Author's note: My first fanfic here. It's a multi-chapter one, and probably the longest fanfic I'm going to write. Pairings will be HaoxOC for now. I can't confirm yet how it will turn out eventually, but who knows? Read and review, thanks. I will be very grateful.
Disclaimer: I don't own Shaman King, only a couple of watches, figurines and the anime box set.
Well, here goes.
Black roses, white lilies
Chapter 1: Shelter
The evening sky was already preparing itself for night when Hao awoke. The clouds slowly turning a dark-bluish hue and when the wind blew them apart, they revealed the moon gently giving off a slight slivery shimmer. Stars sparkled in the background of this surreal scene, dancing amid the darkness. The night seemed almost magical in its own quiet calming way.
Hao gave a little yawn as his eyelids drew back, bringing his short nap to a close. He stood up, slowly, beholding the wonders that lay before him. Ouch. A sharp pain shot up his calves and arms, and his muscles screamed for mercy. He rubbed his aching muscles, attempting to abate the pain still present. It did not hurt that much after that, but it still stung and left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Ever present, just like the earth, sky and seas.
Guess the injuries from the shaman fight have not healed completely yet.
He paused a while, envisaging all this, then began to walk again, a slow stride, and then breaking into a run to find shelter from the sudden shower. It was raining, as it always did during the rainy season. He counted himself lucky for dozing off and not waking to a blast in his face the force of a water hose turned to full power. The rain was that strong, on some days.
Hao was safe inside a small cave he found for himself a few metres away by the time the rain grew strong. He was not so lucky though; his poncho was saturated.
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The cave was exactly as he'd imagined-a deep dark one seemingly full of hidden secrets, making his senses tingle in excitement and mystery; it was also one that echoed whenever he faced the endless tunnel leading to the unknown within and said a few words. Even the tiniest voice would send the whole interior throbbing with sound waves which moved in ripples. "Hello," he would say to the jet-black abyss on his right and it would respond with a hollow, deep-sounding "hellloo". It was damn spooky, the way it answered, as it had something to hide. It was almost saying 'Don't come in here. You don't know what's inside. You don't want to know." Nevertheless, it was fun to repeat that, but it got boring after the fun experimenting with the echoes faded into the darkness, and together with it, the echoes.
Hao had a look around the cave. It was just a typical cave: dark, damp, rocky, with algae that slithered up its walls and little puddles of water that had gathered on the floor and made him slip thrice. His behind was getting a bit sore after all that falling. This could be his resting place for the night, although he shouldn't have used that word, as an afterthought. 'Resting place' was a phrase surrounded by ambiguity and he certainly did not want, him or anyone else, to take it in its figurative context.
It was still raining outside, and Hao took advantage of his surroundings to watch the world outside, not before he lighted a fire in the middle of the cave, with the aid of his Spirit of Fire. The tongues of flame burned bright, occasionally turning a blazing white. They flickered, casting dancing shadows upon the cave walls which looked like figures engaging in some ancient tribal dance, one that involved dancing around a fire. He could use a little bit of his imagination; he'd seen things like that in various places: history books, documentaries and even in his life. 500 years ago, that is.
The fire brought up fond memories of various events, but strong as it was, it still could not break up the unyielding darkness at the innermost part of the cave. The darkness just sort of retreated backward, recoiled, so that it became slightly further away from the entrance, but it was still there, and it was still darkness in the true sense of the word: aphotic, atramentous, sable, or just a plain, foreboding, inky blackness, near impossible to penetrate. It did not even bow to the likes of fire, light, what should be darkness' worst enemy, and that triggered a feeling of annoyance deep within Hao. Something that did not surrender to fire, his element. And it furthermore aggravated him that he could not exterminate this thing that was in front of him. It was not even matter. If it was, he could just treat it to an incineration process and it would be burnt into ash. Finer than ash, if he liked it to be.
Rather put off, Hao was clearly not in the mood for star-gazing. For a few seconds he just lay there, staring at the rocky ceiling (if you could call it a ceiling) and trying to ignore that fact that his brown locks of hair were soaking up water of an unknown origin from a nearby puddle. He tried to calm himself down. Look here, you almost became the shaman king, and someone in this position does not lower himself to the level of darkness, which is an inanimate thing. You can't even make it pay for the anguish it has caused you-it doesn't even know it has triggered feelings. That's nothing to be angry about. It's silly cooking up schemes to deal with a non-living thing. You've known more pleasure torturing living, unfortunate victims who, unfortunately, joined the non-living thanks to you. Inhale. Exhale. He'd learned something like that somewhere (was it called 'stress-reduction routine'?). Think of nothing. Relax. Good. He was feeling better already. His inner fire was extinguished, but he was still in no mood to do anything else. He decided it was bedtime.
The definition of 'bed' means 'a piece of furniture upon which or within a person sleeps or rests'. However, he found his current bed nothing like the context. It was crude, manufactured from dry leaves and dried moss, and the leaves were not even very dry; they were wet from dampness and had a sour smell about them, which reminded him strongly of the pungent odor of rotting plant matter. In an attempt to make his bed more comfortable, he had taken off his poncho and used it as a blanket, pulling it up to his chin to conserve maximum heat. He was neutral to this decision; the good side was that he felt considerably warmer than just before, when he was near the entrance of the cave and buffeted by the wind and rain; the bad side being that his body was forced to become intimately familiar with the rough surface of the makeshift bed.
'Curses,' he muttered. Surely the great Hao should not be sleeping in a place such as this. He was more than willing to sleep in a tree, but it was raining.
"Curses,' the cave responded, nonchalant.
Damn. Apparently, he had forgotten that this cave echoed. Maybe the cave was, indeed, teasing him, mocking him in his time of weakness for its own delectation, but he had no interest in arguing, though that particular thought had ignited the smoldering remains of his anger. His burned cold fire inwardly, but was determined not to let it show. Self-control was one of the superior qualities that he possessed, and he was not going to evince his annoyance by setting the cave aflame and thus also lose this temporary shelter as a consequence.
Hao lay back, shifting his weight about till he found an ideal position which was comfortable and closed his eyes. Blackness greeted him. He tried not to compare it to the blackness of the cave. Rain still came steadily, with no sign of stopping and the sun was completely obscured by the grayish dark clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Trees were wildly waving their branches in the wind, leaves making a soft swishing noise which, miraculously, was audible above all the noise. It was like listening to a capella singing, the choir comprising of wind, rain, thunder and trees, all making their own noises and blending together to form the sounds of a typical tempest. An individual would think that a storm was wild and noisy, and it still is, but Hao liked to think differently. A storm was a force of nature, sort of like a form of harsh, cruel beauty. A photograph of a storm could be a masterpiece for a photographer, but a storm in itself could capsize ships, create flooding and widespread damage, and its power, if harnessed by a shaman's guardian spirit, would be a formidable opponent for any shaman, but he doubted if he would fail to rid the world of one storm-summoning shaman.
Speculating on things made him more aware of his actions, but it also sapped his energy and in this situation, it made him rather drowsy. By now, Hao's eyelids were as heavy as lead and keeping himself awake was a task tedious to the extreme. Listening as the rain sang him a soothing lullaby, he slumped back into bed and allowed the sleep demon to claim his mind at last.
Author's Note: So, it isn't very good, is it? I'll try to improve on the different aspects of the story. Review to keep me writing. Honestly, I'm not good when it comes to stories like this, but I'm willing to try my luck with this one. Look out for the next chapter!