SKiNDeEp
Time ticks by painfully slowly, each second dripping with poisoned honey and each hour loud and mocking.
For the wizardking kneeling on the cold marble floors, letting roses the colour of blood slip through his long, pale, cold fingers, Time is nothing but a pointless stretch of blankness, the Universe's way of making everything hurt twice as much.
Ashura lets his long hair (black like his heart, black like his soul) pool around him, curling softly around the edges, resting on top of the still-wet red floor. It's a lovely piece of art, really, the castle-now that he's had it repainted. Red is just so vibrant, so striking, and it's ten times better than icy white the colour of cold.
"I should have red every day." He does not know if words slipped past his mouth, or if the only thought that is truly his is echoing louder within the crevices of a broken mind. "Every day and forever." Because the voices roaring in his head have been livelier than usual lately, and as much as they are his friends now, frankly, they tend to drown him out.
"You should pay more respect. I am King, after all," he chides them, licks his lips and stares at the body below. How beautiful a face is when frozen in fear.
And the red rouge over her hollowed, bloody eye sockets only makes her look prettier.
Ashura is not only wizardking over all of a frozen wonderland, he is a beautician. He has found his true calling, his life's work. He is here to make people beautiful. His paintbrush is always honed to a perfect point, clean and silver and sharp.
One blue eye stares accusingly at him from the tangled red and black on the floor, pale and clouded. He's left quite a mess here. This is the downside to being such a craftsman as he, that beauty takes time, and that he is such a renowned master of the trade that no one in his beloved court can know what he does to the people of the country. Thus, he must clean up after himself, rather than let servants do it for him.
How troublesome.
One spidery hand caresses that stone-cold cheek, smoothes flaxen gold hair off that forehead, traces the melting black-red mascara around empty places where the eyes used to be. She looks much prettier without them. He sketches her name in glaring white letters in the red confection around her eyes.
A smaller, snide voice tells him that he is going to die soon.
"Rubbish."
/author's_note/ So. My first submitted fanfic. (Yay.) Reposted from my home and first writing site, WriterMG. (This is not plagiarized from that site.)
Crazy kings are cool. Crazy people in general are cool. :)
Upon re-reading it, Ashura reminds me of Grell (from Kuroshitsuji DAMN HE'S AWESOME) a lot here.
I disclaim Ashura, and honestly, CLAMP can keep him.
