by Ghostwriter
A pool of blood, spreading in the ethereal light of early morning. Like a poison, it spreads outward, infecting everything it touches.
A flurry of pink. Razor-sharp petals caught in a wind that never ceases to blow.
In his dreams, the sakura petals always dance ... and the blood always flows.
>~~*~~
He opens his eyes to the dark of night pressing down upon him.
A hunger unfolds inside him, foreign and horrifying. Once again, it whispers to him of need ... and power. It demands. It is a burden he cannot escape.
He is free only when he kills. And only when he kills does he find a moment's respite from the voices which haunt him.
The Tree does not absorb its victims... it becomes them.
Ten thousand facets, ten thousand voices it has, and he is cursed to hear them all.
All ... but two.
Try as he may, he cannot hear the voices of the two he knew so well in life.
He cannot hear the laugh of his dead sister, nor can her hear the voice of the first man he killed.
He cannot hear the voice of the man who meant everything to him ... the man he hated.
The man he loved.
... and he wonders, did he hear the voices as well?
Seishirou.
The scent of antiseptic soap, copper-tinged with blood.
He stands, looking for his cigarettes.
The Tree beckons to him. It is hungry tonight.
It needs.
He must answer its call, for its hunger is his.
Its need is his.
Its power ... is his.
He is not its servant.
He is its incarnation.
He lights a cigarette, the orange light of the flame illuminating the empty space of the room. Looking up, he sees his face reflected in the mirror, golden gaze meeting emerald green. The face of a killer.
The face of a monster.
He remembers what he used to be, so many years ago. The child he once was.
He remembers happiness.
weakness
He remembers love.
naivete
He remembers hope.
stupidity
He remembers all these things, as clearly as if no time had passed at all.
And sometimes - just after he kills and the voices are dim - sometimes, he closes his eyes and thinks he can feel that way again.
But it is only a memory.
He has become the thing he most hated.
The thing he could never understand.
And now ... he understands.
His wish has been granted.
His phone rings on the floor, harsh clamoring breaking the still of the night.
Kamui.
"It's time ... Sakurazukamori"
No. Not Kamui.
Kamui
The Final Day has come.
Tonight, the Tree must go hungry.
