Impurities in the Blood
I was watching episode 84 last night and this drabble suddenly came to mind, the start of it anyway. It has no real purpose and I didn't actually think it through. I just couldn't get the vague idea out of my head. Plus, I found this quote (below) by an apparently very real Aleister Crowley, and that cinched it. So, here is my first fic for -Man not involving Allen Walker. It's not my best work, but I felt like posting it anyhow. I hope you enjoy this.
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"Dreams are the impurities in the circulation of the blood." - Aleister Crowley, The Book of Lies.
Aleister Crowley was a monster. There was no doubting it. He looked like a monster. He had lived, hidden away, like a monster. He was fueled by monsters. He fought monsters. He fought like a monster. He lived for monsters, both good and bad. He felt lucky though that he had found a home amongst other monsters: Allen Walker, Cross Marian, Kanda Yuu, Miranda Lotte, General Sokaro, and all the other Exorcists. No matter how each of them looked they were all monsters. Their humanity was barely more than a dream.
He loved Eliade, very much, even though she, like his humanity, had only been a dream. A dream conjured by one of the greatest monsters of them all: The Earl of Millennium. She was a dream made up of the impurities, the evil, created by said monster and by human despair. And by his own despair. By his own impurities, and short-comings. Impurities, literally, of his blood. Impure blood that made him a monster. Impure blood that made him dream of love for a monster. Blood that had also turned him into a savior.
He hardly remembered what had happened to him after he had been crushed in the Iron Maiden by Jasdevi, by two of the few monsters worse than himself. He only knew that his purpose had changed. And just as Allen and Lenalee had changed, he too had become even more a monster. More determined, stronger, more able to fulfill the role of savior he'd fallen into, just as his comrades, but a greater monster, nonetheless. There was nothing left of Aleister Crowley but the impurities, the sin, and the obligations within his blood. His true form was in itself a beast of blood.
All he could hope to do at this point to purify himself was to fight harder. Blood taken from the enemy, blood lost to the enemy. As such a monster he had enough to spare. If he shed enough blood, perhaps the monster within would leave. Perhaps he could regain some of his humanity if, as a monster, he'd ever had any to begin with. Maybe then his dreams wouldn't be based on monsters, on the blood of monsters any longer. Maybe then his dreams and his reality would cease to look the same. Maybe then his dreams wouldn't involve any blood at all; blood taken, blood lost. Maybe then his dreams would be nothing more than that. Dreams.
~End.