a/n: This was written for the Summer Challenge on the kuroxfai community on livejournal and managed to win the runner-up prize :) The challenge was to write a fic showing an AU-style situation where FWR's actions had never occured - ie Syaoran had never wound back time and changed the course of fate. I chose to write about the kind of cliché idea mentioned in the manga itself by Syaoran - that Fye might never have been born a twin before he wound back time - because I ended up thinking what might have happened if Fye had been born with both portions of magic. Naturally angst ensued. I hope you enjoy it!
The further down the stone stairway they traced, the colder the air became, the more the icy chill seemed to hang in their lungs and the candles flickered carefully in the faint draft, dancing and vanishing for the smallest moment before pulsing back to life again, their warm glow bathing the narrow passageway.
The runes etched into the wax were shadowed faintly by the light, shining as an assurance their descending path would never be darkened. With each step down however, the weaker the small cluster of magicians' magic seemed to become. The glowing light would fade and ebb as though suffocated by the damp clinging to the stone walls, muffled by the thick and stagnant air surrounding them, and the steps would cut even further down into the darkest recesses of the castle, burrow further and further under the cold and wet earth until they reached the second 'dungeon' as the emperor would call it – one from which escape would be close to impossible. The only exit was closely guarded after a half-mile stretch of winding stone steps, the walls were heavily imbued with magical barriers and protective gates, warded and crafted cunningly by more than one skilful magician. The spells chanted to permit entrance were known only to this group of royal magicians, sealed within the castle gates as advisors. They, too, were the only group who knew of the dungeon's sole prisoner.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, the flames of the candles spluttered and faded, dying as the rune etchings dissolved into the wax before becoming swept away altogether, plunging the five magicians into darkness save for the warm and soft glow of hanging lamps decorated from fine and rusting shaped metal. Slowly, they breathed into life at the sound of their pacing footsteps, lighting in a straight path like a runway through the cramped and musty corridor. It led on into the darkness, trailing on ceaselessly without a single sign of life, not a rodent or a spider, not a single bug humming against the damp stonework. At the end, illuminated by the two lights flanking its sides stood a door twice of ordinary width and height though the wood was thick and hardened, woven with intricate spells that seeped through the fibres, and wrapped around its edges was cold, hard steel. The faint flicker of the barrier encircling the room beyond pulsed sharply down the corridor every few seconds as the magicians made their way to the door.
The magicians each chanted the spells dedicated to memory as they approached the door and watched the magical barrier curl away, dissolving and breaking into droplets within the air, ready to be woven into a wall once more upon their exit. The first of them took the doorknob within his hand and felt it glow red hot, distinguishing his touch, and the lock fell open with a heavy, ominous click. The spells on the door began to slowly unwind and the magician turned the handle, eased it under his wrinkled hand as it creaked and groaned, the metal in desperate need of oiling after so many years sitting unused, the lock firming together. Not a single being had entered or left this room in almost ten years. The hinges were just as stiff and unyielding, taking two of the magicians to push open the heavy door, though once open there was nothing but emptiness, space and a bright, cool light that seemed to emanate from the ceiling softly. There was no warmth in its shine though its strength came as a welcome relief to the group of magicians, trapped in the dark and stagnant air of the passageways for so long.
The room itself was sparse although its few decorations were surprisingly ornate – chairs carved from rich, red wood, adorned with patterns and shapes, silken tapestries hanging with an undiminished silver hue on the walls and here and there lay fur rugs, thick, soft and warm with gleaming white hair. From the ceiling hung a beautifully crafted glass chandelier with sparkling pendants dripping from its many arches though the holders lay barren, overwhelmed completely by the magical glow emanating from the ceiling.
In the centre of the room stood a boy, casting his eyes warily over the five magicians but it was clear that he was unafraid. Whether he had been expecting their arrival or he was certain of their peaceful intentions, the magicians were unsure. The boy himself was beautiful: his frame was slender though soft about the edges with a thin layer of childish fat that would slowly melt and diminish with time, his wealth of pale golden hair, the same hue as ripe wheat, shone and curled elegantly about his pale neck and his skin was soft and unblemished, a creamy white. His eyes, however, caused the magicians to pause for a moment simply to behold them. They glittered with magic, such a sharp and crystalline blue, so clear and deep they seemed to cast a faint glow. They were the taint of the most precious gem and the fear of the nation.
It was the first time any of the five magicians had seen the young prince since he was two years of age and they were casting the magical binds about the room, trapping him within his own prison cell as a small child who could barely speak or walk, who could not understand what was happening to him. In turn, it was the first time Fye had seen a living person since that day.
He opened his mouth as though to speak and then clamped it shut again, clenching his jaw tight and nodding towards them to speak first.
"Your Majesty," the foremost of the group of magicians began, stepping forward on the pale and polished stone floor and hearing his footstep echo about the hollow room, "today marks the twelfth year since your birth and your father, his Royal Highness, Emperor of Valeria, wishes to bestow upon you a gift to mark this occasion. We have been asked to grant any wish you may choose, bar any allowing your highness' release."
The second magician then stepped forward, asking, "What is your wish, sire?"
Fye calmly considered the question for a moment, plunging the room into a deep silence before he answered. "I would that I knew companionship," he stated.
The magicians gave each other a wary glance and bowed their heads together to discuss their answer, whispering and arguing, until they seemed satisfied with their conclusion.
"Then it shall be as your majesty wishes," answered the second of the magicians and he bowed deeply. The other four followed, lowering their heads in unison, richly decorated robes and grey, wispy beards skimming the floor of the chamber, before they left, filing through the door they had come through.
They sealed the door shut with barely a glance to the young prince in the room, wound and imbued their spells about the doorframe once again and pieced together the barrier, locking the boy within his own prison, restricting his magical powers while he was trapped within this chamber.
It was as his uncle, then Emperor of the country of Valeria, had ordered since the day of his birth when they had first caught sight of his eyes, glowing with a deep and threatening magical power, almost stronger than that of the Emperor's. And so the young prince was raised with a sentence hanging over his head as the rock beneath the castle was dug out, carved and hollowed into his very own dungeon.
Fye's first wish was granted. The next morning he awoke to find a golden bird cage beside his breakfast containing a small bird with gleaming, ruby-red feathers and tufts of shining gold, with glittering tail feathers and black, beady eyes staring up into him. He gave a smile and reached a finger through the bars to stroke along its back, feeling its feathers velvety soft and the bird preening adoringly into him. He named it Tanpopo.
He allowed it out of its cage each day though it slept alongside him at his bedside perched within its cage. It sang beautifully and often fluttered about the man chamber room, trilling a song through the air as Fye read and watched it dive and twirl about the room. Often, it would land on Fye's shoulder and preen against his cheek, nibbling affectionately at his ear lobe. But though Fye loved him and the bird had driven away Fye's loneliness within his prison, his desire for companionship was not yet satiated.
Each year Tanpopo grew weaker and frailer, his feathers dulling and becoming tattered, his tuneful songs sung less and less often until it seemed he was nothing but a collection of weak and pitiful bones against his perch. And each year, he would erupt into glowing flames, blood-red licks and golden spits of magical fire curling about the stand as he was born again, ruffling his feathers and shifting his feet about the perch as though he'd never been gone. This was how Fye knew that four years had gone by when the magicians returned.
"Your Majesty," the old and wizened magician started once more, "today marks the sixteenth year since your highness' birth and to celebrate the occasion, his Royal Highness, the Emperor of Valeria, has requested us to grant you a second wish."
"I would that I knew friendship," the prince answered this time, certainly and confidently.
The foremost of the magicians grunted and furrowed his brows, taking a step back as the third of the magicians explained their predicament to the prince. "Friendship is a bind that cannot be formed by magic. May I ask that your majesty chooses a more specific wish?"
Fye pursed his lips for a moment, thinking over his answer. He had grown even more beautiful still those past four years – he stood taller and his features had sharpened, washing away any trace of childhood so that his body now looked graceful in his pale and trailing gown though his eyes still glowed a haunting blue. "I would that I had someone to converse with," he replied.
The magicians paused once more, holding wary breaths and then bowed their heads together just as before, arguing in a hushed chatter for several minutes while the prince waited patiently by. Finally, they broke apart and smiled up towards the young prince. "Then it shall be as your highness wishes," the foremost of the magicians spoke and then he bowed deeply to him, shuffling back through the dungeon door with his companions without another word.
This agreement caused several clashes and disagreements. The royal family argued that it would be far too dangerous to allow someone with such overwhelming magical strength as Fye to have a permanent companion by his side, nor would it be possible to transport people into his room much like his food and his water. Nobody within the castle seemed willing to open the door to his prison for very long or more often than was necessary. It wouldn't be acceptable either for anyone outside the castle to learn of Fye's presence.
In the end, an agreement was struck – each three months a prisoner would be chosen from the dungeons. Already condemned to death, he would spend the last three weeks of his life in Fye's company before his execution. They would be opposing politicians and persistent, wily thieves; they would be rebels from the south and plotting extremists aiming to destroy the imperial state of Valeria who would know better than to dare raise their hand against a magician such as Fye, his strength shining plainly within the deep, sharp blues of his eyes.
For the next five years, this arrangement continued. Four times a year, Fye would have someone to talk to, abating his loneliness for three weeks at a time before his companions were removed and he would be left to his own solitude and thoughts bar his bird singing plaintively at his side. And though it seemed the most he could ever wish for, still Fye desired more, feeling that aching hole within him still present as he discussed the wonders and curiosities of the outside world with his companions, those mountains and skies he could only envisage in his dreams and the fresh, clean air that seemed to taunt him in his thoughts.
Every companion had been strangely wary of him, had been hesitant to learn about him. Neither knew that one was condemned to death, both knew that the other was sealed within this room for all eternity, and so it seemed unnecessary to bond.
On the year of Tanpopo's ninth rebirth, the magicians returned to his chamber again, stepping through the door with the same wary tread and glancing up to him hesitantly, just as before.
This time, the eldest of them stepped forward and announced, "Your Majesty, today marks the twenty-first year since your birth and, as such, his Royal Highness, the Emperor of Valeria, your younger brother, requested that we grant you a wish."
"I would that I knew love," the prince announced hopefully, each dream and desire seeming to intensify the deep gleam in his crystalline eyes.
This time, the magicians bowed their heads sorrowfully, without even turning to one another to discuss the matter.
"I'm afraid, your majesty, that love is impossible to create or mimic," the first magician announced sadly, bowing his head in apology. "Love is something that one must find by oneself. Often, it is difficult for many to obtain."
"Is there anything else your highness desires?" the magician beside him asked sheepishly.
The prince narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips in disappointment, nodding his head resignedly. "That I will find a person who will love me beyond all others."
Once more a heavy silence passed between Fye and the cluster of aged magicians, fiddling difficultly with opulent, golden rings, clutching to staffs and scratching their wiry beards anxiously.
"This is, again, an impossible wish, your Highness. A heart cannot be forced to love," the thin and nervous magician to the left-hand side of the foremost said.
"Then I wish for no more," the prince announced.
Each magician bowed in turn, making to leave as the fourth magician called, "May Your Highness be granted his wish through Fate's own decree."
And at this, the magicians turned about, left the room with a solemn tread and sealed the door tight shut, wrapping the fibrous strands of magic about the room behind themselves for the last time, never to enter the chamber room again. The prince was locked inside his prison and he sat down on his throne seat, heaving a long and weary sigh, left alone with his dreams.
It is over twenty years later and the last time the magicians would ever be summoned beneath the ground. Spiralling down the dank, cold staircase into the dungeon, one of their numbers is killed outright, blasted back into the stone walls of the pathway by a sharp stab of blue light that spits and erupts in violent flames at everything that stands in its path. The glow pulses through the cavern like an echo, spitting furious sparks into the air and amidst the destruction – crumbling stone and smouldering chunks of wood, flecks of splinters and a fine powder of dust layering the cobbled ground – stands the prince in his fifty-sixth year though he appears almost as young as before. His hair shines a brilliant blonde in the stabs of light, thick strands curling prettily about his face and teasing at his shoulders, youthful skin an eerie, marbled white beneath pristine, glittering robes. His eyes shine crystalline blue in the dim light, a faint yet distracting glow, though now the hint of murder swam within them, drawing ragged breaths as the broken text of magical chains lay pitifully about his feet. The blue of his eyes glitter with magic still but stare dead with blind fury in the path of the magicians.
Even the cold, steady stare he sends them as his chest heaves in exhaustion and rage seems to pierce through their bodies and sends a fearful chill down their spines.
And then he speaks in a trembling, sickened voice. "You killed him."
"He was already bound for execution!" one of them argues unwisely.
"You murdered the one man I wished for!" The shout seems to rip through Fye's throat and screech through the caverns as he whips a finger through the air and sends a blast of flickering blue lightning flying swiftly into their midst, narrowly blocked by all four of the remaining magicians with a thought-woven shield though it crumbles upon the impact, knocking each of them flat to the ground and bashing the breath clean out of them.
But the prince scrambles over their limp bodies with only clear and poisoned vengeance on his mind. Thoughts running over and over and over Kurogane, he tugs painful breaths into his lungs and forces his body up those endless steps he'd always dreamed of. And Kurogane would take his hand and walk him to the top and he would first see the stars wrapped in his arms and not like this. Not with blood spattered on his robe and tears beaded in his eyes as his muscles strain and scream with exertion.
When he finally bursts through the door at the top, he is unsure what to expect. The thought had seemed so glorious before, he is tempted to deny he had fallen to his knees gasping for breath, pounding his fists against the hard, stone floor and groaning grievously as sweat seemed to trickle down his back.
He remembers how Kurogane had pressed his lips to his neck as he lay in serenity.
And he gazes up now and sees his nephew standing before him lined in fur with a glittering crystal crown sitting regally atop his head. He stares down at his uncle, right into his bright and shining eyes and wrinkles his nose in what may be fear or distaste.
"Where is Kurogane?" Fye manages to pant on the ground, voice lain thick with passion and certainty and threat. It hangs plainly in his voice as he stares piercing daggers into the emperor.
"There is no resting place for sinners," he simply answers.
"Where did you bury him?" Fye spits, throwing himself unsteadily to his feet and finally feeling the sweat stick to his clothes and the dust and embers clinging to his hair. It reeks of destruction.
"He was cast into the pit like every prisoner," his nephew says calmly with a shake of his head. "You must remember he was a prisoner, and not only that but an enemy of the state."
"I loved him!" Fye hears himself screech towards the emperor with such hatred it takes him aback, makes him stop and consider his trembling limbs and tear-sodden eyes for just a moment. "I fell in love with him," he sobs, testing the words on his tongue and raising his finger up to point at the man's head, allowing a flicker of magic to tremble and dance on the very tip. He remembers hands running over his skin, a blissful tremor at the very touch, and breath curling adoringly in his ear in a hushed whisper. He remembers these hands, these very fingers clasping hesitantly at his collar, settling against his warm body.
It was the one time he'd ever felt complete.
Immediately two guards spring forward though the emperor swiftly waves them back.
"Take me to Kurogane," Fye hisses murderously. "If nothing else then take me to Kurogane."
"I'd advise you return to your chamber," the emperor politely orders him, "before something worse becomes of you."
A rippling, snatching waves of anger spurts through Fye's body and immediately he feels his finger lash through the air and a burst of magic erupt from his hand that takes life and energy in a torrent of blue flame, roaring about the corridor and gutting it clean, reaching down pathway after pathway and crumbling it until it is nothing but rubble and the castle falls to pieces about him. It groans and it cracks, a torrent of stone and brick descending in chunks and spatters against the blackened floors. Fye finds he can only smile and take a breath as they blow against his body, feeling bones crack and warm blood dribble from his perfect, marble flesh with such overwhelming relief.
But the blue in his blood sparks quickly and smoothes over these imperfections, re-aligns these grotesque cracks in his skeleton beyond his will. And by the time his eyes re-open, he is bound so tightly in magical chains it's hard to breathe.
In the depths of the pit, a beautiful prince scrabbles and digs with all his might. He scrapes past pristine snow until his fingers are black and frost-bitten, ripping dead, limp bodies from the ground and casting them aside with metronomic, mind-numbing swiftness, gleaning this soil of flesh and bone clean, only to find yet another layer in the vast emptiness of the pit. His hands soon become calloused and bloodied, his hair grows and drapes over his back; even his body becomes emaciated with a lack of nourishment as he draws strength from the eerie glow in his eyes. With this strength, he digs deeper and deeper into the pit, blood smattered against the jewels on his gleaming robe; with a name on his lips he draws meaning from this bitter, endless struggle that lies like a weight against his flesh, already crippled with suffering and pain like an infinite blow he carries about inside of him to remind himself that he is barely alive and must carry on searching. And at night, when it is far too dark to recognise the face of a corpse in his arms, he gazes towards the stars channelled to him between the vast, dark stretches of the wall and the tower and begs whatever god there may be that his lover will be there to view it with him the next day.
On the day his final wish is granted, when he finally presses thankful lips to the dead man's cold, grey skin, he feels himself crumbling away into worn and lifeless dust, scattering away up and swirling into blizzards of frozen wind in one last moment of bliss.
a/n: Thank you to everyone who commented on and voted for this story on livejournal because it meant the world to me that people appreciated it that much :D If you liked it but are really curious as to what went on between Fye and Kurogane then just say - I wrote a bit of that as a thank you on livejournal so I could post it on here as a continuation :)