disclaimer: disclaimed.
dedication: Emily + really good cake. & Chloe. & advil.
notes: heretical nineteen year old FULL STEAM AHEAD!
notes2: fun facts: columbine means foolishness and innocence. it is considered bad luck to give it to a lady. the language of flowers speaks.
chapter title: STN-blood
summary: In a world where someone else found the twins that snowy night, Rin leads a demon army. — Rin/Shiemi.
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"Do you think they're dead?"
"They can't be."
A slow exhalation. "No one's seen Takara, either. It's just us left."
"So you're so quick to accept that Izumo's gone? Just like that. Even Koneko."
"Fuck off, Bon."
Silence between them.
"We're all fuckin' dead, anyway. What does it even matter?"
"The Vatican's sent reinforcements."
"Supposedly."
They glanced at each other darkly, because though the Vatican had said they would send reinforcements, the chance of it happening at all wasn't likely. The Romans had their walls and their chantments and almost two thousand years of long-laid magic to keep them safe; Japan had nothing of the sort.
And in a way, it made perfect sense. As long as the Vatican survived, there was technical hope for humanity. If the Vatican was destroyed… well, that was something different entirely. It was a privileged stance, but the Vatican were a bunch of privileged assholes anyway, so at least it made sense.
The two men sat side-by-side outside of their little canvas tent, the picture of languidity slouched over as they were. It was the middle of the day, and they were both so, so tired.
"We should get some sleep," Renzou mumbled.
"Don't give up on them, Shima," Bon muttered in reply, running a hand through the shorn locks of hair.
"I'm being realistic."
"Same difference."
Renzou dropped his head into his hands. Bon watched him tremble ever so slightly out of the corner of his eye; the tremors were slow and imperceptible, but still there. He shook his head.
"We fucked up. Shouldn't have let them go alone."
A sad little smile quirked across Renzou's face. "Izumo-chan wouldn't have let me come with her. I know how she is."
The sad part was that as realistic as Renzou thought he was, Bon knew better; the other man still spoke of his lady love in present tense. He hadn't given up, yet. It wasn't an entirely lost situation.
The wind whisked leaves past them, tangling through Shima's hair. The scent of summer forest fires clung to the breeze underneath the dry cranberry sky and he stood up and rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. He muttered "Sleep. You're probably right."
Bon nodded, eyes on the sky.
Renzou shot him one last glance, sighed, and slipped into the tent.
For a single split-second, there was absolute peace.
For a single split-second, everything was okay.
And then:
"JESUS CHRIST, IZUMO!"
Bon was up and ducking into the tent faster than should have been possible, but that sort of declaration was not one taken lightly. He jerked the tent-flap out of the way, and found Renzou kneeling at his cot, tears down his face.
"Izumo-chan. Izumo-chan."
She was still and pale in a white dress and barefoot with pastel-coloured wildflowers in her hair. Her eyes were closed and she might have been sleeping but for the unnatural quality of her lack of motion. She was clean—too clean, but that was forgiven in the face of the mound of wild purple columbine that draped across her body.
She was beautiful.
But columbine didn't bloom in late August.
Bon drew back even as Renzou dove forward and pulled the girl to his chest, shaking as he cried into her hair. The columbine fell away.
The front of her dress was the colour of rust.
Revulsion coated the inside of his throat. Bon slipped outside, fingers shaking as he lit a cigarette. The last thing he saw was his best friend curled over Izumo's frigid, beautiful body.
He breathed in.
And then he closed his eyes.
/ / /
There were some things that were unforgivable.
Shura snarled in her chains, rattling a ghostly tale of woe. Her little Kitty—deader than a door knocker.
There were some things that were unforgiveable.
And that was one of them.
Demon shackles were demon restraints, and Shura was a demon-girl; they were enough to keep her in place without too much effort. But a death brought to the surface her other sides—lighter and darker but still as important.
The seal on her stomach burned.
"Motherfu—"
It was a bitter sentiment, then, when she realized that the only way she'd escape was something she'd known and dreaded all along. Her head was bowed, voice low and hoarse.
"Herald the heavens, rain thunder across the land—"
The light that poured from her body was the cloudy, ink black-veined-red that she'd come to associate with sickness, hatred, death and destruction. It was the colour that the sky turned when the earth was soaked crimson and the fires raged out of control. It was the colour of a childhood left behind, of brass, smoke, snakes and molten lava.
And from the Angel seals her stomach, Totsuka-no-Tsurugi emerged.
It was a holy sword, inherited down a long line of once-gods, and it burned away the demon cuffs away as it shone. But in that holy light, Shura's blood reacted, keening in tortured silence and she dropped to her knees, screams echoing inside her head. Her hands blistered, her lips broke and bled. She pressed her hands to her ears and rocked back and forth, forcing herself not to cry.
It hurt.
Jesus, Jospeh, and Mary in goddamn fucking tinsel town, it hurt.
Shura pushed herself up and hissed.
"Adeat."
The sword flared—she could feel its annoyance and the sealing even as she reached for the glowing handle to force it back into her body. It went without a fight, but there was smug satisfaction radiating from its every pore.
It was an evil thing.
She collapsed to the floor, breathing hard. She'd never had control over Totsuka—never had the will nor the power. Kusanagi had always been easy, in comparison.
For a long time, Shura lay in the shadows and let them bath the blisters and the cracked lips in forgiving darkness. Beauty was such a subjective thing, in the darkness. Shadows were simple; umbra and oblivion painted the world wretched and she—
Well, Shura had always belonged there.
She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.
Though it came away glistening wetly, she smiled.
Ah, freedom.
Even if she was crawling on her knees, cutting her way through the walls and bleeding from her mouth, she was free.
(Free of shackles, but not responsibilities, that was.)
"Devour the seven…" she began.
Kusanagi was a balm against her soul, singing a lilting lullaby that she'd heard her entire life, from long before she had any memory of self. Hush little baby, don't say a word, mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird—
She used the sword's scabbarded length as a crutch to prop herself up, chest heaving underneath the hated white lab coat. It impeded her movement and restricted her sense of self, but for now, it would have to do.
Shura stood on unsteady legs, leaning heavily against her old friend. Blood dripped down her wrist.
She licked it away.
The wall quivered under her touch.
"I'd get out o' th' way, if I were yeh," she whispered. Tenderly, lovingly.
The wall parted into a staircase, and Shura walked up and up and up. She spat on the ground, and though it was flavoured red, she didn't mind.
She walked 'til she broke through the ground and fell to her knees in sunlight.
Shura fell to her knees in dazzling, wonderful sunlight.
/ / /
Shiemi felt nothing.
Two dead. Shura-sensei trapped. Takara gone. And she herself—kidnapped and not wanting to leave because there was good left in Rin. It was there; she knew it because she could see it. She could feel it.
(Shiemi had always been a sucker for the lost causes.)
But…
Two dead.
She leant against the wall, knees folded beneath her, and looked at her hands. They were dry and clean with the nails bit down to nothing, just like always. Healer's hands. Helper's hands.
Killer's hands, too.
And she wondered, then, what the point of the whole thing was. The whole point of this war. Had there ever been a point? Once, maybe, but she'd lost it somewhere along the way and now she didn't care to go back to that time. Now her best friend was dead. Now her teammate was dead.
And the whole world was dying.
She'd thought she'd hadn't any tears left.
But oh, she had.
Cry me a river, Izumo's voice filled the interior of Shiemi's head.
And the sad thing was that she had.
She tipped her head back, eyes red and stinging. Konekomaru's glasses had probably shattered when they'd fallen—she would have to find him a new—pair—
Rage and sorrow filled her.
She hadn't wanted this.
She hadn't wanted any of this.
A hiss, swoosh, click; Rin knelt in front of her, shaking. His eyes were so blue and so wild, terrified but still burning.
But such a lovely burning it was, Shiemi thought. She reached for his face, to cup her hands around the sides of his cheeks in quiet contemplation, quiet desperation and she looked at him like that, searching for something long lost in his face (innocence, maybe).
"You're so cold," she whispered.
"What—you okay? Abaddon—fuck, I'm sorry, he—"
"Don't." Shiemi shook her head, blonde hair in her eyes. "Just don't."
Rin tucked the flyaway, softly golden strands behind her ear. He pressed his thumb to the high curve of her cheekbone and drew a ragged breath like he was about to say something or maybe ruin the fragile peace and Shiemi—Shiemi didn't want that, either.
"Why me?" she asked. "Out of everyone, why me?"
"I dunno," he whispered into her clavicle.
And maybe he was lying.
But maybe he was telling the truth.
"I watched him die. I watched him die and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even move, Rin. Worse, I—" she paused to draw a shaky breath. "—I didn't even want to."
"I'm sorry. I—fuck. Fuck."
"It wasn't your fault," she murmured.
"'Cept it was."
"You're always apologizing," she breathed. She almost smiled.
Her fingers crept upwards to curl in the uncontrollable black tangle of his hair, for leverage and for promise and for safety (none of which she had, but something was better than nothing, and this was something. It was going somewhere). She tugged him down hard enough that his other knee clacked painfully against the floor on the outer side of her hip. She couldn't bring herself to care.
"Please," she said, and it was so gentle and so fragmented and so hoarse.
She could feel him breaking underneath her fingertips.
"Not here."
Never here. Never, never, NeverNeverland where the children went to never grow up. Lost and sad and lonely, 'til they found a world of mermaids and pirates and powwow's with a princess named Tiger Lily.
She'd liked that story, as a little girl.
That had been such a long time ago.
"Here," Shiemi said. "Now."
"Shiemi—"
She pressed her lips to his jaw, light as a feather, warm as sunlight and suddenly Rin was sure he was drowning; drowning as he'd never had because the blue fire that flared under the surface of his body was hot enough to evaporate any water as soon as it came in contact with his skin. And Shiemi was so very small, only a drop in the ocean but a drop was enough to drown in, it seemed.
"Here," Shiemi said again. "Now."
She pressed her palms against his chest, and Rin was lost.
/ / /
"'Lo there, boys."
Bon and Renzou whipped around.
Shura held the tent-flap open, eyes hidden behind her bangs and blood still on her lips. For a moment, no one moved, terrified that maybe this was a dream.
Then she cocked her hip out, threw her hair back, and said "What? Don' I get a hug?"
And Bon rushed to her, because surrounded by being walls and never-ending days was nothing compared to familiarity, and Shura was safe and familiar and it was so, so much better than nothing. Shura was hope and possibility, and they both thought that she wasn't coming back. Renzou stayed at the bedside.
"Thought you were dead," Bon muttered.
"So did I," Shura said.
"Everyone else?"
Her face was neutral. "Later, kiddies. I got somethin' interestin' t'show ya. Look what I found on m'way home. Oi, ugly, c'mere!"
She moved out of the way.
A man in white with gold hair stood in her place, looking bored.
Shura smiled with her teeth.
Violently. Venomously. Viciously.
"Ducklings, meet Baldy. He's our back-up."
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tbc.
notes3: sooooo I can't write smut? Yeah. Hi. also. "Baldy" is the best nickname.
notes4: Happy holidays, everyone! An early Christmas present for you all. :)
notes5: a review would be really, really nice. that could be your present to me? please? do I have to beg? please?