AN: I have no idea what to say about this one... Read at your own discretion. It's quite dark and crazy. It's probably bad that I actually really enjoyed the challenge of writing the beginning of this.
Written for Crystaldemy9. The idea hit me and I thought she might enjoy it, so I continued. And this was born. This is a thank you for putting up with me bugging you about stuff, letting me bounce ideas off you (without getting irritated that I'm thinking as I go), reading the things I send to you (even if they're really long) and just generally being awesome. Thank you!
WARNING: The beginning of this chapter is violent/gory and quite graphic. I've rated it Teen because I am a wuss and I wouldn't freak out/ be mentally scarred by reading this fic. But if you think it should be higher then please let me know and I will put the rating up.
Disclaimer: I do not own ToS. Scroll down to find out why.
Darkness warped the figure that reclined on the throne, his long hair pooling around him, surrounding him in a mirage of shimmering shadow as he lifted a hand to his chin. A glint of light from the doorway shone in eyes dark with hatred.
Blood crept along the steps of Yggdrasill's throne room, dripping over the edges in a soft chorus of death, falling from fingertips suspended over the edge, where they had fallen in failed self defense. The man's face was frozen in a hideous mix of shock and fury.
He hadn't expected to be killed tonight.
He hadn't done his job. He had betrayed them all. And he had paid the price.
A slash to the throat had seen to the first charge but still the disgusting creature had fought back. An underestimation of the survival instincts of those who were vile and wrong. A mistake he wouldn't make again.
Of course, it wasn't difficult to dodge the blast of mana that was meant to wipe him away. Him, the stain to Cruxis' name. How ridiculous! As mentioned before, the vile and wrong were the hardest to get rid of. They always survived, and he was no exception.
The flick of his wrist, the whistle of metal cutting through the air as the knife sliced its way to its target. The sickening squelch as it sank into the throat. The realisation in eyes that bored into his own, the disbelief. The thunk of a skull crashing against stone, gargling of last bloody breaths. Leaving behind only silence and the scent of rusty iron to settle in his stomach.
Satisfying. Oh so very satisfying.
Too satisfying to be over.
That was a disappointment. This was the abomination that had thwarted his plans for so long, the real blot on the name of Cruxis, on the name of Martel. Crumpled like a dying spider. So powerless, so weak.
The figure rose from the throne, still contemplating the body as his feet. Boots made no noise on stone. The man took care not to dirty himself with the liquid success that pooled around the body and carefully removed the knife, relishing the sickening squelch as the weapon came free.
This wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all. The mighty Seraph felled by two blows to the throat. So quickly, so easily. Like a simple victim. Like a thief had come in the night to steal his soul. It was laughable, really. Pathetic.
It mocked him, mocked his cautiousness, mocked his precise planning. This was not the confrontation he had expected.
He stared down at the body in disgust.
It wouldn't do to leave it like this. That fight was no fun – what a boring culmination of this game that took so long to prepare! No, it wouldn't end like this.
With a low chuckle, the man took the knife and made multiple, frenzied slashes of his opponent's wrists and lower arms, all shallow of course. That done, he squeezed the wrists beneath his fingertips, embedding nails in flesh, tearing, pulling. All to ensure there was sufficient bruising to signify the struggle that had never occurred. Then he drew back, admiring his masterpiece.
A small smirk grew on his face and remained even as he drew the knife across his own forearms. Several slashes to the arms. A nick to the hip. A stab wound to the shoulder, pumping sticky blood down his side. And the finishing act? The collision of his head with the arm of the stone throne. A large, swollen bruise across his cheekbone and a black eye where he wasn't thrown into the throne before Yggdrasill's curtain call.
Before Yggdrasill killed himself.
Because Yuan certainly didn't do it for him.
Slowly, he leaned over the lifeless body of his noble leader and returned the blade to its former position, lodged in the windpipe. That done, he took the lifeless hand and painted their scuffle in blood on their bodies. The hand was left curled around the knife in Yggdrasill's throat, forever frozen in the final act he had not committed.
Yuan backed away, leaving maroon footprints on the dark stone, a trail of his own horror at witnessing the death. Pain laced through the self inflicted wound of his shoulder. He raised his hand to it slowly, pausing at the door for one final glance at his work. The area throbbed under his fingers but he released only a low hiss; it was a small price to pay for what he was about to gain.
After all, if there was one thing Yuan was good at, it was deceiving people in order to fulfil his desires. And he would have it all.
With a breath to prepare himself, he burst through the door, clutching his injured shoulder with an expression of white-faced horror. The lifeless beings ignored him, as dead to his actions as their master. But it wasn't them he was looking for now.
He rounded several corners with increasing desperation before barrelling into the communication room, where he knew his target would be. Upon entry, he stumbled and Kratos Aurion grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him, having hastily stepped off the holographic transmitter.
'Yuan wha-?'
Yuan shot out of his hold with cry of pain, cradling the wounded shoulder, giving Kratos a prime view of the damage to his arms and face as well. Kratos gasped, his eyes widening. Widening in concern. Yuan had him right where he wanted him.
'What happened?' he demanded, stepping forwards for a better view.
Human hands rose to gently peel away the cape that had joined to the wound with blood as its solvent. The material was saturated in red. It was a shame to waste it but no matter; it would be worth it in the end.
Yuan swatted the hands away. 'Leave it – we've got to shut down the warp pads.'
Kratos frowned.
'Now, Kratos! Yggdrasill is dead! Nobody leaves!'
The only movement Kratos made was the flickering of various emotions in his shocked eyes. 'What?'
Yuan pushed past him, deliberately shaky hands keying in the override code that would trap his next targets in Welgaia. This hunt would go on no longer than necessary. From this point on, everything was controlled by him.
'Yggdrasill is dead,' he said quietly, his hair shading his face as he continued to type.
'And you think Lloyd killed him,' Kratos concluded.
'No,' Yuan responded. 'You're lucky I know he's here by the way, but I also know he wasn't responsible. Because I was there when... when it happened.'
He paused, reliving the death in his head, dismissing it, imagining the fake one. Because this was real. Yggdrasill was dead. And Yuan had been the only witness. The victor's story was always the truth and here, there was nobody to argue otherwise, nobody but himself. He was the victor. Even before Kratos had swallowed the first spoonful of his story, he already knew the outcome.
Kratos' expression hardened. A hint of suspicion sharpened his eyes like a flint embedded in clay. Twin blades stabbed at Yuan's countenance, irritation and hurt (though he refused to admit he knew the name) but he dodged both. He would win this battle of words. Kratos would be conquered.
'What happened, Yuan?' Kratos demanded, accusation leaving a tang to his words.
It stung. Inwardly, Yuan bristled. So quick to mistrust. So quick to accuse.
He was not the murderer. He was a victim too. Didn't his injuries show that? He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time and that was oh so right. It could have been either of them. But it hadn't been. It had been Yuan.
It was his right to take control, his right to lead Cruxis. He was, after all, the only one of them who still had his head. Mithos hadn't coped; he just wasn't good enough. He was a blemish, an embarrassment. Mithos the Hero had died long ago, his blood the ink that stained the history books. And Kratos? Kratos Aurion, who had once shown so much conviction to his cause, dealt so much death to his enemies, that Kratos Aurion who had showed so much strength. He had just given up. Met a girl, had a son, lost them both and simply stopped caring.
And only Yuan remained. The years of silently observing, of running the Renegades, the pretence of 'doing the right thing'; it was all coming to fruition. Mithos had failed, after all. Four thousand years and the world hated half elves as much as ever it did; the Great Seed hadn't germinated and Martel was still dead, trapped in the eternal torture of watching her brother mislead, make mistakes and murder again and again and again – only to crumble into the shell of a failure.
He clenched his fists on the console. 'Mithos failed,' he said. 'I tried to... I tried to tell him that it wasn't too late, that he could still save the world and Martel's soul, do the right thing but he... He never did listen to me.'
He let out a dark chuckle. The irony made him want to laugh all the more. Yggdrasill hadn't even heard him enter the room. The surprise in his eyes as the metal sliced his skin!
Then he looked into Kratos' stony face and shook his head bitterly. 'He was waiting for us, you know.'
Kratos said nothing.
'He was sitting on his throne, running the knife across his wrists. I didn't think he'd do it. I thought it was all for show, that he'd found out about my... indiscretions... and he was testing me. He asked where you were. When I didn't know, he said he couldn't wait anymore. He said to tell you he'd failed and that he was sorry of all things but then, you already knew that. A waste, it's such a waste! Just when I thought he understood what he's done, he- ugh!'
He reached a hand to his face, concealing his expression, the fake tears in the corners of his eyes. Ones that Victim Yuan did not want the other man to see, did not want the human to witness the crack in his strong facade. Ones that the real Yuan wanted him to take in and be taken in by. Trap him with affection.
He was only human after all.
'Yuan...' the man began, taking a step towards him
Yuan shook his head, manufacturing a swallowed sound of discomfort, a tremor to his tone. 'I thought we'd won, Kratos. I don't want to win like this – this isn't winning – this is... This is like the bloody war all over again. I still thought... The chance of Mithos coming to his senses, it was miniscule. I never thought it would happen but it did and I thought he'd do what she would've wanted but he... he just gave up! He's dead... He was already dead.'
He lowered his hands, looking up at Kratos, lost, upset and furious with Mithos for what he did, with himself for not stopping him, real emotions with modified motives, the most truthful part of his lie. Because he hadn't stopped Mithos from straying from his path, hadn't stepped in when he became weak, when he blundered on despite the obvious nature of his failure. Not until now. Until it was too late.
He couldn't work out if Martel would be disappointed that he had failed to support the boy or pleased he had returned him to her, spared her the pain of witnessing his futile struggle.
The touch of a hand on his arm brought him back to himself.
'You're in shock,' Kratos said. His eyes softened slightly, suspicion thinly veiled by concern.
'I just don't understand...' Yuan breathed, staring glassily at the drying blood on his hands.
Kratos sighed. 'Blood loss isn't helping. Sit down and allow me to examine that wound while you tell me exactly what happened.'
Yuan stared into space while the other man guided him gently to a chair. That was just like Kratos, so human, to still care after all these years. Even if they had been on opposing sides, if Yuan had made half-hearted attempts on his life. So typical of Kratos to want to believe him, to find the middle ground and do what would allow him to care and accuse at the same time, sit on the fence just a little longer.
Of course, Kratos wanted to declare him innocent, wanted things to stay the same between them, companions of old. It was easier that way and would work just to Yuan's advantage. To both their advantages.
He watched the human's face as he knelt before him, fingers slowly working the clasp of his armour. His expression was blank, his eyes tired, sad. Was there determination in them? Was he stalling for time, to allow his son and the Chosens to escape? I didn't matter if he was. Yuan had perfected this lockdown with the Renegade bases as experiments. They could go nowhere until he found them.
Until they found them.
Because Kratos would leave with him. It was part of his plan and his plan would not fail. Of course, there was a back up plan. If Kratos opposed him, he would just have to dispose of him.
Or rather, Yggdrasill would. After all, one could only sneak around under the nose of the leader for so long without being discovered distributing classified information. But Kratos was no weakling to be easily disposed of. Yuan would hear the commotion and join the fight. Of course, they would give all they could to right their wrongs, defeat the tyrant. He would expend all his mana. Kratos would be seriously injured. Yuan would rush him to the infirmary but Kratos would not survive the journey and would die in his arms.
And weeping, caked in the drying blood of his closest friend, Yuan would vow to Lloyd and the Chosens that he would not allow the death to be in vain. He would grant Kratos the martyr's dying wish and correct the mistakes they made from the inside.
Tragic yet heroic.
But it wasn't perfect. And this plan had to be perfect. He had to have subordinates. Kratos was too valuable to lose.
Kratos skimmed the surface of the wound as he removed the armour, causing Yuan to wince. In order not to lose him, his story had to be told perfectly. His part had to be played so well that lies became truth, that even he scarcely knew which account was fabricated.
If he believed it then Kratos would never question it.
'It isn't too serious; you'll live,' the human concluded, a hollow echo of old times.
'I always live,' Yuan replied.
Kratos made a small sound from the back of his throat. Begrudging agreement. He thought they had lived far too long; Yuan didn't think they had lived long enough – not to see the results of their labours. Not yet anyway. Not long now though.
'I doubt much will be necessary but I will clean it and perhaps seal it. Now you've calmed down, you need to tell me precisely what occurred.'
Yuan drew a long breath in anticipation, like it took immense effort to explain how Yggdrasill had gone to slit his own throat; how he'd lunged for it; how they'd grappled; how Yggdrasill had put the knife into his shoulder; how then, it was all too easy for Yggdrasill to throw him away. By the time he'd picked himself up, the deed had been done. They were both victims' of unfortunate circumstance. They had both been too late, Mithos to realise what he had become and Yuan to save the boy he once cared for as a younger brother, the boy he now mourned before Kratos' eyes.
Chunk by chunk, Kratos swallowed this account, with only a few minor enquiries as to its content. Lie by lie, Yuan spun his web, wrapping the human in his plan, thread by thread.
Until Kratos was a docile beast, tamed for training.
Until Kratos belonged solely to him.
Finally it was over and Yuan stared into his lap, his face drawn like the event had aged him, not looking at Kratos. Looking guilty. Waiting for his reaction. Waiting for his understanding.
Because they were both guilty. They were all guilty. Nobody had acted. Nobody had done what was necessary. Only him and much later than he should have done.
But Kratos didn't react, pricklings of fear stirring in Yuan's gut. What if he had miscalculated? The possibility was too real – his miscalculations with Yggdrasill had not affected his plans. It was better to be overly cautious. But with Kratos, had he miscalculated the man's responses? What could he do if he had?
Nothing. It was too late to pull back now. His plan was already in motion, retreat impossible. The only way out was to reach the end, attain his goal. He could not crack; he would hold his nerve.
He flipped his hands over as the silence stretched on, examining how the drying blood on his palms contrasted so sharply with his pale skin. His guilt stained into his fingerprints, seared into his soul.
Until it was blocked from view by Kratos' hand. Joining with his own. Sharing the crimson colour, the stain. The glory.
Handing Yuan his leash.
AN: If you could let me know what you think of this, it would be great! I haven't been writing very well recently and this isn't really a genre/style I'm familiar with so any constructive criticism would be helpful. Or just feedback in general really.
I'm also kinda frazzled at the moment so editing this has been done in chunks and I can't really remember what was in the beginning by the time I got to the end. I suspect it may be repetitive but still... it's out there! If I keep hoarding chapters because of fail writing/editing, then I will never upload anything! ^_^
Anyway, is it bad that I really enjoyed writing the beginning of this? Though it does fizzle out towards the end...
Thanks for reading so far!
~ThePurpleRose