. judge .
He used to have a son.
Note. He used to.
He doesn't anymore.
A long, long time ago, he was chosen. A lucky candidate for the spirit known as Judge.
Judge.
Second.
Noah.
Tryde.
Call it what you like.
Names didn't matter in this world. All that did was that he was and always would be Judge.
Willingly or not.
He can't remember what his son looked like.
Sometimes he'd close he eyes, forget about laws and forget about what was right and what was wrong.
And he'd try to draw upon what his former life would have been like.
His boy was very small, barely older than an infant.
A child just beginning to learn how to walk.
And he had black hair, and green eyes.
But where he should have seen a face—not just mere features—he saw nothing.
Tryde would try to think—but where he should have found a name—
—he drew a blank.
And the troubles of his new life would return, and another precious detail of his past would be lost.
Judge would come to him in his dreams.
Like a hawk swooping a mouse, he'd be dragged down into the darkness.
Cold, spider threads—fingers—Curling around his throat. Squeezing. Crushing. Constricting.
His own hands-
-pleading, begging, clawingpleasedon'tpleasedon'tletmegopleaseplease.
Large dark eyes ripping cracks in the shadows.
Come with me.
I will protect you.
A crevice of light. Cracking into jaws. Drawing him in.
Blood.
Drip, drip, drip.
Like a snake bitten by the hawk, he wakes up screaming.
They came to collect him.
Looking back with disdain, Tryde thought he had been naïve.
They asked politely.
The Sixth was cheery, the Ninth was coy.
The repeated exactly what the eyes in his dream had offered.
Come with us.
We will protect you.
We will keep you safe.
He said no.
His head was being crushed.
Blood and sweat caked his forehead, and he would rake his nails across it with every wave of pain.
Pain, that came in the form of words.
I love you.
Large jaws. Black teeth.
Crucifixion.
Pain.
Screaming.
Cursing.
Scaring his child.
No, wait.
What?
Oh, yes.
Tryde reached for him, and tiny cold hands slipped into his fingers. He squeezed reassuringly.
It was alright.
It was okay.
It's alright, it's ok, I will protect you and everything will be -
E v e r y t h i n g
w i l l
b e
f i n e
Tiny hands. Covered in his blood.
Crying.
Tears.
Wailing.
He tries to say something, but seems to have forgotten how to speak.
The world goes black.
Tryde needs to hide.
He needs to leave. He has to. He realized it now, and that he's dangerous and terrible and god, please where are those people?
Those strange strange people, with eyes like the sun and skin like the ashes, the ones who said they loved him, the ones who were supposed to save him where are they where are they where where where
He needs them. Their offer—that—he, he needs it. He has to go.
He has to leave where his son can't find him.
He's evil. No he's good. But he's scaring his child, and that's terrible and he's evil but this is stage he has to go through so he's good and
Almost there.
Tryde curls up, and digs his nails into his head. The bleeding doesn't stop, and the crosses keep hurting.
Stop resisting.
Go away.
Please, please, go away, he begs.
Please, leave me alone.
I can't.
Tryde grits his teeth, crawls to the bed, pulls himself unsteadily onto weakened feet. Bloody fingers smear crimson across his pillow—like a butchery gone wrong.
He doesn't care. He's done worser things, with that spirit inside of him.
Several knives line the plaster. Some with gore still fresh.
His blood is scrawled onto the walls and splattered on the floor. Angry words, and harsh profanities, and dripping with
sin
right
chosen child
Come with me
He screams.
Each word is a needle, a knife, an axe, a sword.
Please
He trembles.
Come with me
He shakes. Tryde needs to hide.
Fast.
Before that spirit wakes up and swallows him.
His fingerprints drag long red lines across the wall.
His arms are adorned with cuts and bruises, and his forehead is sporting new bloody scars, on top of the scrapes he had inflicted on himself.
Scars, those scars. The cross-shaped holes that were eating away at his life.
The wall helps him remain upright. His legs can no longer hold him up, and his lungs are crushed and stretched out with every breath he manages to take.
He doesn't bother covering his head. The blood wouldn't stop anyway.
It will not stop.
"..." his hearing is gone. He can't hear his own voice.
Or maybe, his voice is gone, and he can't speak loud enough for his ears to hear.
His mind is muffled and confused. Through the pain, he can barely make a coherent thought.
His head pounds. He leans his head against the wall.
Where's his son?
Something clicks.
His son. Oh, god, his son. Where is he? He hasn't seen him for...hours? Days? Oh God, where is he? Please let him be okay.
He drags himself toward their room, stopping several times along the way to withstand a stab of pain, and his nails are roughly tugged as he weakly grips the peeling plaster.
Don't resist.
Come with
No! No. No. He pushes the voice away, trying to shut it out. Not now. Not now, never when his son was close.
He stumbles into the bedroom, nearly falling face first onto the floor. Luckily, he catches himself.
"..."
His voice is silence. It still is. Back then, he had a name to say, but now all his has
i s
a
-b l a n k-
Something small unfurls on the bed.
It's weeping.
Oh.
The boy.
His boy.
His name. What was his name?
Green eyes streaked with tears, and formerly slender limbs are bony and thin.
Small hands reach for him, begging for comfort.
"Daddy..."
Somewhere through the events of pain and blank minds, he had forgotten that this child had needs.
He lifts his shaking limbs toward him.
Blood and sweat cake his fingers, and his son's hands feel so soft and breakable against his. He's exhausted and he would like to do nothing more than to collapse on the bed and sleep—but sleep came with nightmares, and that spirit might eat him and never spit him back out.
"..." It's okay, he tries to say. I'm sorry. Everything will be alright. I'll keep you safe.
He holds him. What was he putting this child through? He was barely three. Too young to hide in his room and cry.
His child holds fistfuls of his bloodied clothing, and cries into his chest. Too young, he thinks. Far too young to be put through this type of torture.
Put him out of his misery, then.
What?
No!
The world blurs and its dark, and it's just him and his child, and those eyes those eyes thoes eyes the dark round, soulless eyes curling fingers no please no around the small throat the tiny windpipe and tears tears nopleasedon'tkillhimpleasenonononono
His son screams. Black fingers crush his throat, forcing out pathetic cries.
It takes him several minutes to realize those fingers are his.
And his world comes crashing down.
No no what is this what am I doing please stop no don't kill don't kill I love him no please I'm a murderer sinner evil twisted must die but no its okay he's human just a human weak weak human kill him nonoI'msorryI'msorrysososorry—
I'm so sorry.
I love you.
His fingers tighten, his boy cries and a loud crack signals the end of his world as he knows it.
"I'm sorry."
He does not look up.
"I didn't mean for it to happen."
The man shifts his feet. He has long purple hair, large gold eyes—and skin like the ashes of the dead.
Tryde closes his eyes.
He should not be surprised. His skin is the same.
The pounding of his head has stopped.
And his scars have ceased bleeding.
He doesn't care. It stopped at a price he hadn't wanted to pay.
His mind is silent. The voice is gone, but he wishes it would come back.
He wishes it would swallow him and never spit him back out.
There's nothing left to live for now that his boy's gone.
A hand against his shoulder. The man—Fiddler—looks guilty. "I'm sorry." he repeats.
Tryde doesn't reply.
There's nothing to say.
He shakes the man off. He leaves the house for the first time in many days.
Breathes in the fresh air. Feels the sunlight on his skin.
He closes his eyes.
He doesn't cry.
He's forgotten how to.
Fiddler follows him. He seems nice enough. Though rather uneasy.
"Are you okay?" his voice strains nervously.
Of course he isn't. He'll never be.
But that doesn't matter, does it?
He nods.
Fiddler looks at him. Then shrugs. "Okay." he says. "Good."
Silence.
Fiddler brightens.
"Let's go, then."
Tryde nods. Aimlessly.
A long, long time ago, he was chosen. A lucky candidate for the spirit known as Judge.
He used to be an ordinary person.
A good person.
A person who used to have a family.
It doesn't matter anymore.
All that does matter is that he is Tryde – the second Noah.
He's evil.
He's a murderer.
He's Judge.
Whether he wants to be or not.
A/N:An epic beginning of the only manga character who can be buff but hot at the same time. =3
Probably multichapter? I dunno XD. Hopefully all of you got that Tryde is an underaged parent. =3= And no, he doesn't really have a son. For the sake of angst, I decided to add that in. Well, anyway, I hope you like it and it wasn't too weird for you. XD Please, pleeeaaaasse review!
Even if I'd been gone for YEARS and I probably deserve pitchforks in my stomach please send a review before you stab me! XD
I was supposed to wait till Tuesday to post this =3= because my friend is going to be editing this. But I got impatient. =_= I'll edit it once the bad stuff has been pinpointed.