Disclaimer: 何もを擁すらないよ。There. I said it in Japanese. Satisfied? I don't own Kingdom Hearts. Stop reminding me.
A/N: I don't really have anything to say other than WOO! CHAPTER 3! I couldn't post it directly after I finished it because my internet hates me, but if you're reading this, the internet fairy must have come while I was sleeping and fixed it.
SO. I am super psyched that this story is actually getting written! I usually have really bad commitment issues with chappies… *cough* But best not to jinx it, right? ONWARD HO!
**This chapter especially is rated T for graphic imagery. Poor Riku. Why can't I ever be nice to him? OTL *flings an adorable Sora at him* PLEASE DON'T HATE ME! Dx
Bon à lire!
-Slay
A Day of Mercy
Chapter 3
Isolation
-o-o-o-
When Riku finally made it to his hideout, he was pressed for time; sunlight was receding from the island like a golden tide, and already his skin was starting to itch underneath, a reliable warning sign. Trying his best to hurry without seeming overly suspicious, he tore through the dense forests just south of Twilight Town, eventually coming up on the stately and decaying façade of the abandoned mansion nestled in its depths.
He scaled the mansion's locked wrought-iron gate and sailed across the courtyard, busting his way through the front doors and slamming them shut behind him. The itch was sharpening into pain, tremors starting to rattle his bones—any time now.
Working past the rising pain, Riku crossed the atrium and raced up a winding staircase, arriving in a dusty old bedroom where he immediately set to stripping down , save for the amulet Kira had given him around his neck.
Not ten seconds after he'd tossed his clothes on the stale surface of the bed did the first snap seize his spine, causing him to cry out and stumble backward.
Day had fallen from the window, leaving him to suffer his curse in the fresh darkness.
God, he was hungry. Starving, even. He had never felt this obscenely famished in his entire life—the ravenous ache was grating harshly against his stomach, threatening to shred it open in its ruthless craving. It didn't matter that this body was foreign to him; long and winding, so laden with power that he couldn't tap—he had to eat something. Anything. Whatever he could find and sink these new, merciless teeth into…
The night exploded around him, lights popping behind his eyes, a shrill ringing jarring his head while everything spun and lurched beyond control. His senses ran wild, careening out of his grip, spiraling, crashing, his sanity outrunning him with every passing second.
Somewhere in the deepest cracks of his mind he knew this was wrong. A single shard of reason survived beneath the folds of this murderous craving, and it was shooting off pleas like flares—Villagers! Innocent people who've never wronged you, never even met you! They don't deserve this! No one does! What are you doing, Riku? This isn't you! Stop it! Please! STOP!
Splintering wood and crashing glass—his new body unfolded chaotically in the small room, thrashing and writhing without grace or guidance, strangled cries tearing out of an inhuman throat.
But he couldn't stop.
He couldn't even imagine stopping.
The hunger was so raw and raging—so rooted in his very survival that it couldn't be ignored; it couldn't even be questioned. The hunger was deep and desperate. He needed food. He needed blood. He needed to feel the fire's caustic edges on his frozen skin. He needed to feel the symphony of power in his muscles as they rolled and whipped, the moonlight gleaming clean and pale in his eyes.
They were just lowly villagers. They couldn't hold a candle to the hunger roiling inside of him.
Just villagers.
They were nothing to him.
Nothing but a sweet escape from brutal starvation.
Things had finally shifted. Riku lay sprawled out and exhausted on the bedroom floor, piled around the queen-sized bed in a great silver heap. Everything was good and sore now, from the narrow angles of his snout to the tip of his tail, which was somewhere on the other side of the room, far across a sea of lithe and curling hide.
He rustled his limbs vaguely, adjusting to his skin like fingers to a glove, invoking a quiet wave of pain that faded shortly after. Hunger rattled up through his parched throat, giving him a chill.
The next morning he awoke to the grim and bloated aftermath of massacre, bathed in red. The sight of the bodies sprayed around mutilated buildings horrified him, and the epiphany of his own guiltiness made him sick to his stomach.
He felt so cold. The tears were searing on his face, the bile a fire in his throat.
He was well aware of the amulet still strung around his neck, its long chain better suited to the size of this body. He hadn't been wearing it that first night—he'd left it on the duvet of his bed after the transformation racked him and threw him into the night, stir-crazy and yearning for blood. The day following his night of slaughter, he'd returned to the family manse and put the necklace on as an act of sentiment, only to discover later on that it actually helped.
The amulet acted to sate the roaring hunger that drove this beast inside him, freeing him from the fog of animalistic rage and giving him the gift of control.
He didn't quite understand how the thing worked, or how Kira had even come by it in the first place, but he didn't really care. If it kept him from ripping innocent people limb from limb, he was satisfied.
That amulet was his most prized possession. He never took it off—ever. He avoided any situations that may require its removal, and guarded it meticulously from damage and rust. He polished the silver casing of the lavaliere regularly, gently shining the crisp green gem until its depths glimmered.
The trinket thumped against his chest as he shifted, organizing the serpentine length of his body onto four crouched legs more comfortably. Once situated, he let his attention rest on the hoary moonlight spilling from the window, his mind finally at a colorless sort of peace now that he was alone.
There is a way to free yourself.
Over a hundred and thirty years had passed, and Kira's dying words still resided in his head, clear as crystal.
There's a darkness inherent in all men…And some are more susceptible to it than others. Free yourself from that darkness…
That part had always confused Riku. He understood that everyone was prone to certain demons in one way or another, but wasn't he a special case? What with this curse that was dumped on him by bad genes and worse luck? How was he supposed to free himself from a darkness that was harnessed inside of him like that? It wasn't like there were some magic words he could chant—he couldn't just up and banish the curse from his bones like a house fly from a kitchen. What was he supposed to do?
Find your way to the light and let your heart be cleansed by it. Only then will the curse be lifted.
And what the hell was that supposed to mean? Find his way to what light? He assumed it had something to do with being good and pure to other people. But how was he supposed to do that with everyone scrambling left and right just to get away from him? Or worse yet, attacking him? How could he be around people—let alone get close to any of them—when they saw him as nothing but an awful monstrosity? What was the logic there?
The answer was simple; there was no logic. The curse wasn't meant to be lifted. It was just a vicious cycle of pain and betrayal, and he was going to be saddled with it for the rest of his not-so natural-born life…
Riku rested his head on the floor, averting his eyes from the window and leering instead at the broken drawers of a dusty bachelor chest on the other side of the room.
He was too durable to die and too dead inside to live.
There just wasn't any point. All he could do was cling to the shadows and try not to be a blight on the world.
He snorted despondently, riling up a cloud of dust along the floor.
At least when he died alone, the curse would go with him. Then no one else would have to put up with this ungodly torture.
The usual veil of misery was draping itself over his heart, and a dreary, dreamless sleep was just around the corner when something sprung up in Riku's mind, completely distracting him from his moping.
Wild brown hair and eyes as valiant and blue as the clearest summer skies.
Sora.
He was startled by the sudden way his heart clenched, and even more by the weird salve of feelings that washed over it, clearing away the cobwebs his depression had been avidly spinning.
He knew it was a terrible idea to get attached, but it couldn't be helped. Sora had made an impression on him. Whether befriending him would work out or not…he didn't want to think about that. Oddly enough, he was perfectly content thinking about Sora. Just Sora; and how much of that boy's exuberant, sunny self he'd seen in the brief time they'd been together, how stark his amiable nature was compared to the drab cold shoulders Riku usually got.
As they bloomed in his mind, these thoughts flooded him with something strange; something completely foreign to this icebox of a body he lived in: a soft, sweet warmth. A dash of happiness that soothed him easily to sleep, where those brilliant blue eyes never once left his side.
A/N: So, either the curse is a real bitch of a Catch 22, or, Riku's a cotton-headed ninny-muggins who doesn't understand the concept of symbolism.
*sniff*
Chapter 4 soon to come! Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following! I love you all!
Review for a chakram cookie~
Flame for a chakram to the face!
Until we meet again!
-Slay