Chapter 1
Kurapika felt the presence of death even before he saw him.
His hand lingered on the metal doorknob as he hesitated to enter the room, the other clutching onto a vase of flowers. It always unsettled him, coming here, not because he harbored any ill feelings towards the employees, but because of the sharp scent of antiseptic, the white lights beaming in the stark hallways, the worn faces of the physicians. Everything was the opposite of what visitors should be subjected to when they were working up the courage to face the worst scenarios their minds could conjure.
If something had happened, surely Kurapika would have been informed. He peered down at the flowers one more time, counting all the bright red petals that radiated from their centers, breathing in their calm fragrance. Pushing past the heavy, sinking feeling that weighed at his heart, he opened the door. He was welcomed by the familiar whirring of the ventilator and the quiet darkness of Pairo's room, but something—something had changed.
The air shifted, the windows were open, exposing the view of Yorknew's evening landscape. The cotton curtains gently billowed with the passing breeze and beneath the shroud of the curtains, another figure was present. He leaned against the stool of the window, clad in a black suit, nearly funereal, basking in the lights of skyscrapers. He did not turn to Kurapika, did not speak to him, and instead, he addressed Pairo where he lay still against sterile bedsheets.
"Pairo," the man said quietly, a scarlet tome resting in his hands, its pages stirring with the wind. Pairo did not answer. The ventilator did so on his behalf. "Your time here has ended."
Kurapika let go.
The vase shattered at his feet.
Something devastating, something much like fear seized him, heightening the beat of his heart to a maddening pace and robbing him of his voice. Unable to move, he stood rigidly amidst the water spilling across the floor and flowers lying limp upon fragments of glass. "Who are you?"
Across the room, the man languidly looked up at Kurapika, the darkness of his eyes arresting his gaze and grounding him to the very place he stood. His black hair rivaled his attire, parting evenly over a cross tattoo, a midnight veil over the pallor of his skin. "You can see me."
Kurapika's voice rose. "Of course I can—"
"You can see me." The man's expression softened into something more readable, a calm yet perplexing sort of fascination. "The living do not see Death, much less speak to it."
"What the hell," Kurapika said breathlessly, willing his voice not to falter. There was an intruder in the room, a presence that clearly did not belong here, and he was here for Pairo. "I'm notifying security if you don't tell me who you are and what you're doing here right this moment."
The arch of his brow conveyed his opinion of Kurapika's tone. He rose from the shadows to approach Kurapika, his footsteps not making a single sound against the floor, and Kurapika instinctively took one step back. It took too much to effort to ignore the graceful hand offered to him, waiting for him to accept it.
"Kuroro Lucifer, god of the underworld." He stood only a few inches taller than Kurapika, and yet, the proximity of his presence made the air grow heavier, more oppressive. "And you are?"
"Right—and I'm the god of bullshit." Kurapika ignored the outstretched hand with an unimpressed look. "I don't know how you managed to get access here, but you are trespassing in my cousin's room."
Kuroro shook his head, letting out a resigned sigh. "Consider yourself fortunate that you will witness this."
He slowly lowered himself on one knee in front of Kurapika, certainly not a position that a god would assume for anyone. At his feet, he lifted one of the flowers from the water and ran his fingers over the red petals.
Vibrance bled from them. Nearly every one fell from the shriveling stem, scattering across the floor and leaving the slightest whiff of decay. Kuroro plucked a lone petal, the last of them all, and it crumbled beneath the pressure of his touch. Kurapika's face grew as pale as the petals that withered away, and he could not help thinking that he would have suffered the same fate if he had taken Kuroro's hand.
"I couldn't grow a weed from the richest soils of my realm if I tried," Kuroro said, a touch of amusement in his tone, but Kurapika failed to find any humor. "Your cousin no longer has time left in this world," he continued, writing off Pairo's life as if it were nothing, lacking the years of study and practice that accompanied the physicians at this hospital, "and I am here to guide him to the next life."
Kurapika would have laughed at the absurdity of his words—guide, as if would be partaking in a vacation—if not for the air of melancholy that overwhelmed him. His heart only sank, sank, and sank. "I don't understand."
He did not believe in another life beyond this one, especially when these words were imparted to him by another stranger, but—the man before him was not truly a man after all. He was not one of those frightful creatures that parents told their children through fictitious stories either. Despite that he appeared only a few years older than Kurapika, his age may as well have been hundreds of times that count, evident in the knowledge of his gaze.
"All souls of the newly deceased are escorted to my realm. The guide assigned to Pairo did not arrive as expected, so I am here in her place."
"Deceased," Kurapika repeated, unable to fathom the words that came from Kuroro's lips, finding himself lightheaded on his feet. Darkness swam at the periphery of his vision and a rising panic stole the breath from his lungs. "Pairo is not—"
Kurapika was at Pairo's bedside in the next instant, where he always found himself for the last few months. He would not have anyone speak of Pairo as if he was dead, when he was still there, his chest rising and falling with the breaths forced into him by the ventilator. He looked the same, mostly, with brown hair framing the softness of his skin, long lashes brushing against his cheeks. He looked the same, mostly, if not for the warmth that leached from his face, the receding scars over his eyes, reminding Kurapika of his own failure.
His recklessness led them to venture to the outskirts of their homeland, motivated by an endless curiosity to explore the secrets of the secluded forest. Driven by a weariness of the canopy of trees stretching over them, the watchfulness of the forest, so constant and unchanging in the world around them, giving his community comfort and nothing more. It meant breaking the proverbial curse that bound his people to that very forest, but at the cost of Pairo's eyes, legs, and—
Kurapika's hand curled around Pairo's own, trembling as his thumb brushed against Pairo's knuckle, unwilling to let go. Gone were the days of exploring their ancestral lands, hoping to find a way to the light of the outside world. They sat upon rocks worn smooth by the flowing river, watching small fish swim in the calm, clear surface of the water. They found flowers growing in the most unexpected of places, plucking them and weaving crowns of a myriad of colors. They fell asleep upon tender blades of grass and beds of flowers, and woke to the sound of birdsong and the warmth of sunlight. They knew peace.
Perhaps, Kurapika wanted too much.
"He will not wake up," Kuroro affirmed from behind him. "What afflicts him is not of mortal doing."
Kurapika's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"
"Your healers call it a state of coma, but that is not entirely correct." Kuroro referenced the book in his hands, full of pages with photographs of individuals, presumably belonging to the souls he had taken. A page was reserved for Pairo. "His body has succumbed to a powerful curse. Perhaps, he wronged a lesser deity and in retribution, they robbed him of his sight and mobility." Kurapika couldn't think of any sort of wrongdoing Pairo could commit, but he held his tongue until Kuroro continued. "He exists in a state with his life depleting with each passing moment—even with the greatest healers from your realm, he has no prospect of surviving."
If someone had to be punished, that person should have been Kurapika. He let the revelation sink in, the possibilities now that modern medicine never had a chance of saving Pairo. "Your talk of magic is difficult for me to follow."
"Not magic," Kuroro answered, peeved by Kurapika's speech not for the first time this evening. "It is time for you let him go. The other side will welcome him with open arms."
"There is time." Kurapika's grasp on Pairo's hand tightened. He was certain that even if he held onto him as tightly as he possibly could, Kuroro would still steal him from his arms. He needed a miracle and did not know if gods offered them. "There is time, and I will not let go when he still breathes. Tell me, are you able to give life as freely as you are able to take it?"
A pause fell upon them, broken only by the sounds of the machinery keeping Pairo's body alive. Implication finally sunk in, the intent behind Kurapika's words. "I am not responsible for the doings of other deities nor the lives of mortals who fall victim to them. I am here to bring souls to where they rightfully belong."
Where Pairo belonged was with Kurapika.
"I would make a bargain with you," Kurapika said, meeting his Kuroro's eyes with all of the steadiness he could gather within himself, "if Pairo could live again."
Kuroro tilted his head thoughtfully. "Why should I listen to you?"
"Because this is not your domain," Kurapika answered, indifferent to the fact that he was defying the thief, the savior, the king—all of Death himself. He turned to face Kuroro with his entire body, his hand slipping from Pairo's own, all of his hesitations hardening into resolve. "I couldn't care less about what you call yourself or where you come from. You come to our realm, our world, and you have the audacity to lay your hands on what is not yours."
"You think that I can bring him back." His eyes reminded Kurapika of a raven's, devoid of compassion and feeling. Kurapika searched for a flaw, any kind of flaw within his eyes, but found nothing. "You believe in a false hope."
It was a desperate thing, thrumming in his blood, enduring deep within his bones, living and breathing on its own, keeping Kurapika from feeling more tired than he had any right to be. His hope was each dream and ambition kept alive, every memory reminding him of his quiet, venerable love for his family. His hope was all the nights he spent alone in Yorknew, knees drawn to his chest as he watched over Pairo, with nothing to say and no tears to spare. His hope was the promise that he would change things, rising from all the grief for the things he could not do, could not accomplish at Pairo's side.
His hope was all that he had left.
"I will not allow Pairo's ending to happen like this." Kurapika's fists clenched until his knuckles whitened and his fingernails drew blood. His heart was close to beating out of his chest, thrashing beneath his breastbone, so loud that the furious rush of his blood was all he could hear. "Do you know will happen if you dare to take Pairo away from me? Your realm would burn beneath my hands. No one would be safe. Not even you."
Kurapika wished to believe that they were not words without meaning, of empty promises. Should Pairo die as he was, he was ready to follow Kuroro into the underworld and bring him back, not before leaving his mark on Kuroro's kingdom and throne.
Something shifted in Kuroro's gaze, bright with manic now.
"Anything you want," Kurapika vowed, "I would give it."
A soft laugh came from Kuroro, a sound that surprised him. "What if I asked for the blood of all the mortals here? What if I wanted all of their souls as an offering? Would you take another life in exchange for his?"
Kurapika's entire body felt taut, but he managed to answer without hesitation. "Why ask for their lives, when you could have mine?"
"I am a collector, a hoarder of sorts. It should come as no surprise that I would value ten lives over one."
Kurapika swallowed past the ill feeling in his throat, searching for the proper response. There was no price he was unwilling to pay, but—he could not imagine making the choice if Kuroro truly asked for their souls.
A light smile curved upon Kuroro's lips. "No. I don't want their lives. You are quite harsh for believing that of me," he said wryly. "What kind of being do you take me for?"
A breath escaped Kurapika, but he remained vigilant for his words sounded like half-truths, half-lies. At that moment, he wondered what kind of punishment he would receive if he punched a god in the face. Something much worse than what fell upon Pairo, most likely. He kept his hands perfectly still as he repeated, "Tell me what you want from me."
"This is no easy feat," Kuroro revealed. "I don't have the power, nor do other deities have the power, to heal plagues cast by other higher beings. This would involve leveraging the resources of the otherworld to develop a physical cure."
"That's fine," Kurapika answered, because all he needed was a miracle.
Kuroro leaned closer to him, and the only color he could find was the turquoise of Kuroro's odd, orb-shaped earrings. He caught his reflection in them, before bringing his gaze back to meet Kuroro's own. "Give me what is most precious to him."
What did Pairo cherish most? He thought carefully of the tangible objects he valued, but he had owned nothing and owed nothing, and—
"Me. I am the most precious person to him," Kurapika proclaimed, unwavering, and did not need to say he is the most important to me. "Nothing could ever compare."
"You are offering yourself to me." Kuroro sounded curious, almost pleased.
Deliberately, reverently, he raised his hand and brought it to Kurapika's cheek, so light that he barely touched him. Kurapika suppressed all movement, not even a flinch, as the cool of Kuroro's hand met his skin. Unlike the flowers, he did not crumble beneath Kuroro's touch.
He allowed Kuroro to touch, gently turn his head, study his eyes. He felt very ordinary, painfully human, beneath the fond curiosity of Kuroro's touch. His earlier observation, when he was astonished by the fact that Kurapika could see him, made him wonder what that was all about.
"The underworld is no place for mortals," Kuroro said softly. His hand brushed against the blond hair that fell over his cheek, tucking his strands behind his ear. His gaze fell upon the ruby earring on his right ear, a memento from his mother. "None have visited and lived. At the very least, none have visited and remained mortal."
Kurapika shivered at the implications. The inhabitants of the other world would not present themselves as divinely as Kuroro had. He did not know what became of souls once they passed to the other side and could not grasp if ancient creatures and demons had existed in his realm as well.
"If you accompany me, it may be impossible for you to return to the land of the living."
Kurapika wanted to say, try me. He made his own destiny, daring to defy what the higher beings had planned for him. He would not wither as the flowers did, would not betray his promises, and certainly would not fail a second time.
"Take me there."
Kuroro stepped away, letting his hand fall to his side. He found a certain page within his book and stretched out his hand, and even Kurapika could feel the sudden rush of power that prickled across his skin. An expansive cloth bloomed into existence, rippling in the air even without wind.
Kurapika didn't think he could ever get used to such implausible displays of power, but he didn't have time for a second thought. The cloth descended upon them both, cloaking them in darkness.
Notes: I reference the Hades and Persephone myth throughout the rest of this story, although I use it for inspiration rather than exactitude. I am taking extensive liberties with the myth while weaving in familiar aspects of canon.
Kuroro has some traits of Thanatos. There is not one Hermes, but several who serve as guides to the underworld. I'm guessing that Shizuku forgot that she had guide duties for the day, and Kuroro stepped in last minute as a good manager would. :)
Please leave a comment—I'd love to know what you think of this chapter! You can also reach out to me on Twitter (seiyunablog) or Tumblr (seiyuna).