Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray- Man.
In a dark theatre
Komui sits and waits.
Finally - the curtains rise, and claps resound. In the dark theatre he can still dimly make out the smooth contours of the stage. To be sure, it really looks like a globe. A lone ray of light settles on the polished floor of the stage, where a solitary boy is sitting. He seems to mope. A faint whisper brushes past, a whisper of love and of worry, a whisper that tells the boy the story of determination and perseverance.
The voice scatters into the whirlwind of time, telling a tale of age-long wisdom. The white-haired boy looks up, and he sighs. A fat puppet lands in front of him, denouncing the world and its absent god. And the boy stands up. He shouts a far-reaching cry of despair.
"Manaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" What a painful moment of revelation as the Earl, the boy and the skeleton-man contemplate each other.
Angels pulls the strings of the puppet-boy, but the fat Earl moves alone, out of the holy sphere. He is no longer of the high order of saints. He has fallen, and will remain so. His dark family he gathers around him, thrusting war and hatred upon their once-untainted souls. The lord of darkness wants to win against the god who so unmercifully thrust him out from Eden. He barely shrinks from sending the souls of his 'family' into eternal damnation. Such is his hatred and his divergence from all that is holy.
The play has two directors; one is merciful, all-knowing and the fates revolve around him. The other is mercenary, power-grabbing and unfaithful to those who keep faith to him.
A slash cuts through the stale air, and the boy tumbles as the skeleton crumbles.
Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, Komui thinks.
The Earl gives a loopy wide smile as he hoists himself into the airy places where he once walked in raiment white, wings of faith upon his back. Now he opens an umbrella, forgoing the precious wings, all clad in the fashion of the time.
Now the angels slide in another puppet, this time a flaming-haired man of uncertain age. He is relatively harder to control; some of his strings have loosened with the ravages of time. The pipe in his mouth wobbles, as he crouches to the boy's height.
His voice unnaturally gentle, he speaks to the stricken boy. "Will you become an exorcist?"
For the second time that night, the curtains part to reveal a dark background. A tower, tall and black, is silhouetted against the night sky. Sublime it is, with all the years of holiness hallowing it. In the foreground is the canteen within the headquarters, various inhabitants involved in assorted activities. There the titular puppet is, white head bobbing as he savours his huge dinner in absolute delight. There is more than just the one puppet. There are hundreds in fact, maybe even thousands.
With the boy is a girl, fragile beauty blooming, and a rose among thorns. She sits there beaming at her friends, for they are her world. Without them, the world is nothing. A rakish boy-man smirks at them all, his red hair bright and cheery in this gloomy home, as he picks at his food. A slightly feminine one sulks as he slurps his soba. What a plateau!
They enact battles and other acts of heroism, for of course, these are but children, and there is no such thing as a war. What can children do in a war of hatred and a world of dying peace?
The curtains close, and Komui discreetly wipes away tears. It is nothing, of course. A tear can mean anything. Here, he might say, the tear comes because the children in the play are just too amusing.
Once again the curtains swish to the side.
This time the moon, just a teeny nail shred of it, hides in the fluffy crowns of trees as a suited man walks towards Allen – the white-haired boy. His golden eyes are gleaming maniacally, and behind the scenes one knows that the Earl is tugging at his strings. His grin widens, reminiscent of a Cheshire cat. A collective wince, and then he bends over the boy – Allen. Gasps escape from the audience as the man's hand plunges into Allen's chest. Inhumane, utterly so.
A piercing cry breaks gossamer threads, and the light shifts to the back of the stage, where the girl-marionette cries in despair as the red-headed boy looks on. He too, looks tear-washed.
The play shifts, and now a new scene appears. This time round the girl has been caught by the fat man, and is ready to die. A hand, metallic and hard, reaches through the skulls and protects her, as the boy who was thought dead jumps forwards to battle the Earl.
Their swords clash.
The last act comes on. Komui is a little weary, but ready to know the ending.
Allen and the Earl stand facing each other amidst the debris that clutters the land. The single spotlight has returned, and the duo stare each other down. Around them the sky is a gentle pink, the floral colour stained with streaks of red – the blood of countless victims of the war come back to haunt the Earl. Dead leaves scatter at their feet, and the wind howls, skiing through the almost empty theatre with chilling speed.
In the sky, a larger-than-life moon hangs. It is a crescent streaked the colour of misery, and it illuminates all with the sickly glow of death. The unnatural colour of the surroundings unnerves both, but neither backs off. They understand, this is the end, the alpha and the omega of everything.
Swords clash, lights glare, and sounds blast. The two fight. One is God's apostle; the other is a fallen angel who once trod the skies with airy lightness. Now he has fallen. His alpha and his omega circle him, as he remembers the golden times in Eden. But God threw you out, he repeats to himself. God doesn't want you after what you did. The white-haired warrior sighs imperceptibly as his Innocence sparkles with life unending. God gave exorcists their Innocence to purify the lurking evil and heal the hurts of the planet. He has a duty to accomplish, and he will accomplish it.
In a blinding moment all darkness slinks away in fear of the huge fountain of pure light that ensues. The angels cut their thread, and the Earl loses his. One body turns into dust and melts into the seams of the earth. The other, draped in black and white, the monochrome colours of the holy order, falls to the ground, exhausted and near death.
Lenalee runs towards the limp body. She cradles the almost dead Allen, sobbing with reluctant tears. Her eyes have mourned so often, that there is no water of grief that can assuage her feelings now. Behind her, the crescent moon diminishes and fades. Soon, the black curtains of the night return, and a small sliver of silver scales the sky again.
Dust settles, and snow falls. The first snow in a long time. The survivors of the war try to comfort Lenalee, but she refuses to let go. The redhead and the feminine man sigh and shake their heads, both tearing themselves.
The curtains close.
Komui runs a hand across his face, relieved at the ending, and yet not so. For children are neither men nor women, and they do not deserve to be trapped in war.
A/N: Hahaha i'm trying to rush out as many fics as possible before school starts again tomorrow and i go back to mindless mugging. So there you are! I wanted to write a themed story and this hasn't really come out the way i wanted it to, but still.
But anyway, thanks for reading! Review if you please :D