A/N: A prompt that I think everyone should try their hand at: it grants you all of history as playground, while keeping you securely tied to the red thread of fate throughout it. It's so much fun to do. =)
I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.
Greed.
Such a delicious word to shape one's mouth around: greed - ah, the mere taste of it~ The insatiable maw that is the mother of hunger and the sister of desire: and the grave of many a man and woman.
He was, in that sense, a very typical demon. His greed for the rare and the valuable spanned all manner of fields, knew no bounds or sating: and whatever he desired, he made sure to obtain.
He was, in another sense, a very unusual demon. Blame it on age, prolonged exposure to unhealthy influence, or the widely recognised notion that he was the black – white? – sheep of the royal family: Samael nursed a profound fascination with humankind, and with the individuals that constituted it.
Humans were a lovely breed of vermin: like little organic Swiss clockworks, each one alive and ticking with its own unique mechanisms. Handle them wrong and they broke; handle them right and they performed for you like exquisite wind-up toys. Naturally, the rare ones caught his interest. Every era produced its brilliant gems in the masses of grey pebbles, and he collected them as fervently as he collected his anime figurines. It was an unmatched delight, to learn the coils and springs that operated those specific clockworks, and tailor traps to fit them perfectly; to watch his beautifully crafted mechanisms snap shut around his prize… Indeed, the greed of demons has been the grave of many a man and woman.
Of course, the ubiquitous Lady Chance could render any trap, no matter how well devised, useless. He didn't mind: Chance and Serendipity were his favourite mistresses, adding that delectable twist of variation to life with their capricious gifts.
...sometimes, however, he was made to wonder if they conspired to deliberately gall him. There is no thing more aggravating, for one who prides himself so on his skill with snaring souls, than to be cheated of his prize – repeatedly.
A soul could elude him once. That it would escape twice was unlikely, but it certainly wasn't impossible.
But three times…?
Three times was a taunt. A taunt and a disgrace and a nail in his eye; especially since that soul seemed to stalk him through history to flaunt its existence before him.
"How utterly useless…"
The teaspoon chimed an absentminded soliloquy against the inside of the cup, slowly coaxing the reluctant contents into dissolving more sugar; the comedy played out before him had occupied his attention for a while and left the tea to cool off.
"Four lifetimes, and you haven't mastered such a simple thing as talking to the opposite sex."
Any moment now...
*smack*
Pointedly ignoring the familiarity that softened his smirk, he watched with glee as the very attractive senior left her suitor at brisk pace.
"And you don't remember a thing." His gaze shifted to the teenage boy, and the bright red, hand-shaped mark his cheek had received in place of a parting kiss. "Such a waste of time, lessons learnt only to be forgotten; what point is there to human life, if it is but an endless repetition of the same old mistakes?"
So frail, a human life; and so short. Barely did they learn the ways of the world before their sojourn in it was at end, the slate wiped clean, a new cycle of repetition begun.
And to complete that cycle, he touched upon the thought of ending it: of snatching that soul out of the flow of time, seduce it and snare it and break its line of reincarnation.
"Hardly even a challenge..." he thought idly, watching as that unfathomably reckless young man meandered towards him between the busy tables of the academy cafeteria.
Rare, because that kind of soul always walked the edge of the precipice, and few did so successfully for any prolonged time. Valuable, because a soul that is prepared to risk anything can also win anything. It was the kind of soul that seldom lived to grow grey hairs: it would take but a small push, a whisper in the wind, to make it fall; blood given, contract signed...
"Quit smiling; she wasn't even that hot."
...so how had it eluded him; not once, but thrice?
"Sour grapes, hm~?" he smirked blithely as young Fujimoto Shiro claimed the other chair at the round two-man table. "You started going wrong when you missed her hint about her friend Junko-chan."
"Who said you were allowed to eavesdrop, you twit?" Such a mouth on that one; then again, none of his previous incarnations had cared for proper language, either. "What hint? Didn't she just ask if it was okay that Junko-chan came along to the concert, too?"
...and neither of them had been inclined to pick up on subtleties.
"And instead of saying 'sure, she can come', and wearing the look of a wolf invited into the sheep's paddock, it might have been more tactful to say you would prefer to give Akane-chan your full attention at the event."
Maroon eyes went dull, then closed as he rubbed the scowl lines on his forehead. Those were becoming permanent already, and how old was he? Not even twenty!
"How unattractive..."
"There should be an additional class to take for those who need to learn speaking Girl..."
Such a peculiar experience, to see that familiar expression on that unfamiliar face...
Looks are deceptive, but they had not deceived the headmaster of True Cross Academy. He had recognised that one annoying soul the moment he laid eyes on his new student; that impish glimmer of a gemstone that appeared so easy to pocket yet somehow always – always! – slipped like water between his fingers when he tried to seize it.
The first time their paths crossed, he had watched the show unfold from above the weatherworn pinnacles of Thermopylae. And what a show it had been...! Bold choices had carved the stage beneath his floating divan and left only one remaining: survive, at the cost of thousands of lives; or die, for the uncertain possibility of saving them.
A harsh choice, a cruel choice: a choice humans would pay anything to be relieved of.
Three thousand men against twenty times their number, caught between the rock walls and the duty to their people; it would have been so easy to whisper the words of despair in their leader's ear, to make fear bend his heart to the offer of victory and survival at the price of a soul...
...and yet, no breath had left his lungs to speak. He had not uttered a word, nor had he left his vantage point on the divan, as that man spat in the face of Death and embraced it unbent, unbowed...
"Magnificent..."
"Oh god, you've invented liquid diabetes..." The scowl lines came out to their fullest as young Fujimoto pulled a face and returned the teacup to its saucer. "The thing with tea is that it's supposed to balance the sweet of that", he made a rough gesture at the half strawberry shortcake that sat on its own gilt-edged saucer, "with bitter. Not be even more sweet."
"Wiser men than you have tried to explain the concept of 'bittersweet' to me, and none have been able to convince me that it does anything save spoil the pleasant with unpleasantness."
"Pff, what would you know of that anyway?" he dismissed his words bluntly. "You're immortal. You've got no idea what it's like to be human and know you could get run over by a car and die tomorrow. Life's limited, and that's the bitterness that makes it so sweet. Same goes for pretty much everything, but you wouldn't get that either: all you gotta do is snap your fingers and you have whatever you want."
"Not whatever I want", he corrected silently. "If I could get whatever I want, dear Shiro, you wouldn't be sitting here."
The second time they met had been brief. He had ducked a carelessly hurled beetroot, he recalled, and felt the wind tug his cape as the target rushed by - and briefly, ever so briefly, he had recognised him. A nameless boy in the streets of France, a child raised by neglect and fed on starvation: such a pathetic existence, and yet; beneath filth and illness and bruises burnt the same unbending, unyielding fire...
He had followed the boy then, quietly, from the creases of dimensions' wefts - curiosity is an itch that grows unbearable if unchecked, after all. The boy was a leader in this life, too: not of bard-besung armies, but of the ones that in dark times sought a fire to huddle close to. Orphaned children, unwanted children, scared and lonely children; led through example rather than words, kept fed through begging and theft.
"The kind of man that inspires humans to do the impossible", he mused to himself, seeing in his memories the shadow of King Leonidas on that gaunt little face. "Be that to die or to live."
The Revolution had demanded his full attention once careful orchestrations erupted into crescendo - busy times, busy times~ He had intended to break the cycle then, to offer the boy a life away from the streets with riches a child of his background could scarce even imagine; but Chance had not agreed with his interests. No great surprise, in the light of retrospection, that the frothing waves of revolution had put that unbending fire out in the blood that tinted Paris' streets. Still...
so frail, a human life
…still, at the core of his essence, he had sensed a different kind of cycle slowly grinding into motion.
He could be wrong, of course; although, he rarely was. No one knew better than the King of Time that every thing has its beginning and its end – and even endless repetition… will at some point have a beginning.
"Why does it have to be so complicated...?" the present incarnation lamented, holding forth his frustration on upturned palms. "I mean, why do girls have to test you all the time? Can't they just say what they mean?"
"You know all about that, don't you~?" he smiled sweetly. Truly, that boy and his talent for speaking without thinking...
"I'm a special case", he said, underlining the statement with a raised eyebrow. "I mean the opposite of what I say. Girls do the same, just... deliberately." He removed his glasses with a sigh - such handsome features, and what did the ape do with them? ruin his looks with that silly design of glasses! - and rubbed his eyelids. "Why can't girls be more like guys...?"
At times, one had to wonder: was he doing it consciously, or was his talent for thoughtless speech simply off the charts?
"With your reverse psychology, shall I take it you favour feminine men...?" he smiled suggestively, and was rewarded a dull glare, unobstructed by outdated glasses; and the hungry shiver that glare coated his skin with.
"One day, I swear to you, I will bring out the beast in those eyes." It was infuriating, to fail repeatedly at capturing that one soul: and yet there is no temptation greater, nothing greed yearns so desperately for, than the prize that is always just beyond its grasp. "If I can't have you forever, then I will have you every fleeting moment until forever ends in flame."
"There is no way in hell, heaven, or earth that I would ever consider you an option." Defiant: always defiant~ In every life and every form: no matter what shape clad it, that soul would always belong to a king! "And if you keep smiling that way, you will be picking your teeth up from the floor."
"Fufufufu, oh, if you could remember your past lives~" It required effort, but he kept his tongue in check: unlike young Fujimoto, he knew when to speak and when to remain silent. "Such temper, Shiro~ I think the problem lies not with girls but with you: you simply lack the skill to converse with your romantic interests altogether."
He remembered well the third time they had met; brought together, ironically, by the Vatican.
...of course, that was one of the many things the Vatican would never know of. He had been sent to Portugal, of all places, to investigate the alleged apparitions of Virgin Mary that three shepherd children had been privy to.
'See but not touch' - oh, how he had cursed that tortuous agreement of abstinence that he'd struck with the Order! Mission by day, dancing all night; dancing with those shapely, obsidian-eyed vixens that tapped the flamenco as if the floor beneath their feet was indeed burning, and lit a maddening fire in his veins!
How they could merge those traditions with adherence to the sanctity of marriage was a mystery, one that he had cursed almost as enthusiastically as his own obligations to Catholicism. Nothing that couldn't be circumnavigated with proper discretion, however: find a human that wouldn't mind or speak of a little side step and there would be no need to worry. Alternatively: find a human that wouldn't be missed.
Lust had burnt any particular preference from his mind when he stalked into the dim streets where prostitutes and cheap perfume hovered in the pools of lamplight. He would have picked anyone - that is, if he had been given the chance before anyone picked him.
She looked no different than the others; curves swelling like the most forbidden fruits of Eden, the bountiful blessings of the Mediterranean breed on display in the night market of debauchery. But looks… are deceptive.
an endless repetition
That fire danced in her eyes, that bold fire that bent to no one; and in her step the confident, alluring sway that testified she was in the market not to sell her goods, but to choose them.
"First one costs", her rich alto had confided from a sensual smile, "and the rest of the night is free: how does that sound, señor?"
Oh, that sounded like an offer suited perfectly to his taste.
"You always had a way of handling demons", he smiled to himself, eyeing the boy that, at times, seemed to understand demons better than he understood his own race. "And if I'm not mistaken, you always will."
A pleasant night, but demanding: reining in desire so as not to break that fragile yet oh-so-tempting body was a feat not all demons were capable of – nor cared to bother with. In that sense, a very unusual demon…
"How rare~" Indeed, for a customer to keep his gloves on and nothing more; he saw the tease in her smirk but could not risk the complications of a mash- "A demon that takes care not to harm a human."
So full of surprises…
"How rare", he had echoed the words against her sweet-smelling hair. "A woman that keeps a crucifix around her neck while inviting demons to her bed."
Such a lovely specimen she had been, tempting both body and mind – and instinct. An easy purchase: or so he had thought. So he had thought twice before, and each time he had found his expectations foiled.
an endless repetition
"I could ruin marriages for the married, or reputation for the unmarried", she'd answered him in between their romps. "Or I could spare the other poor souls here the embrace of a demon." She had, many times: her skin bore more mashou scars than many of the Vatican's exorcists. "Humans look at me like filth, too ashamed to meet my eyes, but demons treat us all equal." And her smile – ah, yes, that same wolfish grin that looked so good on Shiro's lips. "And they know how to fuck."
so full of surprises
...and so fragile
Even on her deathbed, Branca had managed to surprise him. Humanity is not kind to a whore, and life is no kinder. Thirty-one years old she was sick and spent, with disease and neglect competing for her last breath: and no matter what he offered her – health, fortune, a husband, a child to pass her legacy to the world when she left it – she would only laugh at him.
"Serve your poisoned wine at other tables." That fire, that unyielding defiance that held Thermopylae against the Persians… "All I want… is Paradise."
Those words! Of all the dying words his memory preserved, those still made him double over in laughter: the demons' whore that set her eyes on Heaven…!
"But you laughed, too", he reminisced, watching Fujimoto Shiro sip his unsavoury, bitter tea. "Laughed at death and laughed at the demon that would prevent it." Frail as butterfly wings and firm as bedrock; the paradox that was the human race. "Truly… the loveliest breed of vermin that ever scourged the world…"
"I took sin upon my own shoulders, like Christ his cross: that is my sacrifice for the sake of the humans around me. There will always be demons in our hearts", she had confided, pale lips cracking as she smiled – smiled! – at him. "But there will also be Faith."
"Not quite enough to make it to Heaven." He smiled into his teacup as he drank. "But enough for another chance."
to repeat the same old mistakes
"Such a waste of time…"
so brief, a human life
"…but time I have plenty."
to repeat the same old mistakes
"I wonder what trick you will pull to escape me in this life…?"
and complete yet another pointless cycle
of mistakes
and of failures
Once was fine. Twice was unlikely. Thrice was a taunt. Four times…
Four times made him a very unusual demon indeed.
A/N:
I picked Leonidas originally because I'd spent too much time thinking about the epicness of Shiro's last moments before death: sacrificing himself, and laughing at the Devil… *u* But afterwards, I remembered that Leonidas means "lion-like". x') So I named the whore Branca, which means "white", and the circle is closed...
For those who haven't read The End of the Beginning, what I'm getting at is the composition of Shiro's name. It's normally read as "fourth son" (which is why I made this life the fourth time Mephisto meets him), but with Kato's choice of kanji it means "lion son". "shiro" is also very similar to the Japanese word for "white", and Kato admitted that what she was gunning for with her design of Shiro was a white lion from an old Japanese legend.