoned fire from nightmares to burn and burn forever, until the sight and smell made him retch.
Fay wondered about going mad. It would be suitable. He thought it might be like an eraser, a huge brush to sweep over his conscious doings. He had tried it before, but it proved too difficult, too much work to think the thoughts of a madman.
Once, Fay read a story about a man. The man was too good for hell and too evil for heaven and so upon his death, he stayed on earth, restless in finding a way out. He was doomed to walk the breach between the two.
Fay will become this man. Sometimes, Fay is the man, and it frightens in him unspeakable hate. But not as much, never as much, as the sight of snow falling over glass.