A/N: Thiefshippy little drabble from 'Kura's POV, chock full of symbolism, written on the train. That is actually everything there is to say.
Let me tell you a story. It isn't a love story. It might be a story about hate.
But in the beginning, it is firstly and foremostly a story about a blade.
I think I hate that blade. I know that I hate the wielder. I hated him more when he wasn't the wielder anymore, because while he still was, I had eyes only for the blade.
I saw only the blade.I think everyone did.
It was and still is a beautiful blade, made of bronze tempered by pain and sharpened with rage. And wielded by rage, I suppose.
If rage was the wielder, I think I met him, actually. And that was almost the end of me.
It was an end, but it wasn't the end. Is that why I hate the blade? For it turned on its wielder, and it could turn on me, just as easily, in the blink of an eye.
From the moment that I saw it, I wanted to take it up, to possess it. But the blade had other plans. It tried to wield me. It nearly succeeded. In a way, it did succeed. And it caused an end of me, indirectly.
And all the time, while I thought I would take it up, and it thought it would make me move, I could feel the point at my back.
It wasn't just a nice-looking blade – though it certainly was that, too, all smooth and shining and set with precious gems and banded with gold – it was a wicked blade, and the edge looked so smooth and felt so smooth as it pushed in, but, on pulling out again, I could feel the hooks.
It wasn't a blade made for stabbing in the front, beautiful as it was. It was a backstabbing-blade.
And still this isn't a story about love.
Together, the blade and I, we turned on its former wielder. And the blade hated him. And I hated him, and that was because he opposed me. But the blade was also afraid.
And I could feel it, could feel the shine dulled with fear, would have liked to press the blade to my chest, to reassure it, to let it hear my heartbeat, to let it taste one drop of my blood.
But I know about blades. Once they have tasted one drop of blood, they want more. They won't stop, not until everything is bled dry. I did not press it to my heart, and yet I still felt the hooks. Felt them at my back. Felt them in my heart, my heart so dried and so twisted with scar tissue I thought there wasn't a drop of blood left in it.
But still this isn't a story about love.
And the shine was still fear-dulled when the fire came, to bring us, me and the blade, to an end.
But not the end.
And now, others try to take up this blade, dull the edges, bend it to their will. Already it doesn't cut as it used to.
But I still feel the hooks, and the holes they left. One of these days, I will come around to sharpen it again.
And that is an end of my little story, though it isn't the end. Anything that bears mention?
What was the name of the blade, which one day when the edges are sharp again will be my blade?
A nice name, a fitting name, cutting and polished to shine.
Malik.
A/N: Writing from Yami no 'Kura's point of view is very fun.
Interesting fact: While I don't know the Japanese meaning, in Ancient Egyptian the name Nam means butcher knife. I am totally not making this up.