[-Ten-]
There is something beating its fists under the glass floor, but Ashura doesn't hear it. It pounds the surface, scattering dust and sharp slivers and raining little crystals down on itself, more lies to catch inside its throat.
Everywhere he steps, something shatters, be it the ceiling or the walls or even the very foundation of the castle itself. There's something restraining his movements but he thinks nothing of it; it's only fatigue, only listnessness, only lethargy.
His thoughts crawl away from the ballroom faster than his feet whenever he walks along the hallways, each step spreading cracks along the surface. The imps bundled up in his mind laugh at his cowardice, but he pushes them away and decides not to heed their words. They are not happy with this, unamused with his insolence and insubordination, restless to have something else to kill, and if it must be the core of Ashura's soul, then so be it.
The wizardking is ill-used now to denying his advisors and had forgotten all the nightmares that came with it – and here he is in eternal sleep. His eyes are clouded with the whispers they slip through the cracks in his mind, rolling them between the nerves and tissues so subtly that he almost doesn't notice they're there until he sees Fai standing there with open arms and a dagger hidden in his sleeve. He'd embrace him if only his hands weren't so red all the time.
Red.
He hates red.
And he's scrubbed them with spells, soap, and salt, and even shards of the ice, but no, redredred remains. And he doesn't bleed, because he's checked; under his skin are bones and incantations and the imps clinging to his flesh, but nothing else. He feels them crawling around, dirty feet prodding at his blood vessels and organs and their toes sinking in them, wiggling and smearing red across his skeleton . He cuts open his skin and licks the bones clean and then magicks himself shut again – the only things that sets him apart from common animals are his thumbs, his advisors, and the fact that he hates every minute of it.
Ashura will not will not will not will not will not allow Them the tortuous manipulation of emotions and fears like seamstresses stitching messages in fine silk in red thread. No, everything he brings upon himself will be his own doing and his own fault. He does this to make sure he can still call himself Ashura, not Mindless Puppet of Empty Skin Filled With Shadow Voices And Nothing Else. So he roams the castle with sleepy eyes and bleeding feet and stays far, far away from the ballroom. He will not desecrate his own soul to appease their whims. He will not drive a sword into the very core of himself – no matter how much of a despicable monster that is.
Pity you already have, Your Majesty, says the real Fai, the dead one, tottering after him with uncertain steps. The boy grabs his hand and clings to him like a lost child. It isn't the same.
There is something trying to break through the glass beneath his feet, but Ashura doesn't see it. He only sees the blonde hair and sunken eyes of someone more dead than he is.
.o.
Outside his mind, Ashura is alseep, peaceful to anyone else looking in. Tucked next to his is Fai's glass coffin with the child's mournful face staring upwards, towards the surface. Chi is stretched out over the surface, a shimmering entity made up of someone else's memories and wishes, the canopy over the prince's bed.
Chi shivers when someone else's soul touches hers. The contact lasts less than a second, longer than an eternity. The wizardking is struggling. The wizardking is waking up.
But not yet.
No need to worry Master yet.
.o.
Black rain falls in front of his eyes. Black screams and red water mingling on his skin, a torrent of blood and despair and mirrors.
Dream-Fai hops along beside him, skipping over puddles like a little child should, but he never smiles. Not once. The voices tell him to cut a smile into his face but Ashura refuses. He's looked out the window and seen corpses instead of young more than enough.
Yui used to be stoic and blank-faced. Yui used to have stone-cold little hands and nothing but a dead body to keep him going. Yui used to live with memories tailored to fit the exact shape of his mind and Ashura loved him for all his brokenness and determination. And Ashura loved Celes for its beauty and its people. When he'd heard that it was a little girl from a rural village who had gotten Yui to smile, he'd visited their family and gave them provisions to last ten years.
He tried to remember not to kill them. A week later they were buried under the snow and Ashura was cursing himself for his lack of willpower.
The banging on the floor sends shudders down the hallways, sends cracks up the wall, shatters the ceiling. The monster in the ballroom scratches on the door. Corpses fall through the chasms slit open around them. Ashura places his palms over Dream-Real-Fai's eyes and pulls him closer. Even if it's just a corpse, he'd rather Fai not see this. And the Dream-Fai buries himself into his coat and Ashura wishes he could call him Yui without the child disappearing .
And then everything reseals itself and his arms are empty.
Except for a small skull. A child's skull. One that crumbles into dust as he clenches his hand.
Yui has lied, yes, but Ashura has done worse. Ashura withheld the truth with silence and indulgence and smiles. Ashura never told him that no magic could raise the dead. Postpone death, yes, give something the semblance of life, yes, but never restore what has already slipped past them.
He breaths ice and exhales fog. Magic shimmers under his fingertips. He is alive, but he is not. He is asleep, but he isn't. He is waiting. He just wants to die.
.o.
Outside, his fingers twitch. No-one notices.
Whooaaa. Fast update, da?
Anyway~ damn. CLAMP's timeline is confusing. Stupid. Magical. Theory. =_= /killed.
Please review ^_^