The Twilight of Earth

the_mythologist

Disclaimer: The Twilight of Earth is the property of A.E. (George William Russell). Soul:Eater is the property of Atsushi Ookubo.

Story Points: Fantasy/Historical AU told from Maka's POV. (Think Arthurian legends setting.) Characters will be somewhat OOC as many don't meet until their late teenage years, and as their personalities are colored by different experiences. Weapon/technician partnerships remain the same, as well as the general concepts of wielding/soul resonance, etc.

Each chapter will have a verse from the poem "The Twilight of Earth," by George William Russell, a renowned Irish man-of-all-literary-trades.

Rating: M for violence, language, dark themes, mention of rape/torture, sex, character death(s).This will be a darker fic than Caprice, and while characters will die (maybe even ones you like), there will ultimately be a happy ending.

Summary: Many centuries ago demons plagued the earth, spreading madness, terror, and death in their wake. After many years of battle, the unholy horde was sealed by the power of the four elemental clans. Since that time the clans have flourished, and peace reigned between them.

Yet since the recent folly of the Star Clan, the last boundaries holding back the ancient scourge are failing. demons once again walk among the living, and the line between good and evil has blurred. There is now but one clan that staves off the demons - although it will take an old prophecy, unexpected partnerships, and a terrible sacrifice to resurrect the only power that could truly save us.

Chapter 1 – Rekindling Shepherd Stars

We dwindle down beneath the skies,

And from ourselves we pass away:

The paradise of memories

Grows ever fainter, day by day.

The shepherd stars have shrunk within,

The world's great night will soon begin.

- From 'The Twilight of Earth' by George William Russell
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The 7th Day of Sleep Moon, Late Winter

4012 years after the demon's defeat

My end is near. I know that, even bound and blindfolded. Every panicked beat of my heart confirms it, and it is echoed by the thrum of despair in my blood. Every step is a war against the fear surrounding me, and every breath a shuddering battle to keep from caving in. I am afraid to think, to remember has happened, why we are here. Yet that is the final victory, and after two days of marching, we will reach their village by nightfall. And then...and then...

No. I must not do this, or fear will immobilize me. I must think of other things, simpler things. Start with what I know, not what I fear.

I know that they have taken us far from home, that several days march has led us to a place with salt in the air and the cries of strange birds. I know little else as our captors speak mostly in their own tongue, a lilting, syllabic tangle that I do not fully understand. I have picked up a little - I learn quickly and am adept with languages - but the shock and fear have clouded my mind. Perhaps my ignorance is a blessing. What little I understand isn't good, and I doubt I'll live long enough to use it.

My fingers clench against the binding as my mind stutters over what I fear to admit. I know the truth, even if I don't dare dwell on it: when we arrive at the village, I will die. After all, there is no reason to keep me: I am too skinny to be beautiful, and lack the sexual knowledge that comes from marriage. If I were to be kept as someone's whore, I would have been taken already, like several of the other women on this march. I hold no illusions – I am being led to the altar, where my blackened remains will prove a fitting sacrifice for whatever god they worship.

My breathing quickens yet I cannot force my mind onto safer ground. We were blindfolded at the start of this morning's march, to lessen the chances of successful escape. Yet even if we were familiar with the land, there is nowhere to escape to. They saw to that when they razed the village to the ground, destroying our homes and our crops, our animal pens and-

Someone jostles into me, interrupting my reverie. With my hands tied together I fall to the ground, unable to catch myself. I am hauled up roughly and for all the discomfort it causes, I am also relieved. With the blindfold it is easy to forget that I am not alone. There are others here with me - mostly young women and some of the older boys - and as long as we are alive, we must hope. My father and my best friend still live...but what can two do against such odds? Our warriors barely made a dent in their numbers, falling like threshed wheat before their ferocious might and their terrifying abilities-

"Are you hurt?"

The words were spoken in a hushed undertone and carried a subtle yet genuine concern that nearly brought tears to my eyes. Yet the accent was foreign, and the words rolled off his tongue thickly, like honey when one expected mead. Why would one of them ask if I was hurt? I did not respond, but jerked my head slightly to the left. Let him take that as a response. I didn't want to waste any more of my fleeting time on them.

"Are you afraid, now? You were not afraid of us then. Not even when you thought we were demons."

They – the warriors of the Wolf Clan - had come upon us in the dead of night, silent as the grave until the fire took hold of our homes. Then it was as if the gates of the underworld had erupted spilling forth men, wolves, and monsters. What else could we think them, when they had men whose skin was black like the night, women who could shoot bursts of fire from their fingertips, and the Deathbringer himself, who was a demon clad in human skin? Yet there had been no time to be afraid. There had only been the fire, the screams, and the bone deep instinct to protect the people of the village.

I hadn't realized I had murmured my thoughts aloud until my unusual captor answered me. "To protect them? Is that why you took up the scythe against us, and killed three of our own?" There was a heavy pause in which fear trickled slowly up my back. So he knew? Did they all know? More importantly, was he angry? Would this strange conversation be the last thing I heard, before he killed me? But waiting two days and nights to kill me made no sense...

When he next spoke, there was a touch of something surprising in his tone. Perhaps satisfaction, or perhaps even pride. "Don't you wonder why they do not touch you? Why they do not treat you as a carrier for their children?" I flinched, but couldn't help the reflective nod. I couldn't speak, not when I was this afraid, and could not tell what my captor was trying to tell me. His voice was soft and melodious, but how could I trust in that when his words were so dangerous? I felt his fingers at the back of my neck and tensed further, before I felt the lift of my hair from underneath the blindfold. His actions had loosened the cloth, and for the first time in days, I felt a flutter of hope. Was this man trying to help me? Or to ingratiate me to him? Either way, he was giving me a chance, as I could see the blurry colors of the world around the edges of the blindfold.

"They respect you, wind warrior. They fear the demons, and they fear the Deathbringer even more. Yet you, a woman from the Wind Clan, fear neither. Do you understand?"

He was wrong. I feared so much, most of all now. I feared for my life, and the lives of the others with me. I was afraid every time one of the warriors pulled a protesting woman off into the woods, and every time one of them looked my way. Yet most of all I was afraid for the two that had been spared the destruction. How would my father react when he returned to the village and found its smoking remains? Would his heart break, as it nearly had after the death of my mother? But my father was calm, and a battle-seasoned warrior. Worse yet was my best friend, who would return with him. What would Black do when he came home and found us all gone?

I understood what my captor was telling me, however. My supposed lack of fear was my protection – as long as they believed me unnaturally brave, I was relatively safe. Safer, at least. So, a little out of gratitude and a little simply to hear my voice again, I spoke for the first time in days. "I understand."

There was a pause that lasted the space of a dozen heartbeats. I thought he had moved away, but his words interrupted my nervous reflections once more. "You stared into the eyes of the Deathbringer, and looked at him as if he were no more than any other man. He will not soon forget that, wind warrior."

He moved away, but I did not hear him. His mention of the Deathbringer had brought it all back, all the memories I had tried so hard to suppress. Unwelcome images flashed against my eyelids, and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out: their wolf pelts gleaming like silver against the dark; war cries like the call of a monster from a dream; the wet sound of a sword driving into flesh, and the scent of blood and feces in the air. They had painted their faces in the manner of demons, and in the flickering light that was what we assumed they were. After all, I had seen with my own eyes a woman set fire to a hut simply by touching it, and a man with black skin light up the night with both fire and lightning, one from each fist. How could I blame our warriors for not standing against them?

Yet you did, an inner voice whispered insistently. He was right. You were not afraid.

There had been no space for fear. My world had shrunk down to minute actions, blinding me to the worst of the atrocities, and how I might have felt about them. Awake to the smell of burning pitch: move. Get out of bed, and get out of my home. Get to the outskirts, and then - Jump around the man swinging down with the sword, slide past the woman setting huts aflame. Grip a hand, and pull it along with me, hopefully to safety. When that hand was hacked away, stumble into a hut, pray there was something to use. There – a discarded scythe, no longer sharp but better than my fists.

Then there was nothing but the breath in my lungs and the scythe in my hands. Dimly I knew that men came roaring into the hut, but all of them met their ends on the blunted edge of my blade. There was a primal rhythm in fighting them – the thud of the scythe against their neck, their calves, their torso – and I was too lost within it to feel their blood coat my hands and body. Yet then he was there, and parried me swing for swing until I lost the pulse, and when I looked at his face I knew my end had come.

All the stories depict the Deathbringer differently, but on certain points they all agree. He was a demon bound in man's flesh; blood red eyes and bone white hair, and a mouth full of teeth too sharp to be natural. Most described him as gigantic but some asserted he was small and lithe like a wildcat. The man standing across from me was only a few inches taller than I and favored the latter description but the shock of seeing his preternaturally colored eyes fasten on mine ended my internal debate. This was the Deathbringer, and I was going to die.

After that, my body moved on its own. The scythe blade came arcing down, straight towards his chest. On any other man it would have been a clean hit, but demons cannot be brought down that easily. At the last moment, a blade flashed between us, and it was only after a moment's shock that I realized it had grown out of his arm. There was only time to blink in astonishment before he sliced the handle of my scythe and pulled me to him, forcing us eye to eye and me entirely at his mercy.

There was one other point on which all stories agreed: he always – always - asked if you were afraid. Whether he killed you or not, he wanted to know that he terrified you.

There were so many things I had never gotten to do. I had never married, never had children, never seen the lights that danced in the skies of the far north. I had not told my father that I still loved him, and Black that even death would not end our friendship. I had never witnessed a mystery, or fallen in love. Yet there was no helping that, now. The only thing I could do was deny him, and go to my death as bravely as I could. So before he could open his mouth I spoke, and my rage and conviction made my words truth.

"No, demon. I am not afraid. Not of you, nor of my death." If there had been enough moisture in my mouth I would had spat in his face, if only to alter his expression. It was unexpected for a demon to look so blank at the moment of my murder. Where was the unholy glee or murderous rage that we had been taught to expect? The Deathbringer merely looked back at me, as steadily and calmly as a face carved into wood. Then I remembered why people truly feared him. "My spirit is for the winds. Not for you, soul-eater." His eyes hooded at that, and his scythe arm momentarily pulled me in closer, the blade cutting through my shirt like a knife through butter. Then there was only a sharp pain at the back of my skull, and darkness.

The surprise at waking unharmed was nothing less than what I felt at remaining alive. We were miles away when I regained consciousness, and nothing around me looked familiar. The other captives were happy enough to see me awaken, yet there was a reserve between us, and I could not put it all down to grief. After all, wasn't tragedy on this scale supposed to bring us together, not divide us? It was on the second day's walk that I realized it was due to my treatment – not only was I not molested as they were, but the soldiers had carried me when I was unconscious.

The few women who would talk to me after that knew what I knew – I was an altar sacrifice, and there was no point in looking to me for strength or comfort. Yet now I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't a simpler explanation for all of this. I hadn't seen the Deathbringer through the long walk. Perhaps he traveled as demons did, faster and invisible to human sight, and was waiting for me at their village. Either way, what demon could turn down my challenge? The odd soldier had told me the Deathbringer would not forget me. What else could he possibly mean?

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We reached their village after sundown, several hours after the soldiers had removed our blindfolds, finding them superfluous. The first thing I did was to look around to see if the Deathbringer was near, but as before I couldn't see him. Perhaps he really had outflown the winds to await our arrival at his village. Either way, it did not matter. I was afraid, more so than I had ever been in my entire life. Yet seeing him again would remind me to be brave, and perhaps even awaken that rage I had felt so recently.

A tall man with light hair and drooping, sad eyes approached us, and one of the men leading us halted and clasped arms with him. I caught a few of his words, yet most was garbled. Home, joy, slavesand sorted. Woman, where, brother? Then a word that was the same in my own tongue, soul.

It was too late for my blood to run cold. I already knew my fate. The despair wasn't new, but for the first time in days, I wished that it wouldn't happen to me. Bravery was one thing, and acceptance quite another.

Where are you, Black? We promised to die together, but I think I cannot keep that promise. Live for me, my friend. Stay with Father and be safe.

Then the men were among us, pulling us to either the left or the right. I couldn't tell if one side was death and the other life; on both sides there were a few men who had tied a rope around the wrist of a young captive, and then fastened it to their own. I understood enough to know this meant these people were marked as either prizes, slaves, or perhaps even a wife. There was no such man for me, however, and I was left standing in the center.

I stood tall as I ignored the pain in my body and the hunger in my belly, and met the gaze of the sorrowful-looking man as clearly as I could. I suspected that this clan must value bravery above all else, which was why they chose me as their sacrifice. Yet I could not be anything other than what I was. Besides, I knew that living the life of a slave woman – or boy - was worse. He walked towards me, and every footfall was like the beating of a drum – this was my end, this was my end. Just as he reached me, there was a hand on my shoulder, and a voice that cut through the tense silence.

This one is already spoken for, Wesley.

The shock of knowing exactly what was said was almost overshadowed by the surprise of knowing who was speaking. Although he was speaking a different language, this was the man who had spoken to me... and I knew exactly what he was saying. Yet I could not understand Wesley's response. Perhaps I was losing my mind, and merely thought I knew what my warrior had said. I could see the surprise in the arch of Wesley's brows, however. I could also feel the anger in my hidden warrior's next words.

She is not a toy, brother. The 'Deathbringer' will not appreciate you treating her as such. Now go tell Father we have returned. We must all prepare for the Initiation tonight.

With an arch parting look, Wesley turned on his heel, and signaled to the men to move with him. I turned my head to look at the man who had protected me (even if only for the Deathbringer's sake) but I was foiled by the large grey cloak and hood that hid his features. Still, this had been twice that he had helped me, and even if my eventual fate was death, these were two small acts of kindness.

My voice was rusty from several days of silence. "Thank you. I know it changes nothing, but you did not have to do that. Either...either time."

His hand on my shoulder tightened fleetingly before he gently pushed me in the direction of the village. "Of course I did. Did you not see the way he looked at you? He is a good man, but...no. You are not for him."

The coldness was settling back in my heart, and I couldn't not help the bitterness in my voice. "No, of course not. Not when the Deathbringer awaits. Will he eat my soul before this "Initiation?" Or will he take his time with me?"

The warrior stopped, and I could sense hesitancy and excitement in his response. "Do you understand my words?"

I barely heard his question. Fear-fueled wrath was building, and because it was futile to rage against my coming demise, especially to the one man here who seemed to value me at all; I voiced a silly, pointless question. "And if your brother is a good man, why did you have to tell him I wasn't a toy?"

As soon as I responded, I realized what I had done. He had once again spoken in his own tongue, and I had just revealed that somehow, I understood him. He knew I didn't understand his language, so how was I to explain understanding him? Before I could stammer out anything at all that might explain the inexplicable, he countered with an odd question.

"When you wield a weapon, is it always a scythe?"

He was speaking my tongue again. I could only assume it was so that we weren't overheard. We were well within the village now and people were milling about, darting in and out of homes that looks far more substantial than my own. His hand was still on my shoulder, gentle, yet firm. Fighting down a wave of panic, I responded. "I suppose you could say that."

"Why suppose?"

"That was the first time I had ever raised a weapon against someone."

He stopped dead, pulling me to a halt as well. In his silence was a question, and I answered it as best as I could. "I am not a warrior. Our village was a peaceful one. There was no need for me to learn the ways of death." I did not add that my father and my best friend were more than enough protection. Men and women came from far away lands to study with my father, and Black was the last living member of the Star Clan, the most formidable clan of warriors in human memory. I did not feel the need to explain any of this to the warrior, however. My loved one's protection was paramount, even with this strange, gentle warrior who I somehow felt the urge to trust.

"So the first time you fight, you bring down three warriors from the Wolf Clan. Battle-hardened, seasoned men; with a blunt scythe and no previous skills."

The fear and frustration bubbled up inside me, and before I could think better of it I spun around. I still could not see his face, hidden deep within the folds of his hood, but I caught his hand and gripped it roughly. It was important to make him believe me. After all, what did I have left, besides this odd raider's curious respect?

"What do you expect from me? My village did not train women to be instruments of death, as yours does. But perhaps there is an explanation. I have watched my father train, and my friend, and the men of our village. I may have watched better than I knew-"

"And did those men train with a scythe? I think not. Do not deny yourself, wind warrior-"

"What is there to deny? I do not know how I did it-"

"Then show me."

With a start, I realized that not only was he speaking in his native tongue again, but that our fingers were entwined. Yet beyond that knowledge was a more primal one, as if he were pulling something deep inside me to the surface. Then there was only time for a shocked inhale before I surrendered to the blossoming within myself, and tightening my grip on his fingers, showed him.

...There was nothing but the breath in my lungs and the scythe in my hands. Dimly I knew that men came roaring into the hut, but all of them met their ends on the blunted edge of my blade. There was a primal rhythm in fighting them – the thud of the scythe against their neck, their calves, their torso – and I was too lost within it to feel their blood coat my hands and body. Yet then hewas there, and parried me swing for swing until I lost the pulse, and when I looked at his face I knew my end had come...

I did not know how to stop the strange vision, so I was immensely relieved when he did it for me. It was painful to relive those disjointed memories, and disconcerting to know that another saw them as well. If I wasn't about to die, I would have marveled at the oddness of this moment. Yet now it was no longer a pressing mystery why I understood this man's speech – how could it be, when I let him peer into my mind and experience my memories?

...This man was magic. He had to be. Perhaps he was a druid, letting me experience a miracle before I went to the winds. I wanted – no, I needed to know his name. It would give me something to cling to until I finally met my fate.

"He won't...if it is in his power to save you-"

"What is your name?"

He paused, head jerking up to notice the man approaching us. He wore a dark beard and a cloak of wolf pelts, and by the confidence in his step I knew he was the Chief. There wasn't any time. "Please-"

His hand left mine as he answered, and I could hear something like regret in his voice. "Soul."

Soul? I had heard that recently...Wesley had looked for him. He probably couldn't recognize him with that hood covering his features.

...Why was Soul hiding his face?

My thoughts kept me from deciphering any of the Chieftain's words – Soul responded in quiet tones, and now that he wasn't touching me, I couldn't understand his words. It seemed they had to touch me for me to understand their tongue. Yet even that theory was disproved when the Chief lightly tapped at my chin, raising my eyes to his. So I only could understand Soul's words when he touched me. That made sense, as druids held strange powers, and held the ear of the gods.

"She is the one we have been looking for. There is no doubt in my mind."

I hadn't noticed Soul moving closer to me, and it was hard not to react when he pressed his hand against my lower back. Judging by the nonchalant stares of those surrounding us, no one else noticed or realized the importance of his action. Here was a third reason to be thankful for this man – even when I was facing certain death, he did not keep me wholly in the dark.

I could see the Chief's disbelief written all over his face. Whoever they had been looking for, a 16 yr old female – more girl than woman, truthfully - clearly was not it. He shook his head and smiled, and it was surprisingly gentle. He spoke slowly, so I could understand parts of his response: wind, woman, young, mother, hope?

"I witnessed it myself. She brought down Gopher, Dutchman, and Giriko with no prior training." He paused to let men scoff, but when he spoke again his voice was sad. "She is a scythe-wielder, Vajra. I am not mistaken."

This time, I only caught one word: Albarn. My blood ran cold. This man...he had been looking for my father? Had our entire village been destroyed because of my father's skill?

"There were no warriors of his calibre there."

His next response: "There were no survivors."

I tightened against his hold. I hadn't forgotten, but to hear it so bluntly...Soul had killed as well, hadn't he? How could I feel thankful for someone who had helped destroy the lives of my people? I was weak if I let one man's personal kindness to me sway my opinions of him, and his clan.

Then the Chief looked at Soul and finally announced the presence of he whom I had been waiting for - Deathbringer. He clasped a hand on Soul's shoulder and the cloak shifted, revealing locks the color of bone.

Deathbringer. Soul stiffened and the hood slid the rest of the way down to his shoulders, and for the second time I stared into blood-red eyes. The Chieftain's words echoed in my head, and it was as if a light was lit in the confines of my body. This...couldn't be. Soul was the druid that had peered into my soul, and the kind warrior who had helped me to my feet.

Soul was the Deathbringer.

Before I could realize the futility of my actions, I launched myself at him. I had no weapon, but my epiphany drove everything else from my mind. I had trusted him, thinking him a gift from the gods before my life was over. In actuality he was a demon, murderer of clans, and the one who had taken me captive. My hands closed around his throat.

Around us, the roar of extraneous noise died away. Men moved towards us, but the light shining from in between So-the Deathbringer and I forced them away. More surprising to me than the light, however, was the fact that even though he could have batted me away with a swipe of his human hand (let alone his scythe arm) Soul-Deathbringer dropped to his knees.

I will not fight you.

The incongruity of his statement struck me, but while I loosened my grip I did not pull my hands away. Even in my rage I could see the dark shades of sorrow in his eyes. That, and the memory of his voice, telling me that if it was in his power...

Why? I spoke without speaking, in the same manner that I understood his words. Why will you not fight me? Why did you help me? Why would you save me?

His words were slow and hesitant, and I could feel the fear behind them. He could not be afraid of me physically harming him... yet what else could he fear? Because you did not fear me. And if you do not fear me, then you will not fear the demons.

Once again the mention of demons. Did that mean he was not one himself?

I hadn't realized even my private thoughts were broadcasted until I felt him wince through our link. Wield me and you will know. Wield me, and I can never be used against you and yours...and anyone you choose to protect ever again.

Wield him? I can't.

He felt empty, as if all that made him human had been sucked out of him. Because you hate me-

I don't know how. What madness was I speaking? Me, "wield" the Deathbringer? What manner of devilry was this? Was this how the demons caught their prey? Yet such sincerity...such sorrow... Weaving in and out of his words were simple thoughts, barely coherent in their primitive state: I want to protect. I want to help. I want to save. Would a demon hold such thoughts?

I will show you. I will serve you. Please. Let me protect you.

I don't even know you. How can I trust you?

Then look at me. Know me. I will show my soul to you, if you will look.

In this transient, half-way state, it was as simple as wanting. I wanted to know this man, and to see if he was telling me the truth. I wanted to know if Soul was real, or simply a construct of the Deathbringer. Most importantly, I wanted to know if he were truly human. So I raised my hands from his neck to his face, and when I looked into his eyes, I saw his spirit.

It was not huge and powerful, as I expected. Nor was it truly comprehensible. Later I would liken it to the seed of an ancient evergreen, more immanent even than the roots, something that is unaffected by all that it affects. Yet even from that first, dizzying glance, it was clear enough that Soul was indeed human, however damaged he had become. I could also tell he was sincere – his soul was held together by purpose, like wide stitches on woven cloth. And when I let go of the vision, reeling from the enormity of what I had done, I had come to a conclusion.

I lifted my hands from his face and the spell was undone. Once again we were in the middle of his village, violent men hemmed in around us and the chieftain looking especially dire. Could they really have thought I would hurt him? Didn't they know it was Soul who held all the power? He rose slowly and when his eyes met mine they were tired and sad. I would have pitied him more, save for that I was swaying on my feet. Blackness was painting the edges of my vision, and I hazily feared I might collapse. It would not be overly surprising, after my last few days.

Before I fell, however, I needed to say it. I could feel Soul's desperation thrumming along the edges of my skin, and the corresponding urge to allay his anxiety. "I accept you. I want-" The world spun around me, and Soul gripped my shoulders, trying to steady me before I fell. "Want to fight with you."

"And I, you."

His quiet declaration was the last thing I heard before I knew no more – the darkness fell into me and with one last breath, I surrendered to it.

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I do not have a lot of experience with 1st POV. Let us hope it does not end in failure.

In other news, this is a Christmas/Holiday gift (part II) to all my readers! May you read and enjoy, and have a safe and wonderful (and exciting) Holiday Season!

- the_mythologist