Disclaimer: Kanashimi: Akira's revenge! Korin does not own Enjolras or the omnipotent being that tortures him. That owns itself, unless Hugo owns it as well, which is entirely too possible.
AN: One of my reviewers said he or she was having trouble distinguishing who the "he" was in the story - well, the Voice is pretty much genderless, so the "he" is always Enjolras. Except in the second-to-last two paragraphs in the first half, where it might be confusing, but I...can't really do anything about that. *founders* The ending, too, is now changed. I decided I wasn't really fond of the original one...
Kanashimi: That's my authoress...
Eien no Yami: The Everlasting Darkness
He had only stepped out the door of his apartments, he was sure of that. But he was no longer on the silent Paris streets under the white crescent moon.
The young figure was suspended in the air, trapped in a huge sphere of glowing blood-red light, held there. A great wind seemed to be coming from the light, and his golden hair has blown back fiercely, rippling frantically in the gusts. His arms were flung out wide, his head thrown back, his fingers splayed, and the wind had caught the white silk of his billowing sleeves, and they rippled as well. His legs were straight, pressed together, and one toe was pointed while the other was flat, as though he were about to step down. His eyes were closed, and even the way he was held could not erase the proud, defiant look his face still kept.
Suddenly cold hit him, bitter, chilling, overpowering cold. He ripped his arms free to wrap them about himself, bowing his head and shuddering at the force it took, and at how the cold had frozen his fingers wide. Even the way they were pressed into his shirt could not warm them.
Then the voice spoke. Clear, cutting, beautiful, like a crystal of glass, it rang out all around him, surrounding him in a net of diamond spikes. The voice hurt, and at the same time produced a feeling of inexplicable delight.
"This is true cold, Michel. This is what your people feel every winter. They have not even the protection given to you."
Next the crawling sensation began. Something thick and creeping inside his stomach, something slime-covered and aching, that tore viciously at his insides. He doubled over, still hugging himself, nausea filling him, the bile rising in his throat. He moaned softly as the voice continued.
"This is true hunger. Your people feel this every day. They are never free of it. It is always there. Even when they have something to eat, it remains. Lurking, in the backs of their minds, hurting them always."
And then the cloak was dropped on his back. Black as tar, it was incredibly heavy, made out of part of a sky at midnight. And yet at the same time it made him feel sickeningly light-headed, dizzy, triumphant, and the crimson light shivered and twisted before his eyes. He choked back the feeling of disgusted pride that arose from the cloud-like ink-coloured material.
"Vice. The coat your people use to try and hide from hunger and cold. Drink, thievery, cheating, murder, prostitution, all the things that will earn them money or protection. The things you find repellent, your people depend upon. For them it is survival, but it will only help them to hell."
He thought for a moment it was over, but then the smell began. Horror crept up as the repulsive, hideous stench began to wrap itself about him. He fought down the continuous waves of nausea and swallowed hard as yet again he felt he might be sick. He didn't fight the loathing that the smell aroused. Rotting meat and spoiled food, manure and stale blood, everything vile and abhorrent, were mixed into the reeking odour.
"Filth," proclaimed the voice. "Your people are forced to bathe in it daily. They live in it, exist in it. It is thrown upon them, and they drown in it. It brings disease, death. And they have nowhere to go to escape it."
Does it never end? he thought despairingly as next he heard his own voice speaking, offering a franc to the pitiful figure he made. The words he heard himself saying were filled with a degrading mercy that he refused to believe he'd ever used with a beggar before. But he knew he had. With a terrible dragging half-sob, half-scream, he cried out.
"Charity, Michel. Taking their pride and thrusting them down further." Still the voice spoke, cold and lovely, stabbing and throbbing, offering happiness and pulling it away.
"Please! Let me go! I'll do something! I'll help them!" His defiance was gone, melted, torn away from him. Clear sparkling tears dripped down cheeks that were beyond white, and the beautiful golden hair spilled over shaking, black-clad shoulders.
"Will you? Will you save your people?"
"I promise! I swear it! Just let me go!" His own voice cracked, as sobs overtook him, and he tried to hide from all the powerful things that ate at him. "I swear it by everything! I swear it on my soul! Leave me alone! Go away! I swear!"
As suddenly as the red light had trapped him, it let him loose, and he fell onto the cobblestones of the street. He was then violently sick, the action twisting his body. Finally he collapsed limply, sweating, hair tangled, still crying and choking. That was how his landlord found him the next day, unconscious in his own vomit.
The man sighed, and wished his tenants wouldn't get drunk late at night, especially ones like this young boy, who was normally extraordinarily sober and forbidding. He carried the boy inside and laid him upon his bed, for there was no profit in evicting one of the few occupants who actually paid the rent on time.
The boy had nightmares for the first time in years.
Owari ~ End
AN: One of my reviewers said he or she was having trouble distinguishing who the "he" was in the story - well, the Voice is pretty much genderless, so the "he" is always Enjolras. Except in the second-to-last two paragraphs in the first half, where it might be confusing, but I...can't really do anything about that. *founders* The ending, too, is now changed. I decided I wasn't really fond of the original one...
Kanashimi: That's my authoress...
Eien no Yami: The Everlasting Darkness
He had only stepped out the door of his apartments, he was sure of that. But he was no longer on the silent Paris streets under the white crescent moon.
The young figure was suspended in the air, trapped in a huge sphere of glowing blood-red light, held there. A great wind seemed to be coming from the light, and his golden hair has blown back fiercely, rippling frantically in the gusts. His arms were flung out wide, his head thrown back, his fingers splayed, and the wind had caught the white silk of his billowing sleeves, and they rippled as well. His legs were straight, pressed together, and one toe was pointed while the other was flat, as though he were about to step down. His eyes were closed, and even the way he was held could not erase the proud, defiant look his face still kept.
Suddenly cold hit him, bitter, chilling, overpowering cold. He ripped his arms free to wrap them about himself, bowing his head and shuddering at the force it took, and at how the cold had frozen his fingers wide. Even the way they were pressed into his shirt could not warm them.
Then the voice spoke. Clear, cutting, beautiful, like a crystal of glass, it rang out all around him, surrounding him in a net of diamond spikes. The voice hurt, and at the same time produced a feeling of inexplicable delight.
"This is true cold, Michel. This is what your people feel every winter. They have not even the protection given to you."
Next the crawling sensation began. Something thick and creeping inside his stomach, something slime-covered and aching, that tore viciously at his insides. He doubled over, still hugging himself, nausea filling him, the bile rising in his throat. He moaned softly as the voice continued.
"This is true hunger. Your people feel this every day. They are never free of it. It is always there. Even when they have something to eat, it remains. Lurking, in the backs of their minds, hurting them always."
And then the cloak was dropped on his back. Black as tar, it was incredibly heavy, made out of part of a sky at midnight. And yet at the same time it made him feel sickeningly light-headed, dizzy, triumphant, and the crimson light shivered and twisted before his eyes. He choked back the feeling of disgusted pride that arose from the cloud-like ink-coloured material.
"Vice. The coat your people use to try and hide from hunger and cold. Drink, thievery, cheating, murder, prostitution, all the things that will earn them money or protection. The things you find repellent, your people depend upon. For them it is survival, but it will only help them to hell."
He thought for a moment it was over, but then the smell began. Horror crept up as the repulsive, hideous stench began to wrap itself about him. He fought down the continuous waves of nausea and swallowed hard as yet again he felt he might be sick. He didn't fight the loathing that the smell aroused. Rotting meat and spoiled food, manure and stale blood, everything vile and abhorrent, were mixed into the reeking odour.
"Filth," proclaimed the voice. "Your people are forced to bathe in it daily. They live in it, exist in it. It is thrown upon them, and they drown in it. It brings disease, death. And they have nowhere to go to escape it."
Does it never end? he thought despairingly as next he heard his own voice speaking, offering a franc to the pitiful figure he made. The words he heard himself saying were filled with a degrading mercy that he refused to believe he'd ever used with a beggar before. But he knew he had. With a terrible dragging half-sob, half-scream, he cried out.
"Charity, Michel. Taking their pride and thrusting them down further." Still the voice spoke, cold and lovely, stabbing and throbbing, offering happiness and pulling it away.
"Please! Let me go! I'll do something! I'll help them!" His defiance was gone, melted, torn away from him. Clear sparkling tears dripped down cheeks that were beyond white, and the beautiful golden hair spilled over shaking, black-clad shoulders.
"Will you? Will you save your people?"
"I promise! I swear it! Just let me go!" His own voice cracked, as sobs overtook him, and he tried to hide from all the powerful things that ate at him. "I swear it by everything! I swear it on my soul! Leave me alone! Go away! I swear!"
As suddenly as the red light had trapped him, it let him loose, and he fell onto the cobblestones of the street. He was then violently sick, the action twisting his body. Finally he collapsed limply, sweating, hair tangled, still crying and choking. That was how his landlord found him the next day, unconscious in his own vomit.
The man sighed, and wished his tenants wouldn't get drunk late at night, especially ones like this young boy, who was normally extraordinarily sober and forbidding. He carried the boy inside and laid him upon his bed, for there was no profit in evicting one of the few occupants who actually paid the rent on time.
The boy had nightmares for the first time in years.
Owari ~ End