Disclaimer: I do not own D. Gray-Man and am not making any profit off this fic.
Noro: ...the title totally sucks.
Blade
He had never seen anyone touch the katana. Not once. And the sword itself had always been in the same place, on its display stand on a raised platform in the same room of the house – since before either of them were born, or at least that was what his sister had said it. He also knew that it was completely useless, and kept only because it was an antique of great value. The blade was blunt, no good for cutting anything anymore.
The truth was, Kanda knew he wanted it. He couldn't explain why, partly because he didn't understand, because he knew that it was useless. But he didn't care. He wanted it, far beyond a childish desire to possess, far deeper than anything he had ever wanted.
He was five when it started to talk to him. And it really talked – talked with a voice that tickled in his ear.
"It wants to be touched." He had protested.
"It's a sword," Sensei had replied calmly, "It doesn't want anything."
"But swords are supposed to cut-"
"That sword can't cut anything. It's blunt."
His sister had teased him and tugged at his hair.
"I think maybe Yuu-chan is letting his imagination run away with him." She took hold of his shoulders, looking into his eyes even as he squirmed, "You're not grown up like me yet, you know. It's all right for Yuu-chan to have an imaginary friend."
He didn't respond.
His imaginary friend sang him to sleep that night.
When he was six years old he started sleepwalking. Not every night, and not far – not at first. He would often wake to find himself standing in a different part of the house, once or twice out in the street, and would have to hurry back in case his absence was noticed.
His imaginary friend said she wanted to find herself.
When he wasn't sleepwalking, he had nightmares – vivid dreams he didn't understand, but his imaginary friend did. She would soothe him afterwards with tales of battle that weren't too different from the dreams that had woken him.
His swordplay was coming on leaps and bounds, Sensei said. Just as he expected from his lineage. Kanda was nearly seven then, and woke often with the blunt sword in his hands. It didn't seem that blunt to him.
What disturbed him most was that he would find himself halfway through a kata he had never studied.
He had never seen his sister angry until the night she found him. She didn't speak a word to him, but twisted the sword painfully out of his grip. He watched her, clutching his wrist and sniffling, as she sheathed it and put it back reverently on its stand, never once letting it touch her skin.
"I never want to catch you in here again." She was older than he was, and stronger, even for a girl, and she grabbed his wrist tightly and led him from the room.
"It wasn't me. She was moving me."
Kanda couldn't quite hear his own voice over the sword's shrieking in his ears.
People started disappearing after that.
Kanda was feverish and exhausted that week and was kept indoors to rest. He had protested at first but body didn't seem to give him much choice in the matter.
He still sleepwalked at night when there was no one at his bedside to see.
The disappearances did not stop.
He cut and slashed through the dark, his eyes sharp and piercing in the gloom, or so he supposed. He wasn't the one using them so he wasn't sure.
Likewise with his voice. He could hear himself laughing, but it wasn't him, so he didn't understand what was funny.
And then is all came back in a rush, a blood-soaked rush, and it was almost dawn, and he was out in the street, and he ACHED. His hands were stained red, and his yukata, and it was rolling off the tip of the blade in huge droplets.
He fell to his knees and retched in the dust, his hands till tight around the hilt of the sword. She was silent, appeased – satiated? – by the blood of his village. Of his family.
The sun was starting to pour into the valley, and it stung his tired eyes as he tried to stumble away from it, from the massacre it was illuminating. He ducked into a gap between two houses that had been a child's den once upon a time. He wanted desperately – so desperately – to close his eyes and sleep (or wake?), to drop the sword in his hand but she wouldn't let go. She wouldn't LET him let go.
He might have slept, or maybe blacked out for a while. She was trembling in his hand when he came back to his sense – footsteps. Heavy. A man.
She wanted this man's blood too, he realised, and he didn't want to give it. He whimpered like a frightened child as her desire forced his grip tight – tired, want to sleep – but she forced him to his feet, drove him forwards.
He fell backwards as the tall figure stepped into the opening to his hiding place. Open, defenceless, she snarled as she dragged his sword arm up. He screamed at the man to stay back, his mouth seemingly all that was free, and pressed it, a multitude of other phrases – some threats, some pleas – growing increasingly more desperate the longer the man stood in front of him, blocking out the sun.
"Finished?" It was a long while before he spoke, by which time Kanda has been reduced to sobs. His voice was deep and steady – clearly not Japanese from his accent.
He reached out and Kanda flinched, screwing his eyes shut as he touched her, his fingertips brushing the sword gently. He felt her shake, and he opened his eyes again, watching her allow herself to be eased from his grip. Gently, the stranger laid her to one side and removed his coat, draping it over Kanda's shoulders.
He hadn't realised how cold it was, how much he was shaking.
The man seemed to be speaking, but he couldn't understand any of it, too tired even to fight as he was picked up and carried into the street. It was raining, ever so lightly, he could feel the soft drops of it on his face.
Maybe when he woke up everything would be clean again.
Noro: …this idea has been floating around my head for a while, and basically I just got it down all in one go. That, and it's three in the morning over here, so it might have sounded a little… odd. I hope you enjoyed. Reviews are love, people!!!