Disclaimer: I own neither Chrono Crusade or Paul Laurence Dunbar's poem, 'Sympathy'. But, being the incredibly bright and wonderful people that you all are, I'm sure you already knew that. XD


Author's Note: I've wanted to do an Azmaria based fic for quite some time now, and finally received inspiration in English class today. I hope you all enjoy- and please R&R!

(PS. I use the song Azmaria sings in volume 3 here, seeing as how I lent out my copy of manga one. ::sweat drop:: So I can't remember if they're different or not. . . But I can tell you that it's different from the anime version. (It's better.)

. . . Yeah.)

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Why the Caged Bird Sings

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"Star of Bethlehem

Star up high. . ."

People had always told her that singing was a 'happy activity'. That when one poured their soul into a melody they should feel the presence of God inside- the joy, the wonder, the awe. Full; whole- the almighty power of the Lord.

She'd never felt it.

Instead she was hallow- cold and detached. What was this unfamiliar warmth they spoke of? Had she ever experienced this alien emotion? It was so difficult to remember. Hard to delve deep enough to find the jovial memories when they were blanketed by fresh, painful ones- the suppressed thoughts. Guilt, ache, loneliness. That's all there ever was, ever had been, ever would be. No joy. No wonder. No awe. Perhaps that was what she had to sacrifice to use the despised 'power' that her foster father continually spoke of?

Ironic. . . and depressing. Especially since she'd gladly give all of that up for just a taste of the wonder others told her of. The magic that they proclaimed to feeling when they heard her sing.

. . . Right before they died.

"Miracle of the midnight sky. . ."

I must be the angel of death incognito, she had once mused, half joking in an attempt to feel better. But in reality it only made her feel worse. Because. . . deep down. . . she knew in a way that she was. Whoever dared to get close to her found themselves in an early grave. It was fact. She had long since factored out the chance of every demise being coincidental.

Yes- she was a ticking bomb with a melodic fuse. Death surrounded her on all sides, caused by the explosions of greed those who desired her gift created. There was a graveyard in her soul with every name carefully carved on crosses of white, mourned daily; never forgotten.

She was a murder.

But she knew she didn't have to be.

If she could leave. . . Oh, if she could leave! Escape this prison of gold and jewels- the fancy dresses, the crisp tuxes. The slot machines, the acts- this hell on Earth! If she did that. . . She could be free. She wouldn't have to sing anymore. That, in and of itself, was motivation enough to spend days planning in her dark room, routing her escape. Sitting in the corner, curled into the smallest ball she could, she whittled away the time by plotting and dreaming her life away.

. . . All she wanted to do was help. Was that too much to ask? Too large of a wish for the likes of her? A murder?

No. . . no, it wasn't. She could help- she would help- deep inside she knew it. Somehow she'd find a way to make this twisted world a better place. But first she had to break her chains and fly away from here.

"Let your luminous life

Of heaven better our hearts!"

Those chains, however, were made of stronger stuff than aluminum. Tougher still than steel. Even more sturdy than diamond.

Lerajie.

Every instance a toe was placed out of line; every second spent peaking through her door's keyhole; every moment she dared to break away- he was there. Always watching. Always leering. Always loathing.

Always ready to remind her how much she was truly worth.

His swift reprimands still scared her tender flesh- leaving welts she was sure would never heal. Pain that spanned across the plane of her body, and the canvas of her heart. Only once did she ever try to fight back- rage against him like a tempest on the sea- attempt to win her freedom. But in the end the result was the same: hours of gingerly attending her wounds in the icy blackness of her bedroom, the soft frills and fancy lace of her canopy feeling more like spears and swords underneath her fragile form.

"And make us fly. . ."

It was soon after this continually repeated performance that her foster father would summon her to the stage, watching her from the first row like a cobra would its prey. You're mine. . . his sickly gaze taunted, merciless and syrupy sweet. No matter what you do. No matter where you run. No matter where you hide.

And then- just to tease her in the cruelest way he could- he would make her sing. Sing sweet hymns of praise and love to God. To the God that had taken all she loved way. To the God that had abandoned her when she needed him most. To the God that had cursed her with this spiteful 'blessing'.

. . . To the God that she still believed in with all of her heart.

"Oh light. . ."

Yes, she still believed. She still prayed. She still poured her soul into her meaningless songs, trying to feel that spark of divinity somewhere inside her frozen spirit.

Lifting her arms to the sky, she closed her eyes; placing every ounce of empty courage and saddened faith that she could muster into her sanctified cry, her sacred plea.

"Oh holy light. . ."

Someday- someday soon- she would be free.

"Oh light divine!"

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"I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs, soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--

I know what the caged bird feels!

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I know why the caged bird beats his wing

Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting--

I know why he beats his wing!

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I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--

I know why the caged bird sings!"

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"Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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