Dark Side Of Fate
Prologue ~And Then, Will There Be None?~
Dante has never been a patient one and he hadn't had any intention of becoming such.
He wasn't very good at waiting and even though he could have the patience of a saint sometimes (depending on the situation), that doesn't stop him from getting nervous every once in a while -every once in a while meaning hardly ever, but he still could.
The pristine white walls got in his nerves, and the strange odor of ethanol doesn't relax his nerves at all. He doesn't like such smell. The half-breed had felt small when he first arrived, like a mouse in a cage, and as he felt all people's eyes on him, he had grabbed at his red coat tightly and had sank into his seat which consisted in being a cold, plastic-like chair. He would have found it amusing, the brazen stares, but he couldn't help but feel like a guinea pig, and his eyes had kept on staring intently at the floor.
Perhaps the stares were his fault. He, with his crimson coat and extravagant black and red clothing and white hair, was the most striking being in that dull place -oh, how he hates hospitals. The smell, the colors, the people, the aura... What's there to like? A reminder of death. He avoids them like the plague. If he thought about it, this must be the first time he's been in a hospital. He hoped it would be the last... but now he is right next to her, and she looks so ashen-pale that such a thought -of him not coming back to that damned place- was out of the question, wishful thinking.
He knew he would come back, no matter how much he hated such places. Just for her.
Ha, if he were to tell this to someone, they would not believe him. Not that he could blame them. It sounded dumb to his ears, too. Being locked inside a claustrophobic place in front of a barely alive human, conected to several machines. More like a tragedy or something to be pitied, Dante was almost sure this was a comedy, some kind of sick joke from an apotropaic God (1). The wonder was if this God would turn away the bad luck once it had its fun.
He doesn't like this. It makes him nervous, and he has never been like that since... way too long. It makes him want to get up from the chair and leave as fast as possible. However, a masochistic part of him didn't want to leave, ever.
Hospitals are the embodiment of impurity. Death is always present, in every corner, in every single room. Lady never told him, but he would bet she doesn't like this place, either. The place reeked way too much of weakness for her tastes. The immortal lady doesn't like places where death is most powerful. So she avoids them as much as he does.
Amidst all the overflowing dread, he has lost track of time. Dante lets himself to get lost in a sea of thoughts and memories. This was really almost scary. Everything came back to him, that his perfect, strong Lady wasn't as powerful as they liked to think. Humanity would end up being not enough, in the end.
Dante shakes his head to clear his mind.
Fuck.
How much has he been there? Well... enough for him to become sick of all this stupid ordeal.
He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.
"Please, don't be dead." He mutters.
He can't help it. He tries not to, but it's to no avail. He is covered in sweat but his hands are cold. Well, isn't this a contradiction? His 'bad boy' image -his oh-so-precious reputation that has kept him alive for so long wasn't doing much to help him now. It won't.
It's history repeating itself and he can't do anything. And his beloved lady was broken and he had no idea how to fix her, if he even could. And it had been him who let her go straight to her demise. He was so fucking stupid he would love to smack his head with a chair several times over.
He has never been the patient type. He wonders for how much time he will be able to keep up with the charade.
But... maybe that's why he worried that much. He has never protected anything other than himself. His other friends were more than capable of taking care of themselves; there was no point in babysit them -ha, right, like they would let him do such a thing, and the Italian fatass doesn't count.
Lady had never needed his help, and he had been so sure she was fine by herself, that everything would be alright... Just thinking about today, as if 'tomorrow' didn't matter. … … Well, tomorrow did matter, in the end. For Lady, it does matter. Too bad Dante simply forgot...
…
Perhaps he should focus on something else. If he can.
I'm such a genius.
The window...? Glance out the window? … … … There's a huge building in front, obscuring the views, even the sky, and could only see the fountain placed in front of the hospital's exit if he were to glance down. Some people were getting inside, while some people were getting out (walking, a very few number of them in weel-chairs, some with crutches...)
… … Urgh. Nah, lame.
What about a magazine? … … … Geez. The man with the silver hair makes a disgusted face. There are no such things here. And even if there were, he's sure he wouldn't be able to focus. All of them were about stuff he didn't like at all. He didn't feel like reading a whole article about medicine.
No, thank you. He resumed his thinking. Dante was strangely resilient.
God. Fucking shit. He's not that useless. Never been -what Trish and Lady was just that. Thoughts-. When had happened such a thing? Still grimacing, Dante shakes his head to dispel all the evil stuff in his mind. Nothing useful comes to it. He remains motionless next to little, unconscious Lady.
Here, look right down at it. Look at what you've caused.
No. There's no way he could focus on something other than the beep-like sound coming from the machine next to him, or the smell, or all this blinding white of the walls and the sheets and... just everything. The sickening image of death staring blatantly at him for a third time.
This is alien for him, even more alien than the hurt in his chest that he thought he would never feel again.
This is messed up.
"C'mon, just say somethin'...!"
He can feel the pressure in his stomach increase as he thinks about it.
This should have never happened.
This shouldn't be happening.
This can't be happening.
"Call me a moron! Say I'm a stupid jerk you would like to punch repeatedly in the face!"
This had to be a joke. Or a lie. Maybe even a bad dream? No. A dream can't repeat itself over two months, over and over again. Not even a bad dream can do that. This was real.
How could this happen? It was way too early.
"Yell at me. Bitch at me. Say I owe you a shit ton of money, I don't care!"
The pale woman didn't say anything. She didn't stir at his outburst like she would usually do. That face he had know for so long, it wasn't filled with the warmth he knew. There was no mischief in it. Not even a half-serious glare. He could not hear her mocking voice, trying to talk dirty to him and play along his stupid jokes. It's... … sad.
There were ugly, purple bags below her closed eyes. She didn't open them. If he touched her, she wouldn't shy away as she would do under normal circumstances. She looked like a corpse, like a broken, lifeless doll. A shadow of her former self. But she was still breathing even though the curtains of her tale should have fallen already. Thinking no thoughts. Without speaking, but her heart still beating weakly.
The almost immortal huntress was not immortal at all. Not that Dante didn't know. ...Father had been lucky, Dante thinks. He didn't have to endure such a shitty situation like he was.
That lucky bastard...
The hunter in red sighed tiredly again as he stroke her left cheek with his fingers in a way you would almost call 'loving'.
He should have been there.
He shouldn't have left her go. He was really a moron.
As he buried his head in his hands again (the soft feeling of her cheeks eluding him as he withdrew his hand away from them), he let out a humorless laugh as a grin played about his lips.
And then, if history were to repeat itself, will there be none?
And if it were to happen, he knows that deep down this was his fault.
I fucking wasn't fast enough.
"What a moron, huh? C'mon, just laugh at me, babe. Isn't that what you two do? You and Trish?"
He laughed again.
A/N: 1- An apotropaic God is a God that controls misfortune and is able to turn it away~. It's also the stage theme of the misfortune youkai from Mountain Of Faith whose main theme has the same title as this fic :3
When Snow757 told me about this idea and asked me if I would write it, I just couldn't say 'no'! ;A;. I hope you like this! :3. I myself like (love) the idea; now, I only have to develop it properly. Did I do a good job?