The Cross Road
(A Card Captor Sakura Adaptation)
*Alternate - Universe*
Summary:
She is death; dwindling along the line between heaven, hell and earth.
He is the demon, bargaining for the life of another.
Chapter I
She is Death.
She is neither an Angel nor a Demon. She works for neither God nor Lucifer.
She is what she is – the Reaper of Souls. She is Death.
She does what she must because she does so. It's her duty and she must do it.
She is Death.
She controls nothing nor is she powerless or powerful. But she is death.
She neither chooses nor owns a choice – in the matter of soul taking.
She is only death.
She appears and reappears, where Death occurs. She takes and she leads.
It is Death's job to do so. And she is Death.
London – 1964
The western hemisphere of the world was yet to wake that early summer morning. The sun had yet to rise and overturn the blanket of faint twinkling of the stars. The moon was hidden, when or where no one could tell – only that it was far earlier than it should have and left its twinkling kingdom barren of its presence. No sound were made (except for the fluttering wings, and the faint sound of a rooster cuckooing the new day, minutes too early, somewhere far away from the city) as everyone lingered a little more longer in their sleep; enjoying their few more minutes away from harsh Reality.
It was the 26th of May in the year of 1964.
Amidst the district of fear and blame, where malice and dignity walked the same steps; where silent screams and pleas were muffled; where blood and life were equal price; where everyone lives and sleeps everywhere; where no man other than the populace itself would dare trek upon its roads, in one of it's red rising blocks of what they now called buildings, lies one called Harry Burton; savouring his last minutes of dreaming and waking.
The room smelled of cheap liquor and pungent unclean comforters; sweat and who knows what else already sewn into the cloths. There were papers and books, crumpled up blue prints of mechanical vehicles ahead of its time and a few rolled and tightly wrapped with strings, as well as food that reeked of age longer than it looked, scattered all over the wooden floor.
The window was left open; the cold morning breeze freely came and left without notice. The rubbish on the floor were floating and circling along its own path; weightless and carefree. In the centre of all this mess was a mattress, thick and faded that its color was now undistinguishable whether it was brown or grey; lacking the wooden frame to carry it and its blonde haired companion lying on top of it. Topless and half-covered by his blanket, he tossed and turned in his bed; Dreaming.
In his dream, he dreamed. He dreamt of flying through London town, in his flying contraption he dreamed of calling an Aerial Ship– the first fully functional steam powered Aerial contraption in theory (Forty years ahead of its time.)
He flew over buildings and streets, crowds cheering him on and applauding his accomplishment. He flew through the city and drifted off into an unfamiliar abyss – bright and promising. As the city slowly faded behind him, clouds out of nowhere appeared not far ahead; dark and ominous. And somehow, he knew that once he gripped on those tendrils (more commonly called as belts) wrapped around his torso, the only thing keeping him from falling off his Aerial Ship, the wind will rise and take his ship further forward until the dark clouds swallowed him whole; blind and defenceless.
And so it did happen. Just as he knew it would be.
He saw hazy smoke, grey. He saw lightning. Then there was darkness then, nothing.
He heard thunder. He heard screaming (whether it was his or others he did not know.) Then there was silence, then, nothing.
For what seemed like eternity, he could not wake up. If he had, he didn't expect hell to be this utterly uneventful. He continued to float in whatever eternity he was in; sinking deeper and deeper into his nightmare.
And when all hope was lost to him, a bright light blinded him into waking. His eyes slowly fluttered open; amazement, delight and gratitude to whatever God allowed him to come back from that darkness and into this old rotten apartment of his again to take sight upon his familiar ochre ceilings.
Then there was pain, excruciating and paralyzing, settling in his chest as if whatever it was had began, agonizingly slow, eating his heart.
And as soon as the pain began, the sooner it disappeared and he allowed the sudden exhaustion from the pain overcome him. And succumbing once more to that now all too familiar darkness he now loathed and slightly feared.
The next time he opened his eyes, he was no longer on the hard mattress but rather standing on his wooden floor; his cotton knit socks still warming his seemingly weightless feet as he gawked at his own body – corpse, to be more precise, looking as if he was only in a deep slumber that even he dared not wake himself.
He looked at himself, imagining this to be another dream, perplexed and disbelieving that the corpse of the youthful but tired-looking young gentleman on his mattress was indeed no one else but him – Harry Burton.
"Crap," he cursed under his breath, if he had any.
And in his moment of revelation, it was then that she took form and appeared by his side; small and alluring; in no way threatening and frightening, clad in a faded pink overcoat that reached around mid-thigh, neither tight nor loose around her body, leaving very much to the imagination of her witnesses.
"I believe it would be odd, the emotion you are feeling," she interrupted, voice soft and smooth like it was neither a child's nor an adult's and her words were distant and plain – not questioning but rather commenting.
He turned his head, gazed at the pale-faced beauty beside him who also glanced upon his corpse and might have believed that she was the reason of his death. She looked to him like a dazzling beauty rather than what he knew she was, with her swaying shoulder length auburn hair and her clear emerald orbs; He just never expected that Death would be so beautiful.
"So…its over just like that?" he asks back, a faint sigh following his question as he forced his eyes off of her and back to his still dead self.
"Yes," she replied simply.
There was silence.
"You're the Death?" he asks, cautious but unafraid. What more does he have to lose anyway? He was dead.
She turned her head and looked at him, green orbs boring into hers as a small vivid smile crept on her lips. "Yes. And you are Harry Burton," she replies back, a cold glow emitting from her.
"And it's time, Harry Burton."
Harry sighed once more and nodded with his shoulders drooped. He took her outstretched hand, clasping onto her for dear life--- or death.
And they walked, bright light replacing their fading figures. And slowly they disappeared till there was nothing, only the echo of Harry's question left unanswered: What's behind there? The room was left unchanged, except for the replacement of the living occupant with a corpse.
As the sun started to rise, a knock interrupted the serenity over the room and was followed by a piercing scream which sent birds watching from the window sill flying for their feathers; the city woke from their fears and fantasies; and journalists and police men flocked to the apartment building and into Harry Burton's room to just pass a glance.
The busy rustling London of 1964 was now awake.
She is everywhere. She follows everyone and no one.
She lingers the street; visible and invisible; appearing and disappearing
where duty calls for her. She is Death.
She has been there in the beginning. She shall be there in the end.
She is the end. She is Death.
She watches over mankind, counting down each and everyone's time till the last sand drops and she is once again needed.
She is Death.
* * * * * *
There was a time when he was considered a God among the living. A time when people still killed animals and offered blood to have him present. But that had long ended ever since the years of our lord. It was then that his worshipped name had turned foul and called heretic, demonic and occult. He was left roaming the earth waiting for his preys now in the most cryptic points on Earth: the Cross Roads.
He knew he could get a larger demographic if he joined Matthias and the other simpletons of his kind dressed up as humans, charading in their skin to bring them closer to their own Armageddon. But "Chrestox" was a demon as old as time. He was even one of the few who dared taunt the first of mankind into the temptuous life of evil. And was even the first to succeed.
He'd always understood how desire controlled mankind, from the very first man who gave everything for gold and the man who gave up everything for his carnal desires; and how easy it is, for him, to use against them.
Nonetheless, he had grown fond of his adopted human flesh and how practical it was in fulfilling his job, rather than lurking in the shadows and speaking in tongues incoherent to his victims.
Clad in a sleek black suit with a strikingly clean white shirt underneath, a discernible red tie carelessly wrapped around his neck in a lose knot and a sparkling grey fedora, he stands by a wooden door that seemed to stand all on its own in the middle of an extremely infinite dark room.
He carefully takes his hat off his head and clips it at his side, and with a swift hand skilfully combs his chocolate locks, magically not ruining the inconspicuous clump of hair symmetrically aligned on both sides which vaguely simulated horns with his shadow as he waits for her.
He knew she'd pop in sooner or later. No one can die and not go through the door to Judgement; it was part of the cycle. He slowly slides his hands into his pockets, looking up in time to see a faint spark in the distance – the only thing causing anything close to light in this realm.
A small smirk crept up his lips as he pulled out a cigarette stick from his pocket, snapping his fingers by the opposite end and sparking a small ball of flame with his fingertips and bringing the cancer stick to life, while still holding his hat by his side. He holds the stick with his mouth and inhales the addicting nicotine smoke into his lungs, exhales the rest through his nostrils, his lungs impenetrable by human nonsense such as cancer.
There was a snap – not his, and then the whole infinite dark abyss was filled with light; slightly blinding his amber orbs.
He watched the creator of the light frown at him.
He grinned and she grimaced.
She walks along with her new soul in tow, ignoring him as she took slow and brief strides towards him while the mid-twenties looking man behind her hovered over the inexistent floor. Or more precisely, towards the door he was leaning on. He stands upright, hides his hands in his pockets and exhales another cloud of grey murderous smoke.
The pair in front of him lingered a little longer in front of the door, fear and anxiety obvious in the human's face in contrast with her calm and soft face as she stretched her hand forward and smiled warmly at him, almost flirting and inviting. "No more backing out," she even added, earning her a nod and a reluctant step into the door.
He retrieves his hat from his sides and tucks his hair underneath its cover, averting his gaze away from the bright and blinding light from the door as she lead in the man. He leaves the cap on, finishing the cigarette in his mouth before letting it fall into the darkness that had suddenly occupied the realm once more.
"I see you're still alive, Chrestox," she said, her voice suddenly cold and lifeless.
He grinned at her as he brushed off the traces of ashes that got caught on his beautiful black suit. "Why wouldn't I be?" he inquired, curious as to why she would comment on his survival so blatantly like that; the seriousness of his concern lacking in his voice.
She brushed it off and shrugged her shoulders.
"Just being hopeful, I suppose." She finally replied.
"Of my untimely demise?" he couldn't help but ask back with an amused smirk, knowing fully well the contrasts they had with each other despite their long term friendship by now. Well, he thought he could consider their relationship as somewhat friendship based other than anything.
"Come now, you have souls to torment as I have souls to bring to heaven and hell," she replies, averting the topic again to her previous commentaries. She turned on her heel, her shoe squeaking despite the physical lacking of a floor.
He followed without another word.
She lead the way to her home, a place he had now memorized like the back of his hand if it wasn't so hard to trace in any spiritual universe. No matter the countless times she had lead him to that same never changing spot, he still in no possible way, could ever reach the destination again without her consent.
All he could only remember with each journey was the path: long and tiring if you were human, since with each step the sun dipped deeper and deeper in the sky and light easily left without anyone's control and the moon neither joined his stars to bring light to it's hopeful travellers.
Until, amidst this darkness and gloomy malevolence, light soars through the sky again and dawn breaks. And he found himself in the middle of an old country road, somewhere in mid 1700s England, which lead to a lone and humble cottage in the middle of a moody grass land which he thought, usually depicted her mood.
And today it willed variation of pink faunas and appeared to be a sea of pink petals, surrounding a small brown collared cottage with a giant three-headed dog waiting patiently for its master's call.
The dog, named Ceroberus but affectionately called Kero by its owner, hated his guts. He could never understand why, but he too returned the abhorrence for the latter.
"Demon dog," he snarled under his breath, something which wasn't low enough to evade her ears since she giggled at the comment.
"Demon's hate their brethren do they?" she asked back with a playful smile, regaining her cheerful vigor and friendlier disposition.
As they approached her home closer and closer, the three headed dog began shrinking and shrinking until it was a normal sized dog, furry and hairy but nonetheless, still huge and taller than Death when it stands up. It ran toward her, nuzzling her neck as it climbed on her and she carried the weight all by herself as she scratched its sides.
She gently pushed the dog down and magically attached a chain like leash to her pet's collar and leads him into her home, momentarily forgetting that she still had company other than her pet.
He doesn't take this to heart, knowing fully well the immense fondness she had for that mongrel and in return, the mongrel for her. He walks into her home after her, without evading a few snaps and growls from the mongrel.
She disappeared suddenly and left him in the middle of her living room alone. He takes this as his chance to look around and familiarize himself with her home again, seeing that she had been to the future with the sudden taste for modern furniture with still a hint of Japanese antiquity to it's designs.
He took his cap off and rested it on the small black lacquer table in the middle of the room and took a seat on the sofa beside it, before he pulled out another cigarette stick and slipped it into his mouth and beginning another blitzkrieg of smoke on other people's territory.
There was an awkward cough, something not human or was rather intended than induced by the smoke.
He turned around at the voice and clearly saw an irritated Death glaring at him from the stair case. He grinned at her before wiping the stick into disappearing before picking up his hat again and poorly resting it over his head.
"What are your demands today, Demon?" she snapped begrudgingly, taking a seat opposite him and crossing her leg over the other.
"Oh, don't be like that Sakura," he replies back, smug and impish.
She glared at him once more, her glare more fierce and furious with the mention of that name.
No one mentions that name to her.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you Syoaran?" she replied back, voice cold and furious. If only she could kill demons, the glare would have been enough.
And no one mentions that name to him.
*****
StarMeNot: Sorry for the mistakes and hate parts. I just really couldn't help myself. This was supposed to be an original story but I missed SxS so much I knew I just had to adapt it somehow. Hope for reviews, especially criticisms. It's been so long since I've written anything I'm willing to publish so..*cross fingers*...hope you like it. :)
Inspiration? This is probably a result of too much coffee, boredom, insomnia, a new pen and notebook and too much reading Neil Gaiman stories along side Supernatural episodes. I'm still in developing the whole plot line on how it's going to work so any suggestions from readers is also welcomed.
Also looking for a beta reader for the next upcoming chapters. :)