A/N: So this is what happens when a Peter Pan fix gets blended up with youkai and onmyouji. I know, it's not the (newly-titled) SM and it's not DMCL, but it has put me back in the NuraMago game after a pretty long hiatus, so be happy! While I diligently work on those (and I've already made good progress), enjoy some Ryuuji. Feedback is very much appreciated.
Warning(s): This could be interpreted to be a wee bit alternate universe-y due to the first two-thirds of the story; I apologize if the timeline seems off. Also, watch out for spoilers for Chapters 53 and 54 of the manga in the latter third.
Disclaimer: I seriously doubt many people would be happy if I owned any more of Nurarihyon no Mago than this piece of fanfiction. Lucky for them, I don't.
He's always hated the realm of fantasy. In that place, there are no laws, no footholds with which to grasp reality. There are only dreams and hopes and wishes, ephemeral things that hold on to your heart forever, if you let them.
Not him. Ryuuji prefers the rulebook. Inside are solid and clearly defined principles, easy to keep in your head and your hands. They are structure, and they are security.
In a world where the ground could crumble at any moment, it's not dreams and wishes that will keep you from falling; rather, it is the sturdy conviction you have gathered within yourself, the knowledge that no matter how hard life hits, the Earth will always keep turning.
His sister, she is different. She dreams. Wandering from place to place without any real destination in mind, her tiny four-year-old feet take her anywhere and everywhere, her pale face illuminated by the sun and framed by inky hair, her eyes glimmering beneath lazy, half-lowered lids. However insipid her countenance may be, he can see the cogs turning in her small head, the worlds that she is creating with every aimless step across the cobblestones.
Ryuuji lets her alone. After all, their grandfather perceives no problem with her imaginings. He's even caught the giant man on a rainy afternoon, sitting on the veranda with little Yura in his lap, listening intently as she tells him of a dream she had the previous evening, her words detailing the characters and settings with a spark in her eyes that belies her usual quietude.
He can't help but sit still and listen, scoffing silently when she describes her favorite part, when she ran alongside a white wolf, a brown stag, and a giant eel with smooth scales and firefly-colored eyes.
Dummy. Only an ignorant child would waste her time on fantasies. Meanwhile, he devours entire texts of history, confident that they will assist him in his endeavors far more than any fairytale ever could.
Four months later, Yura summons Tanrou for the first time, and Ryuuji gapes at the snow-dyed fur curling against his sister's fingers as she murmurs to the wolf as if it were an old friend.
It is then that the rumors of Yura's power emerge. She is taken under the prodigal Akifusa's wing, and her formal training begins. Before he knows it, three years have passed; with each year, a new shikigami is added to his sister's arsenal, and he's stunned to see that all three of them match the strange characters he remembers hearing of in her stories. The stag, the koi fish, even the towering samurai with the pitch-black armor; they're all present, down to the most trite of details.
It's ridiculous, beyond stupid, that his silly dreamer of a sister has the power to bring her wishes into reality, as easily as the gods created the earth and sky.
Four years after Bukyoku makes his appearance, Mamiru's soul is sold to a youkai, and Ryuuji loses the only person he could have called a confidante. In his place is a doll, a puppet with cut strings that knows him by face and name, but not heart. His eyes glow electric-yellow with the hollow vacuum of a demon's tainted spirit, and Ryuuji looks up into his eyes with anger and disdain.
He swears to one day release his friend's soul from the youkai, to drown its evil beneath the waves of Gengen's body. But until then, he endures the emptiness of Mamiru's eyes as he consumes those scrolls like a man just learned, his back stiff with conviction.
One night, he overhears another one of Yura's tales, lips curled in mocking, and opens his eyes wide when she suddenly describes a tall boy with, of all things, the powers of a thunderstorm.
He almost snaps at her in upset. But just as he opens his mouth, he sees the happiness in her words as she proudly says that the boy reminded her of Mamiru, just before her eyes dim with worry. She hasn't seen him since his transformation, and Ryuuji remembers that Mamiru often took time to play with Yura while Ryuuji read over their homework assignment.
So she's noticed, he thinks, and he closes his mouth in favor of a rough knock to her head, his way of offering consolation. She obviously doesn't see it as such, since she's on him the next second, her small, hard fists punching against his shoulder, her story momentarily forgotten.
He knows Mamiru would like having a place in her dreams. And perhaps it's okay that, at least in Yura's world, his powers are a good, rather than the curse they are in reality.
Ryuuji doesn't admit that his sister's tale allows him to release some of his own trepidation on the matter. That night, he sleeps peacefully for the first time since the incident.
In the same year, Ryuuji learns of Akifusa's interest in the forbidden onmyoujutsu. He always knew his peer and rival had some secret locked up in that dank laboratory, but he never would have taken the boy to be stupid enough to forge a youkai's blade. Maybe he really is the only sane one in this family.
The reasons why abound, but he knows the truth. The days following Yura's first summoning, Akifusa began spending increasing amounts of time in his study, his thirst for knowledge almost feverish in its intensity. In the daylight, he taught Yura well, his care for her never doubted by anyone who saw the two of them together. In the shadows of early morning, however, Ryuuji heard the mutterings echoing down the quiet halls, the jealousy that sometimes entered those kind eyes as Yura mastered technique after technique, her face beaming with admiration as he patted her head, features expertly hiding it all for her sake.
Ryuuji sees it all from the veranda as he pretends to read. And he knows that one of these days, the ugly green forming in Akifusa's eyes will be uncovered, and Yura's world shattered with it.
Before that happens, Ryuuji makes a decision. He will take Yura under his own wing and teach her a different way to protect herself, independent of the spells she's currently struggling with. He will teach her his principles and introduce her to the black and white that form their reality, as absolute as the yin and yang that govern the world.
He will teach his sister to harden her heart, even if it means becoming the villain.
The next morning, he barges into her room unannounced, a scowl on his lips and a pair of barber's scissors in hand.
She doesn't speak of her dreams anymore.
In the evening, the compound is quiet, and Ryuuji hears only the rustling of paper and the murmur of occasional conversation. Next to him, Yura rifles through a tome, her brow furrowed in forced concentration, her shaggy strands of hair dangling against her cheeks.
Usually, by this point, she would have given up on her studies and retreated to one of the gardens, her feet leading her back into another of her imaginings as she lost herself among the shrubs and trees.
These days, his twelve-year-old sister's feet are firmly planted on the solid ground, her eyes sharply ahead as she works to improve her prowess. There is no more talk of weird creatures and colorful worlds; now, her eyes spark with determination and will, and her every action is aimed towards acquiring more strength. The raw power she has at her disposal is phenomenal, and Ryuuji feels he's done his job well as she gradually learns to harness it. Even those who called his treatment of her too harsh have quieted, seeing for themselves the success he has had. Whether they agree with his method is irrelevant; all that matters is the results.
Dummy's still as gullible as a baby, though, he thinks, flicking Yura's forehead when he notices her light daze. As she glares at him, rubbing at the offended area, he smirks unkindly.
"Dreaming about food isn't going to make it appear," he mocks, and her lips form a hard pout as her stomach growls on cue.
It doesn't matter if any of them understand what he has done or why. So long as she is protected.
She boards the train for Tokyo some months later, her arms burdened with a pitifully small amount of luggage, and doesn't look back until she thinks he's not watching.
Even after these years under his tutelage, she's still too sentimental.
The land she goes to is foreign, a small town called Ukiyoe, rumored to be the territory of the collapsed Nura Clan. He remembers deriding her claim to defeat the legendary Nurarihyon, master of spirits and commander of the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons. Regardless of the pathetic state of the clan's affairs, Yura stands no chance of defeating the youkai, has too much pride and not enough discipline to offer anything close to a fair fight.
To think that she could even find the elusive creature, let alone destroy it, is laughable.
Still, Ryuuji wonders what the dumbass will discover with her newfound freedom, be it the strength she covets or something entirely different.
He'll be sure to check on her eventually, when he deems the time right. It comes too soon, mere months after her departure.
Their brothers are dead. Both Koreto and Shuuji have been struck down at their designated seals with disturbing ease, and the estate's usual silence is punctuated by a growing dread.
It's not long before they all reach a clear conclusion: Hagoromo-Gitsune, the abominable fox, has returned.
"Right now, no one among us should be away from the grounds." Hidemoto turns to Ryuuji. "Bring Yura back here immediately. The time has come for her to complete her training and summon the Hagun."
He and Mamiru set out only hours after his order is issued.
"We find Yura?" Mamiru's voice, monotone as is usual, cuts into Ryuuji's contemplations. He smirks.
"Yes. We'll see what her time away has harvested."
He sees them. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, his sister stands with a boy, her hands touching his as she accepts something from him. She wears the haori of her onmyou garb, her appearance slightly worse for wear.
At first, Ryuuji raises an eyebrow. He didn't permit Yura to come here to establish some middle-school romance. She's here to train, not exchange small talk with a stick of a boy who, Ryuuji determines, is standing far too close to her for comfort.
He's preparing his fist for a punishing wallop when he senses it. Tapering across the boy's gentle aura, he distinguishes the streaks of darkness that identify a youkai's presence, and mentally swears.
She doesn't know, that he can tell. His moron of a sister utterly fails to realize the company she keeps. Instead, she appears surprisingly at ease, as if she's in the company of a trusted friend.
She's in for a rude awakening.
"Yura." She freezes at the sound of his voice.
It's disgusting.
How, he thinks, can she, his own sister, trust a youkai's words over his own?
But it's true. Even now, she struggles to stand against the torrent of Gengen's assault, her clothes soaked to her skin and her skin soaked to her bones. Futilely trying to protect the boy behind her, who watches the battle with horrified eyes.
"Why would you go this far!? Aren't you her brother!?"
As if he is the evil one here.
His eyes narrow into slits. This is between family. It's impossible for something like you to understand.
When Yura finally succumbs to the onslaught and collapses, he's confident that it's over, that his task is complete and he's taught his stupid, gullible sister a final gut-wrenching lesson.
Trust no one but yourself.
"You are entirely too clueless," he says, treading to her slumped figure on the broken concrete. "That's why you were fooled by a guy like him." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the youkai glaring with withheld rage, and he scoffs inside. A demon shouldn't care what happens to his enemy.
"Gengen is painful, isn't it? However, this too is 'love'." He lifts Yura by the over-sized collar of her haori, feeling the shakiness of her breath as he pulls her close. "Right now, I can still forgive you. If you don't want to die like this, come back with me." One day she would understand why he did this. It has always been for your own good.
She doesn't answer. He knows she's still conscious; despite her seeming fragility, Yura has always had resilience. He knows her silence is her last attempt at rebellion. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed or strangely proud.
And then the world is dropped from his feet. A shade passes overhead, and he's momentarily blinded by darkness. When he regains himself, he's stunned.
A pair of piercing golden eyes lashes out from the shadows, and a hunched figure carefully cradles his sister's limp body.
When the clouds retreat long enough for the moon to shine its light on the battlefield, his eyes widen fractionally, his breath catching in disbelief.
An eel with firefly-colored eyes…
The youkai's hair streams from his head like a banner, almost serpentine in its movements as the strands catch the night breeze, fluid as a fish traversing through water.
And didn't his idiot of a sister always have the power to make her dreams a reality?
He was a fool to think he could take that away from her. And he's proven even more of a fool when he's slashed through with the youkai's blade, only to come away unharmed due to the youkai's mercy.
It was a narrow escape for them. Narrower than he's used to.
As he and Mamiru retreat, a pantheon of dark energy fading into the distance behind them, Ryuuji shakes his head, one question on his mind that has yet to be answered.
What the hell has Yura been doing with her time here?
One year and two debilitating wars later, he still doesn't have his answer. He watches from his study as the last truck noisily drives off, leaving behind the materials that will be used for the compound's final renovations.
It's quiet. For the first time in what seems like years, it's quiet.
Ryuuji releases a rare breath of relief at the peace, relaxing his shoulders a mite as his scroll lowers from his hands to his lap.
Damn reconstruction is finally over. He closes his eyes to rest them a moment, his ears latching onto the sounds in the courtyard. The birds, who always depart when the construction crews arrive in the early morning, have begun chirping again, and the late spring breeze whistles through the rustling branches of the blossoming trees. Slowly, the grounds return to their usual state, peppered with light conversation and the din of Kyoto.
All has returned to normal. Except for one thing.
Across the cobblestones, voices rise in tandem with the breeze; young voices, tinged with the carefree laziness that only teenagers can accomplish. Puncturing the banter is his sister's quieter speech, formal-sounding against the casual slang of her friends. But it has its place with them. Despite the circumstances, she has a place with them.
He knows the brat is there, seated among that rag-tag group. He seems to be found here rather often these days, visiting every few weeks to see the progress of the reconstruction and exchange notes with Yura. When he's not physically present, Ryuuji can sometimes hear Yura's voice through the thin walls, speaking to someone whose response cannot be heard.
He hasn't interfered yet. Perhaps there's nothing to interfere with, but he keeps an eye and ear out for…something that may be there, but hasn't quite manifested itself yet.
He puts his fingers to the ridge of his nose, rubbing away a headache. Damn youkai, damn brats, damn little sisters who don't seem so little anymore.
The sanity he used to boast so confidently is dwindling. His solid stance on the earth is wavering, caught in the tidal waves of his sister's reveries.
Yura's laughter joins with the sudden mirth echoing across the courtyard, something he hasn't really heard since they were both younger and less hardened.
He'll never admit it, would rather die than admit it.
But it's nice.