Between Alpha and Omega Chapter 6: Between Alpha and Omega (( going quietly mad )), a digimon fanfic

Between Alpha and Omega

By, Esmee Concept by, Tenshi no Yuma

– – –

I've wept for those who suffer long

But how I weep for those who've gone

Into rooms of grief and questioned wrong

But keep on killing

It's in the soul to feel such things

But weak to watch without speaking

Oh what mercy sadness brings

If God be willing

There is a train that's heading straight

To heaven's gate, to heaven's gate

And on the way, child and man

And woman wait, watch and wait

For redemption day

Fire rages in the streets

And swallows everything it meets

It's just an image often seen

On television

Come leaders, come you men of great

Let us hear you pontificate

Your many virtues laid to waste

And we aren't listening

What do you have for us today

Throw us a bone but save the plate

Oh why we waited til so late

Was there no oil to excavate

No riches to trade for fate

Of every person who died in hate

Throw us a bone, you men of great

There is a train that's heading straight

To heaven's gate, to heaven's gate

And on the way, child and man

And woman wait, watch and wait

For redemption day

It's buried in the countryside

It's exploding in the shells of night

It's everywhere a baby cries

Freedom

'redemption day'

~Sheryl crow

People hate what they can see. They hate even more what they cannot see, because they cannot see it and that makes them afraid. People do not like being afraid. People do not like to fear, and that makes them hate.

Do you see the pattern? It is a circle: never ending, never begining. People hate because they fear. People fear because they hate.

But why do people fear in the first place? What could make them hate?

It is what they do not know. It is what they cannot see or grasp or understand. What is not corporeal. That is what they fear. The fear is what they hate. And there is always something that people do not know, for whatever reasons. There will always be fear for those reasons. And there will always be hate for those reasons.

See? A circle . . .

Perhaps that is why the white cat hates me so. I am tangible, and yet . . . not tangible. She can see me and yet she . . . cannot. I represent all the nightmares she has ever had, and yet I don't at the same time. I am evil, yet not. So she does not understand. Because she does not understand, she fears. Because she fears, she hates. Because she hates, she does not try to understand. And the circle begins anew.

And she does hate me. With an intensity that is rather odd. Especially when one considers the rumors about me; the ones that say I can sense others emotions, even if I have none of my own any more.

You must be very careful about rumors; sometimes they are not rumors.

Had I my own emotions, I'm sure I would have found it more than just a little amusing. I do not like hypocrites.

She did confront me about it once. I suppose that was rather brave of her. But all she was really trying to do was justify her killing to herself by pointing to me and saying look at that, look at how that kills. Perhaps she is right. I don't care. I have no need to pacify my conscious.

She was never so foolish again.

The Master had waved a lavender hand, dismissing us until he wished to see us again. His amusement at the bat's quivering fear was very rich and sweet, like dark chocolate. That is what amusement tastes like, though it does vary pertaining to the type of amusement. The more cruel the amusement, the darker and richer the taste. It can become almost so rich that it gags you and makes you ill. There were other tastes entwined within the amusement. There was fear and anger. And desire.

Fear is a stale taste. Thick and disgusting. It slides copiously down your throat, and makes you reel. Anger is different. Exhilarating. Heady and spicy, like so much rich perfume. It too can become nauseating. Desire is something else all together.

Desire is a taste that slides down your limbs, making them heavy, and warms your gut. It tastes salty.

I had kept to the shadows, when I left, as I always do. It is by far the easiest way to move through the halls. Nobody walks in the shadows anymore. They are too afraid. So I kept to the shade of the halls, making sure not to let others see me lest they run in mindless terror. I could care less actually, but the Master did not wish to lose any more subordinates, no matter how insipid.

"How dare you," were the words the white cat hissed to me. The anger that hung in the air tasted very strong. She was behind me, and the words echoed sibilantly from the dank stones. I neither stopped nor turned round. This increased her anger tenfold.

"Look at me when I speak to you, Vipe." It was the sheer insolence that spiked the anger that made me turn, if only to humor the ashen cat.

Her rage made the hairs on her spine rise. She sat perched on the ledge of an old, inset window, perhaps once a shrine. Her eyes were bright, hot cobalt. I waited.

"You are a monster." She spat. "You are worse than Him. You disgust me." My lack of any response to her comments only seemed to enrage her further.

"You had a choice." Her voice became slightly ragged and rose shrilly in volume. "You could have chosen not to kill them all. Just enough to pacify him, leaving the rest alive. You could have shown some mercy." Her eyes were very hard; the taste of hate lay thickly between us.

Ah hate. It does not taste as one would expect it to. You would expect, from the motion that it inspires, that it would be a disgusting taste, one that is ugly and sour. But it's not.

Hate. It tastes sweet and bubbly. Like drinking fine champagne. And it is smooth. And both hot and cool. Like drinking wind or air. It quickens the blood. It is addictive. I think I understand now why so many hate with out just cause. But it makes you sick afterward. Sick and needy and wanting more. You soon become dependent on it, like an expensive drug habit. And, like a drug habit, you don't think you can stop.

"You're mercy . . . " she snarled again. "You are worse than Him. At least he lets some live." I gave her a moment to be silent in.

"And that is merciful?" My question, or perhaps it was the fact that I was speaking at all, seemed to unbalance her.

"Of course it is."

"And you show this . . . mercy . . . too?"

"Yes. I only kill those who need it to satisfy his bloodlust. I leave the rest."

"Butcher."

Her shock and outrage tasted strong. But it was not strong enough to cover the flavor of her unease or fear. Not at all. Cobalt darkened and narrowed.

"You dare accuse me–"

"You kill and then you leave." I cut her off, drifting into the shadows slightly. "You do not stay behind to witness the mourning. You do not see them, though you claim too. You are too much blinded by your fear of the Master. You do not watch them curse the heavens, or plot hopeless, meaningless revenge. You may kill only few bodies, but you mangle many souls. That is your mercy." She glared at me, hating me. Fearing me. Cobalt narrowed.

"You are a disease to me. A putrid mistake that should be eradicated from the face of the world. You and him both." The cat pulled black lips back, revealing long, pale incisors.

"And you are merciful." I replied softly. "Very merciful indeed. I only wonder if you hear the voices of the ones you damned wailing at night. I wonder if you shouldn't pray." Cobalt widened and jet dilated.

Ribbons of air hissed where her hand cut through it, silver crescents of claws sweeping towards my face.

We two stared at each other, there in the darkening passageway, with the dirty sputter of the torches making mockeries and ghouls of our shadows and faces. Cobalt stared into amber. My cheek burned white-hot where I knew my tattoo was. I could see green reflecting in the cobalt and jet of her eyes.

I held her claws away from my face, paused in mid air by my own hand. Stopping without any effort their lightening path towards me. Her pale muzzle pulled back further to reveal bone-white canines.

She then wrenched her paw from my grasp. We watched each other.

She retreated to let me continue onward. A sign of deference; an acknowledgement of dominance.

The scent of her hate was almost as great as that of her feelings of humiliation. And that of her fear. Humiliation is a bitter, dry taste. Quite unpleasant.

I drifted by, and did not look back.

The thing I remember most about that encounter though is that, in the end, the taste of her hate was very great. So great I could not tell whom she hated more, herself or me.

((CHAPTER VI: GOING QUIETLY MAD))

The shadow slunk along the forest floor, little more than a flicker of movement at the edge of one's vision. It darted between the thick undergrowth at the speed of a thought and paused every once in a while to survey its surroundings. Once satisfied about something, it would continue onward in its mercurial movements. A flicker of cerulean, a sudden dash of silver slate, and it would vanish again.

The ghostly beastie paused for a second time at the edge of the woods, hunkering down on strong hind legs and reaching up small hands with a limited dexterity to the thick ruff of azure and indigo mane around its neck. It lifted a thin cord of shell pink up and examined the golden pendent that hung on it. It tugged the cord once, hard, then, seemingly pleased, replaced it and sprang out from the protective jewel-hued shadows of the forest with a single, powerful thrust of its hind limbs. It sprinted swiftly across the open space, not pausing til it reached the over side of the cleaning, and then, only under the subjective cover of fairly dense shrubbery. It held still for some time before moving forward again.

It continued its journey in this manner. Sudden sprints across open clearings, and sometimes across moderately large tributaries, and lightening zigzagging between the narrow, smooth trucks of saplings and the gnarled bodies of the older plants. There were no tracks left behind it to identify that it had passed. It rarely paused to rest.

Then one morning, it lifted its vaguely canine muzzle to the air, large rounded ears tipped with tuffs of indigo and cerulean pricking slightly as they caught the almost unheard vibration of sound in the air. Large jade eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they considered the length and frequency of the vibrations. So, on instinct – or perhaps simple curiosity – it spun about-face ninety degrees and skulked towards the source of the vibration.

As it turned out, it was a small, rather tattered group of traveler making the noise that had distracted it. It cocked its head curiously, as it observed the younglings traveling below it. They seemed to move in sets of two, one digi to one Mon. It gave a soft snort.

These must be the Chosen and their Bonded, it realized. It trailed along beside them for a while, watching the Chosen pairs with unbridled fascination, and, perhaps, some envy. How, it wondered, would it feel to be that close to his Bonded? He shook himself. Speculation was all well and good in its place, but he had work to do. He watched the Chosen children for another moment.

He would let them go ahead of him. They needed to talk to Gennai. So did he, it was true, but his matter, he felt sure, was not quite as important. He backed off from the trail the Chosen were following, and headed deeper into the forest. This would give him time to catch up on his beauty sleep.

Gatomon wanted to kill something. Badly.

She clenched her paws into fists and crouched onto her hunches in the middle of the cold stone corridor. She growled deep n her throat. The flickering shadows made by the inconsistent torch light seemed to mock her. She hated being mocked.

"Bitch." The white cat hissed under her breath. "Master's fuck." She felt a shiver stiffen her spine, anticipating that any moment a furious, gray-gloved hand was going to reach from the darkness to steal away her life. Her eyes darted to the shadows.

"Vipe," she said louder this time, teasing the fates. "Judas Vipe."

"I wouldn't antagonize her if I were you." The white cat spun reflexively; bring her paws up in front of her in a defensive posture, at the slightly nasal voice. A wordless snarl flew from her dark lips when her eyes fell on the gangly silhouette with a shock of straw-colored hair providing stark contrast to the black of cloak and shadow. Pale chips of apple green, the color of a winter sky in the evening, watched her disapprovingly. Gatomon snorted in disgust, and looked away.

"I didn't ask for your opinion." There was definitely a large amount of venom in the smaller digi's voice. The silhouette shrugged it off.

"It is not merely my opinion. It is fact. She is dangerous. She could destroy you with a wave of her hand. Do not antagonize her unnecessarily." The shadowed digi shot back sharply. The white cat glared at him.

"Why do you care? It's none of your concern. I will deal with that Judas Vipe as I see fit Wizardmon." The cat gave a feral grin and slashed her claws through the air in front of her. "I will see it bleed."

The taller digi passed his hand over his eyes wearily. He walked from the shadows to the narrow ledge of the desecrated shrine that sat slightly inset into the wall. Once settled comfortably, he turned compassionate eyes on the smaller, snow colored digi.

"You won't even admit to yourself that you're afraid of her. How in the names of the Blessed Twins do you think you'll be able to 'see it bleed' as you put it?" He said gently. The fine hairs on Gatomon's spine stood on end.

"I am not afraid of it!" She snarled. She crouched down in front of him, tail lashing wildly.

"Your fear of your master makes you fear the Dark Wings because she is replacing you as your master's fuck, I believe you called it." He let himself slide down until he was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall. He took off his hat and placed it on the dusty stones next to him. Gatomon growled and took a breath.

"Let me speak," he gave the smaller digi a warning glance. "While you were the competent General, Myotismon needed you. This gave you a limited safety, seeing as harming you would set him back. No smart leader would intentionally do that, and Myotismon is nothing if not smart." Gatomon had to give a conceding nod, however grudgingly. Wizardmon saw this and continued.

"Before that you . . . you were not safe. The scars you cover with your gloves prove that. And though you did not like it, it was a necessary thing. And now this being has usurped your power, your place," Gatomon saw him look at her thoughtfully.

"And perhaps your identity as well. This replacement makes you vulnerable. Now that Myotismon does not need you, he can hurt you again. So you fear her, hate her and want her gone so you can resume you 'rightful' place at Myotismon's side." He shook his head and turned his gaze to the ceiling. Gatomon was speechless. Whether from anger or amazement, she wasn't sure. Wizardmon turned to her again.

"Gatomon, you can leave this place now," he was pleading with her, she realized. "You never belonged here in the first place. You were searching for something before Myotismon found you, before he hurt you. You can search for it again. You are free because he no longer needs you. You can leave."

She stared at him wonderingly. "Why do you care?" He reached a hand out to her.

"You once helped me for no other reason than that I needed help." He spread his hands in front of him, showing her palms bare of any trickery. "Now let me do the same for you. The only reason I came to this Omegamon touched place at all was to help you. I consider you my friend." She stared, confused, at his palms and then at his face.

"Cast off this place with me," he urged. "Come with me and together we will search for whatever it is that you lost. Please."

The snowy cat bowed her head. Thoughts of freedom, though not new ones, spiraled in her head. Her heart seemed to lurch forward in her chest. To be able to search again! To be free . . .

Free . . .

But would she be truly free? Or would this odd digi use some deceit to bind her to him as Myotismon had done? She looked into his winter sky colored eyes and saw only an honest desire to help her there. To protect her if need be. She saw all this in his eyes and more. It made her want to weep. It had been so long since she had let herself trust someone . . . So very long . . .

Too long.

Gatomon felt amusement bubble up in her chest, as the gangly digi's eyes grew saucer-round when she grabbed his hands. She smiled, and this time all the cynicism was gone from the look. Wizardmon seemed to sag in relief.

"When do we leave?" The straw-blond digi gave her a brilliant smile.

"Very soon. I just need to make some arrangements."

Kohaku stared listlessly around the softly lit living room. The warm glow of the candles caused unique valleys and crevasses of ruddy black against the pale walls. The bookcases against the walls were lined thickly with scrolls, ancient, crumbling manuscripts, and what looked like sleek chrome data pads. The floor was made from a wood, sandblasted to an almost velvet smoothness, with a warm rosy glow to the grain. The walls, what he could see of them at any rate, seemed to be of some smooth creamy material. Rice paper, he though but wasn't sure. It seemed too thick to be rice paper.

However, he didn't give a rat's ass what the room looked like; it could have been the grandest palace or the filthiest shit-hole, and he wouldn't have noticed. Or if he had noticed, he wouldn't have cared.

Glancing around him, he saw the other children; the Chosen they called themselves, he remembered with scorn, were caught between a mixture of frustration and fear. The digimon were neither and looked quite bored, though content. He turned away from them, going back to staring blackly into space. It made him look very eerie, and friends had told him otherworldly, when he let his expressively large eyes go blank. And he refused to talk to any of the other children except to complain or belittle something. It was becoming a rather agitating habit, especially for some of the other children. That was one of the main reasons he kept doing it. He grinned maliciously to himself as he remembered the look on the Yagami kid's face earlier that day when he'd insulted his directional skills. He knew that though they felt penitent and sorrowful about his Oneesan, they were quickly losing their patience with him and his attitude.

Not that he really blamed them for that; he himself was become rather nauseated with his bitchiness on some deep internal level, but he wouldn't admit that for the entire world. He trapped a faint sigh in his throat and dropped his head onto his arms, which were encircling his knees. So it was, perhaps, because of his preoccupation with the empty space in front of him that he didn't notice the youngest of the Chosen children creep over to him.

"Can I sit with you, Kohaku-san?" The timorousness he saw when he looked into the younger boy's face made him flinch. It looked too much like a small dog waiting to be kicked for his liking. It made his first instinct one of enveloping the younger boy in a protective circle of reassurance. He promptly squashed it, reminding himself harshly that this child was the younger brother to the boy that had gotten his Oneesan killed.

"It's a free country." He scowled fiercely, hoping to drive the boy away with this cold rebuke. "But shouldn't you be with your brother. They're all waiting for someone." The boy didn't budge, and instead looked down, picking at the laces on his shoes with a grubby fingernail.

"They –they don't really need me. Not right now," he added hastily, looking up at the older boy with beseeching eyes, and Kohaku was suddenly forced to wonder whether that hurriedly tacked-on reassurance wasn't more for Takeru's own benefit than for himself. "And I thought . . . " The child faltered here and looked down again. Kohaku allowed himself to give-in to one of his more kind urges.

"You thought?" He prompted gently, making the robin's egg blue eyes shoot back up to his face in amazement. He had to suppress a wry smile that wanted to rise to his lips, seeing the dawning hopefulness in the child's eyes at the faint encouragement. Takeru took a deep unsteady breath.

"I thought you looked lonely," he got out in a rush. "I just thought you looked lonely." For some odd reason that he couldn't explain, Kohaku felt his chest constrict. The kid had been concerned about him and he had been trying to brush him off. It made him feel more than a little guilty. He shifted, feeling ashamed of his behavior.

"Look, Takeru-san, I–"

At that moment a sharp buzz of energy darted through the room, causing all it's occupants to glance, startled, at the far wall, now sliding open to reveal a long bamboo, black lacquer, and rice paper corridor. The children all looked at each other. The girl, Sora, shrugged when Yagami's gaze fell on her, looking for some kind of guidance. This seemed to deflate the boy. He shook his head as if to clear away any lingering misgivings and gestured that they should use the corridor. Yagami's gaze connected with Kohaku's for just a moment and the younger boy felt tempted to ignore the older boy's quasi askance stare and stay just where he was. The more sensible part of him reasoned that it was safer to stick with the group, even if he didn't like it. Hell, the sensible part argued, you might even go home faster if you cooperate somewhat.

So, for not the first time, nor the last time, the sensible part in him won the argument. He got up stiffly, feeling an ache in his bones from sitting on the cold floor, and followed the rest of the children through the new doorway.

He tensed in surprise when he felt a small, soft hand slip into his own and grip it tightly. He spared a momentary glance at the small fairy-blond boy holding onto his hand before joining up with the rest of the Chosen. He did not shake loose from Takeru's sweaty grip.

The end of the hallway was a set of candy-apple red doors trimmed with tarnished gold. Once he was close enough to the doors he could also make out a script emblazed in the varnish that looked almost like some form of maligned ancient mandarin. Kohaku thought that it looked familiar for a moment, like some writing Okaasan had been translating before he'd left. That gave him a fleeting pause; could that be where he'd seen it? On one of those crumbling documents that Okaasama was always working on, translating from some lost dialect to a language understandable to today's people perhaps? For a moment he was grateful of the writing; it suddenly made this world seem just a little less foreign.

The doors remained shut, even at their approach. They stopped in front of it, waiting for it to open, and when it didn't, they shifted uneasily on their feet and looked at each other to see if anyone had at least some idea of what they did now. The oldest boy of the group drew aside Koushiro, whispering urgently to him, as the redhead glanced back and forth between him and the door and nodding at some of his words. In the mean while Taichi and Ishida were conversing in low voices with several of the digimon, gesturing at the door forcefully even as the digis shook their head in bewilderment. Kohaku felt the soft hand in his grip shift, and tighten but not let go. He felt the smaller boy lean against him slightly, as if too tired to hold up his own weight any longer, but did not comment on it. He saw the Sora look over in their direction purposefully.

"Kohaku-san," all the other children called him that; they seemed afraid to call him anything else. The burnished-haired girl was not daunted by the younger boy's lack of reply or suddenly icy demeanor. "Do you have any idea how we get in?"

The amber-eyed boy gave her a bored look. "If I had, don't you think I would have already tried it? It's not like I want to be stuck in a small, enclosed space with you people for any amount of time." He ignored the sudden tension he felt build up in the hand holding his. Sora didn't seem fazed, or if she was she hid it very well.

"Well, I just thought that, maybe, you had thought of something and didn't know how to bring it up or . . . something." She finished lamely. Kohaku gave a snort and pulled roughly away from where he was standing – and Takeru in the process – and went over to examine the doors. He pretended to not hear the soft whimper of hurt the younger boy involuntarily released.

Closer inspections of the doors lead to the discovery that they were actually quite old. Chips of paint had flaked off of the edges, and some of the writing was so worn away that it could no longer be read. But, looking closer, the writing itself was almost not writing, more like those word-picture thingies Kaasama had tried to tell him about. Those what-were-they-called things: pira- hiero- hieroglyphics! That's what she'd called them, hieroglyphics. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what else Kaasama had said about them. He gave a frustrated grunt; the only thing he could remember her telling him about them was that they were one of the earliest forms of writing and very primitive.

"Taichi," he heard Jyou call out behind him. "Koushiro and I think–" He ignored the sudden rise of voices and kept his attention on the door. If he could just get this bloody thing to open then–

Then what? He asked himself.

Then we're one step closer to going home, he answered himself. One step closer to Okaasama and Otousan and fast food and video games and his friends and hot baths and clean clothes and his room and his bed and–

And trying to explain to Okaasama and Otousan where their daughter was, and why she would never be with them again. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door, thoughtless of the others behind him, and swallowed something that felt suspiciously like a sob rising in his throat. He hated this, this world, these monsters, and these children, all of them. He hated it so much it was a physical pain, like he'd cut himself somehow. He took several deep breaths to steady himself.

Dammit all.

He smashed his fist into the solidity of the door, not caring about the strangled yelp of pain it drew from him as he felt the fragile bones in his hand bruise upon impact, and ignoring the frightened gasps behind him. Someone ran up beside him and grabbed his hand in their own; to prevent him from harming himself further he assumed bitterly.

"What're you doing Kohaku-san, you could hurt yourself!" He recognized the concerned voice as that of Sora. He jerked from her grasp and spun around.

"Just leave me alone. I don't want your concern," he snarled with eyes blazing almost a molten gold as the older girl stumbled back a few paces. Koushiro came up behind her and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You shouldn't snap at Sora just because she was worried about you," Koushiro said quietly. Taichi and Yamato nodded, while Jyou looked grim. Kohaku's throat worked furiously, and he clenched his jaws tightly. He looked around the circle of faces and saw the worry, the partially self-righteous anger, and the weariness, but it was the expression of confusion and . . .disappointment? . . . in Takeru's eyes that caused something in him to snap.

"Leave me alone," he pushed away from them. Shaking off caring hands outstretched in distress violently. "Just leave me alone!"

He heard a sudden shuffle of feet and a voice hiss in low key: "Don't follow him Takeru." He felt his eye prickle and he rubbed the back of his hand across them roughly. Damn them all to hell and back. Damn them and their 'concern'.

He buried his face in his arms and sank down to the ground. He stayed that way until he heard Taichi's excited voice ring throughout the corridor, signifying the opening of the door. He waited for a few more minutes, trying to regain control over his emotions before staggering to his feet and trailing after the rest of the Chosen through the doorway. He did not ask what had opened it, but assumed from Koushiro's gleeful face and Jyou's rather sour one that it had been some idea of the formers to open it and not the latter's.

In this new room, the lighting was much better. Not bright, but more piercing. It sliced over the walls and shelves bringing bright clarity to even the darkest of corners. And after the semi-darkness of the hallway, that was very bright indeed. Kohaku took several minutes to blink his eyes and become accustom to the sudden change in illumination. Now that he could see properly, he could make out a huge desk cloistered in one of the far corners of the room. It was covered with messy piles of loose paper and unbound scrolls. On top of some of the more fantastic of piles there were data-pads weighing the papers down. Pens and other forms of writing utensils are scattered haphazardly across the desktop; he thought he saw a computer keyboard – or something that looks eerily like a keyboard – half hidden under a snowdrift of crisp white paper. He also noted, with some interest, that most of the paper and scrolls and even the data-pads were yellowed with time. Someone, he thought to himself, was doing a fair amount of research. There was a window with a dense bamboo shutters and metal latches and braces above and slightly to the left of the desk, and a door opposite it. The door appeared to be locked, or at least shut tight, and on the wall behind and to the right of the desk was a huge screen that took up almost all of the wall space. A bookcase took up much of the rest of the space of the room; which was really quite small now that he thought about it. At the moment, the bookcase was next to empty. He assumed that this is because its contents are the wild array of papers on the desk. He could not find the source of the light in the room.

Kohaku jerked warily as he sensed movement on the periphery of his vision. An old man with a webbing of wrinkles over his face and sunken eyes had stepped towards them, inclining his head towards the children. The boy thought that he could see amusement on the old man's face. He saw that none of the other children or digimon jumped, not even Takeru, and felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment and anger. He was so caught up in this odd combination of emotions that he failed to notice that the man was scrutinizing him intently.

"So this is the new Carrier, is it?" The old man's voice was gravely and slightly nasal at the same time. Kohaku knew that his voice was most likely the result of some accident in his youth; he could recognize the odd metallic catch that came when the man pronounced 't' and 's' words. His voice instructor had the same catch – that was the reason he was an instructor and not a performing tenor – from an accident when he was fourteen.

"Well, are you all mute or is one of you going to answer me?" The man's voice was waspish, but Kohaku thought he could detect some strange unsettlement in it.

"Well?"

"Yes," Taichi spoke softly, and tried to keep back out of view. The old man smiled triumphantly and turned to Kohaku, who happened to be glaring in Taichi's direction.

"Wonderful," he smiled warmly. It wavered only slightly when faced with the young boy's magnificent scowl. Kohaku scowled more blackly when he realized this. "I think that before we do anything, you should all rest." As he turned, Kohaku's sharp ears caught something like, 'you'll need it.'

He lead them through the door Kohaku had notice at the opposite end of the room earlier. From there he lead them through a series of rooms and doors that twisted like a maze throughout the house. Because most of these were poorly lit, all the children tried to stay as close to the old man as possible without hindering his movement.

Each room they passed through was unique unto itself. There were no two that were exactly the same. One room the passed was nothing but bookcases, and the next held none. One room had obviously once held dozens of desk, and was perhaps a schoolroom whereas the next they saw seemed to be some sort of exercise room. Kohaku was intrigued by the variations of the room and wanted to ask about them, but held his tongue, remembering his earlier humiliation.

"Gennai-san," Koushiro was forced into a latent jog to match the old man's stride. Evidently Kohaku wasn't the only one curious about the strange assortment of rooms. "Gennai-san," he repeated, trying to garner the older man's attention. Without breaking stride, Gennai looked down at the redhead.

"Koushiro?" The boy quickened his stride to draw abreast of Gennai. He had an intense look of concentration on his face.

"I was wondering, did this building use to be a school or something?" To Kohaku's surprise, Gennai seemed to stagger at the question.

"As a matter of fact it did," Gennai kept staring straight ahead. "It was the training monastery of Templers."

"Templers?"

"Wait here," Gennai stopped abruptly, ignored Koushiro's query and gesturing to a room on their right. His voice was curt. "I'll bring you some dinner shortly." He did not wait for a reply before vanishing back down the hall.

This room was small and square. The walls were covered with plush hangings and tapestries, all of which were faded, obviously having seen much better days. In the center of the room were two square tables, pushed together to make one long rectangle. Shallow dishes half filled with some kind of burning oil were set in the center of the tables, one at either end, and gave off a mellow orange-red glow. Besides the low table, there was a squat chest-of-drawers directly behind it. It had tarnished bronze knobs and was most likely empty now. Dusty cushions lay scattered about the bare floor. The smallest of the digis crawled under the table, and curled up together to generate a bit more warmth for themselves. The larger ones, like Agumon and Gabumon, settled themselves next to their bonded Chosen. Yamato fussed over his brother, settling the youngest of the Chosen into a soft nest of cushions and getting Gabumon to curl up next to him. Sora and Jyou sat primly at the table, waiting for Gennai to return with the proffered food, while Koushiro plopped down in a with his laptop in a corner; how he got the bloody thing to work without a visible power source Kohaku did not want to know. Tentomon hovered at his shoulder. Taichi had dragged some pillows over to where Takeru was and was talking in a soft, reassuring voice to the younger boy. Palmon ignored Kohaku and crowded herself under the table, where she just barely fit, with the smaller Gomamon and Patamon. They welcomed her silently.

Kohaku told himself that he didn't care that no one even looked over to see what he was doing, but the plain truth of the matter was that it hurt. Even if he did not like these people, they were all he had of home; and with home, his sister. There was a part in him that wanted desperately to talk to them about his sister, what she was like, how she had been coping and the like, but he couldn't. If there was anything that was a common trait among his family, it was pride. He was simply too proud to say please. And, he told himself, he shouldn't have to. He shouldn't have to, but that didn't make him any less lonely.

He moved himself down to the far end of the room, as far away from the other children as he could get. Unfortunately this was also as far away from the light as he could get, so he fumbled slightly as he tried to find a comfortable position in the dark It was when he leaned back that he felt a strange hard object jabbing into his back. He frowned to himself and felt around with his hand on the wall. It only took a moment to locate the latch and another moment to realize that there was much more to this room than had first met his eye. But he was unable to further explore this small find because Gennai returned at that moment carrying a rather venerable tray of steaming food, and he decided that not starving himself to death would probably be a good idea. Especially if he wanted to discover more about the room.

The food, which when Gennai had brought in seemed more than enough for the hungry Chosen, quickly proved to be not nearly enough. It only wet their appetite, but none of them mentioned the fact because having now eaten, they were suddenly aware a heavy exhaustion that dragged at their limbs. Kohaku glanced back at the wall, at the tapestry that covered what he was assuming until he found out more to be a doorway, with heavy eyelids. He wanted to find out more right now, but he was just so tired! He decided then that he would sleep for a while and then, when more rested, investigate the door further.

Gennai reappeared then, and lead them silently from the room. Kohaku forced himself to try and memorize some distinguishing characteristics of the hallways so he could find his way back. He thought that it was a very lucky thing indeed that the room Gennai had picked to house them for their stay was only three or so corridors away from that odd room, otherwise he might not have been able to remember where the room was.

His last thought before falling gently into the arms of sleep was how much the scent of the beeswax candles that lit the room reminded him of his Oneechan.

The old man refilled his sake cup with a shaky hand. He downed it in a single swig and moved a trembling hand over to the decanter again. Because he wasn't really paying attention to what he was doing, his hand missed the decanter and knocked it over with his elbow. He watched in a stupor as the clear, golden liquid dripped its remnants to the floor. Droplets of fluid hung poised at the corner of the table for a moment, refracting shards of light clear and golden, before falling and shattering in a burst of brilliance. Immeaditly after another droplet would take its place and repeat the pattern. The fluid was seeping into the wood of the table, staining the white oak wood dark amber.

Amber. Oh blessed ones, how could he not recognize those eyes . . .?

It was almost incomprehensible to him. To not recognize eyes that were dearer to him than his on soul? It was ludicrous. Unbelievable. And true. He had not recognized them when they'd been right in front of him. Right in front of him . . . And he'd looked into them and he'd felt nothing. He hadn't remembered. It had taken a question from the young Koushiro to trigger his memory. Once the boy had asked about the monastery it had all come flooding back to him, like a dam had shattered. Overwhelming him. Everything he thought he would never forget. And he knew then whom those eyes of the new Carrier had belonged to.

He had promised himself that he would never forget. Perhaps that was why it upset him so that he hadn't seen it right away. Not who the eyes had belonged to once, so long ago – though that would have been painful enough – but the fact that he'd forgotten in the first place. For all he'd professed to be guilty and promised himself to never ever forget, he had. He had forgotten. For all that, he'd forgotten. He just could not get past that.

How could he forget eyes that could change like quicksilver at the faintest emotion? Eyes that had shone with such brilliance and such steel will. Eyes that he had seen cloudy with lust and opaque and swirling with flecks of gold and desire. How could he not . . .

He laughed low and bitterly to himself. This must truly be a sign from Valhalla that he was not to be forgiven for his sins. And he could not think of a more cruel punishment than to have the only things he had left of Angelus, his memories, taken from him. But he could not say that it was not fitting. He had, after all, asked to have the image of Angelus as he had last seen him wiped from his mind forever. The Gods must have taken him quite literally. He was lucky though, the new Carrier looked nothing like him in face or form, just in the eyes . . .

Amber eyes that had shifted in a confusion of emotions, dancing like a whirlwind of colorful autumn leaves. Amber eyes that had shown surprise, then anger, and behind them all, betrayal.

Gennai decided he needed another drink.

The small boy curled into himself more tightly. He huddled more deeply into the loose embrace of the bigger boy next to him, burying his face into the other boy's chest and inhaling the comforting, familiar scent of his shirt. The older boy shifted slightly, murmured something incomprehensible, and rolled over a little. The boy opened his eyes and stared at the other boy when he felt this. The bigger boy was thin and bony, all wrists and elbows and knees. Like a colt. Pale hair framed his face, slack with sleep, in airy spikes. His Niisan. It didn't matter where they were, or how far from home they were; as long as his Niisan was there, that was home. It had always been like that.

But that didn't prevent the knowledge that this was not home and perhaps never would be. It helped it, but didn't stop it. But he didn't complain. No he didn't, he considered himself too old to be wailing about the predicament they were in any more. And he knew that Yamato didn't like it. And when Yamato didn't like something, he tended to ignore it. Takeru did not want Yamato to ignore him. Not when he was finally paying attention to him.

Takeru rolled over on to his side, facing away from his brother. He let his eyes rest on the deeply sleeping form of the tan and cream hamster-like digi that was his responsibility. It was a new experience, being responsible for someone else and he was not entirely sure he liked it. It was much easier to have someone looking after you than it was to look after someone else, that was for sure. But . . . in an odd way it felt nice. A part of him enjoyed having the young digi look up to him. And in all honesty it felt wonderful knowing that no matter what he did there would always be someone that would be with him.

He suddenly stiffened, his heart palpitating wildly as he heard a rustle of movement behind him. He panicked; trying to recall all the things the others had ever told him about surviving wild animal encounters, before he remembered that they were in Gennai's home and that nothing could get them. He let his body relax then, but kept his ear cocked, wondering who was wake so late.

The person moved around the bodies on the floor and towards the door without any real sound. Had Takeru not been listening for it, he wouldn't have known someone was up. There they paused and seemed to listen for a moment. Takeru saw in the muted light of the almost spent lamp that Kohaku had a look of fierce concentration on his face. In the light, he had his sister's eyes when she was deciding to do something that she knew they wouldn't approve of. The older boy slipped out the door. After a moment, Takeru looked back at his brother, then at the door. He bit his lip and waited for one of the others to get up and follow him, as he felt sure they would. When no one did, he looked at the door again, still hesitant of what to do. Finally, he got up silently, not even waking Patamon, and followed the amber-eyed boy.

He was lucky and saw the other boy as he slipped around the corner of the hall. He quickly found out that if he didn't keep the older boy in sight he could very easily get lost among the maze-like corridors. He actually lost Kohaku for one blood-chilling moment, and thoughts of being found decades later as a dusty skeleton danced through his brain. He was saved, luckily, when he heard a disgusted curse come from his right. He followed the older boy as he backtracked several hallways. He made sure that Kohaku was always in his sight after that.

When they finally arrived at wherever the other boy had been trying to get to, Takeru recognized it with a puzzled frown. Why, he wondered internally, would Kohaku-san want to come back here? Indeed, the amber-eyed boy had lead them right back to the room they had eaten in. Takeru watched as the other boy paused furtively at the threshold of the room, apparently checking to make sure no one was around, before slipping in like a ghost.

Gennai had left the bowls of lamp oil burning on the tables, but they were low and obviously almost depleted, so they gave little light. But Kohaku, apparently, felt that it was enough for whatever it was he went back there to accomplish. Takeru stayed crouched in the shadows of the doorway, watching as the older boy scrabbled around under one of the wall hangings. He heard some grunts, like Kohaku was trying to lift or pull something extremely heavy or awkward. Then there was silence. The silence dragged on for such a long time that Takeru felt tempted to go in and see if something was wrong.

At that moment there was a soft shifting of the material of the hanging and the older boy backed out slowly. He moved away from the wall and crouched nearer to the circle of weakened light cast by the lamps. He crouched on his heels, bracing himself with his arms. He seemed to stare at the wall from which he'd just come, but Takeru couldn't really tell because with the light at his back, the amber-eyed boy's face was a mask of black shadows. Takeru watched with alarm as tremors rolled over the older boy's thin frame. Kohaku looked too pale, but it may just have been the light.

Suddenly too worried to care what the other boy's reaction would be to learn that he'd been followed, Takeru darted over to him wrapping his slightly shorter arms around the minutely taller boy's shoulders. At this odd moment it struck him suddenly that this boy was only one or two years older than him at the most.

"Kohaku-kun," he asked urgently, "what's wrong?" As he'd subconsciously predicted, the older boy stiffened in surprise, and possibly a little anger, at finding that he'd been followed. But he didn't pull away from the younger boy, as Takeru had expected him to do, and snarl something cold and biting. Instead he seemed to crumple into himself and hug his arms tightly around his chest, as he turned his face into the only slightly smaller boy's shoulder, making Takeru aware for the first time of the hard, rectangular object that Kohaku held to his chest. He suddenly recognized the tremors that shook the other boy's shoulders, sobs. Suddenly unbalanced by finding himself in the role of comforter instead of the comforted, Takeru did not ask what Kohaku had been doing or what he had found. He just held the other boy until the tremors subsided and he pulled away.

The two boys got up silently, the slightly taller one gestured for the other to follow him, and they left the dimly lit room and into the maze of corridors that lead to their sleeping area. At the threshold of their room, Kohaku nodded stiffly at the younger boy, and moved back into his area of the room. Takeru noticed for the first time that the older boy was at the other side of the room from them, isolated and alone. He made a move towards the other boy, but Kohaku simply ignored him, turned his back to the group and lay still. Takeru stood standing for a minute or two more before crawling back to where he'd been laying before, gently nudging aside the gangly arms of his brother that had sprawled over where he'd been lying.

As he huddled into his brother's arms, reveling in their warmth after the chill of the hallways, he reminded himself that the boy lying by himself on the other side of the room was just a little older than he was. And for some reason, he felt inexplicably sad.

"Why do you have a picture of my sister?" Kohaku asked without preamble. All the Chosen and Gennai were sitting in the room that Gennai had fed them in the night before, eating breakfast. He ignored the dead silence that fell over the table and kept his eyes on Gennai only.

"Why do you have a picture of my sister?" Kohaku pulled out the book he'd found the night before in the hidden room off of his lap and pressed his thumb in the small oval indent he'd literally stumbled on the night before. Holding it horizontal and just above the table, a three-dimensional holographic image of a youth his in late teens flickered into life and began speaking a string of liquid syllables. Though logically Kohaku knew that the image was not of his sister – for one thing the person in the hologram was to old to be Neechan and he was a he so that just about wrapped it up – he enjoyed saying it just for the shock value. As if seeing an image of a person who could very well double for his dead sister if pinch came to shove wasn't shocking enough. But then, Kohaku was known as one for going to extremes.

He was rewarded by the old man's face turning ashen white and crumpling like paper. "He didn't leave anything behind," the old man mumbled almost incoherently to himself, having seemingly forgotten that there was anyone else around. "They said they found nothing. I found nothing." He straightened abruptly.

"Give it to me," Gennai commanded hoarsely. Kohaku was suddenly afraid of the language of the old man's posture. He fumbled with the book, cutting off the hologram and clutching it to his chest.

"No."

"Give me the book." There was something almost dangerous in Gennai's voice. The boy shook his head obstinately.

"No. It's mine," he hated the petty, childish shrill his voice had taken on, but was suddenly too scared at the thought of having this book, whatever it contained, taken away from him. "I found it! It's mine!"

"You found it," the old man repeated. He sounded slightly dazed, but there was eagerness there as well. "Where? Tell me where you found it." Kohaku wordlessly pointed behind him, at the hanging on the wall. Gennai stared at him, then at the wall. Then he was at the wall, ripping down the hanging frantically. The children watched in puzzled silence as the old man fell to his knees as he uncovered ajar door set in the wall.

"We never found anything," he whispered brokenly. "Because he wouldn't let us find anything."

"Gennai-san?" Koushiro made a move like he was going to go to the old man, but was held back by Tentomon. The insect-like digi shook his head, indicating that this wasn't their affair.

"He didn't trust us," Gennai continued to himself, regardless of the children, staring sightlessly into the small space behind the wall filled with scrolls, books and data-pads. Most were decayed with time. "Not that I can blame him. But it hurts. I wonder, Angelus, did you know we would betray you? You always had a sixth sense about things."

Gennai then got to his feet and turned to face the children. His face seemed to have aged centuries in the space of a few moments. "May I see that book? Please?" He added unnecessarily, as Kohaku was already gingerly holding the book out to him. He took it gravely, and nodded a wordless thank you. He ran his fingers longing over the cover for a moment, then slipped his fingers underneath, depressing the oval indent Kohaku had discovered to be the trigger for the hologram. The children saw a sweet, sad smile haunt the old man's face as he watched the hologram. He mouthed the words that the image spoke.

"You can understand what he's saying?" Jyou asked in wonder, causing the other children and digimon to look at him. Not liking to be the center of attention, the be-speckled boy flushed a bit. Gennai didn't look away from the hologram.

"I should be able to, after all we did train in it together." He turned to the digimon on the floor. "This is the 'dead' language. It was called the divine or holy language, and only priests and templers are trained in it. Once long ago you would have had to learn it because you are the Chosen digi. But not now." He trailed off and lapsed into a melancholy state of remembrance.

"Well, what's he saying?" Gomamon asked curiously. The sad smile that had hovered on Gennai's face fell away, replaced by a blank mask.

"He's saying that this is his personal log or journal. That his name is Veritas Angelus, acolyte of the Elder archbishop Jessiah, and that this is a written record of his experiences since being introduced into the monastery and up to becoming electus alumno to the honored Elder, the archbishop Jessiah."

"Electus alumno?" Patamon wrinkled his muzzle at the unfamiliar words.

"Chosen disciple," Gennai said absently, releasing the trigger to the hologram. "Each episcopus, bishop, is allowed to have one favored acolyte. An alumno to replace him or her upon retirement. The electus alumno is special because he or she is the alumno the Elder archbishop has chosen to groom for the leadership of the church. At the death of the Elder, the electus alumno would ascend to become the archbishop and the new Elder." Kohaku could tell that there was a lot the old man was leaving out.

"So you know him," The amber-eyed boy gestured at the book. Gennai was silent for a moment.

"No. I thought I did, but I don't." He handed the book back to the astounded Kohaku. "You might as well keep this. I can't use it." The boy looked from the old man to the book and back again. He narrowed his eyes, distrusting the offered gift.

"What's wrong with it?" Gennai gave a gruff bark of laughter.

"Nothing's wrong with it." Kohaku felt his lips thin with anger. He did not like being laughed at.

"Then why are you giving it to me?" The old man sighed.

"I can't open it. Angelus, the boy this belonged to, put a retina-scanning lock on it," he explained patiently. "It will only open when the correct retina is scanned. And since Angelus is dead, there is very little chance of that happening." Hearing this, the amber-eyed boy reluctantly took the book back. He hugged it possessively to his chest. The person in the hologram might not be his sister, but at this point he didn't really care. It looked close enough like her to bring him some comfort and familiarity. He felt Gennai watch him for a moment before turning to the other children and digi that had waited so patiently behind them.

"There are some things," he said to them gravely. "That we need to discuss. Come with me."

The ceiling of the antechamber was high, built on huge columns of soft marble and jade that supported the graceful arches of the domed ceiling. The arches were a masterpiece of architecture. If you could see them that is. They arched like unfurled angel wings, spanning the wide space between columns with deceptive ease. There were delicate carvings there as well. They ran the length of the pillars, and wove their way across the arches. Few knew that there were murals covering the domed ceiling anymore. Just as few knew that the time-blackened pillars were covered in carvings. In the center of the room, there was a dais. It was elevated only about a foot or so off the floor. Any windows in the room had long since been destroyed, leaving it shrouded in darkness, so there were several black iron candelabras scattered about the room, giving off a sickly light. The floor, though one would have to strain themselves now, was once a magnificent mosaic of interlacing stones. And in the center of it all was the dais. And in the center of the dais was a chair.

The chair was made from dark heartwood of a tree so long extinct that its name could not be remembered. The carver who made it had been very cleaver. The legs of the chair four slender serpents coiled in upon themselves to make strong enough columns to support the seat. The seat was bare and hard, shaped like a dish. The arms were free-floating, not attached to the seat, and carved to look like wisps of clouds drifting down from the mountain of the backrest. And that was what the backrest was carved to look like: a mountain. It was tall and flat with carvings of flying dragons inscribed into the wood. It was truly a masterpiece. And in the chair a tall digi sat brooding.

He was one of the few digi that could remember how the room had looked before the Uprising, was, perhaps, the only one left. All others were dead or recompiled into different digi, free from any memory of their past lives. And as for the Mon, well, there was only one Mon left that would remember; all the others had been killed in the Uprising.

The Uprising.

It had always surprised him how so much death and chaos could be expressed in one word. There had been few, on either side, that had gotten away unscathed. There had been much mourning done by both sides. He frowned. Though he had supported the Cause, he felt sure that Piedmon had not explored all options when he'd declared war.

Ah, but what did he care? It had happened years ago. And he'd never been one to argue for peace and equality; that had always been Angelus.

Angelus . . . Myotismon knew that his bonded would have frowned on what he'd become. But he wasn't here. He'd left Myotismon alone. He hadn't even had the decency to let Myotismon die with him and their bond. Though he'd come to feel nothing more that a dull aching numbness when he thought about his bonded, that still managed to hurt.

But, he reminded himself; I didn't come in here to nurse old wounds. And that was quite true. He only came to the antechamber when he needed to think. And lately he'd been doing a lot of that.

He drummed his tapered fingers on the armrest.

There had been talk of late. Whispers in the dark of how Piedmon was not very happy with his decision to stop the search for the eighth child, despite the fact that he was the only Dark Master to have ever killed a Chosen. And when Piedmon wasn't happy, it wasn't in his nature to ignore the cause of his unhappiness. Normally he just sent out one of the simpering idiots that he called dark masters, like that moron Puppetmon, to fix it for him. For more personal matters, such as treason in the ranks, he usually sent the charming Ladydevimon to take care of it. Piedmon was a stickler about the populace not knowing about internal affairs. He said it disturbed them.

Myotismon smiled to himself. Smirked really. Piedmon wouldn't be sending that Omegamon-touched female to him. She was his most loyal underling and he really didn't like losing things he was fond of. Who knows? He might need to grace Myotismon with his own austere presence if he wanted to deal with him, and as it was looking now he just might. Because he knew that Piedmon knew that they both knew that Myotismon was a more powerful than average digi. He could snap Ladydevimon's neck more quickly than you could blink. And he was pretty sure that Piedmon wasn't all that much stronger than that stupid female. That was why Piedmon had asked him to consider joining his side during the Uprising. He was powerful; an alpha class to be exact. And of the very few alphas there were, more than two-thirds had the probability of turning omega in their favor.

That scared Piedmon and Myotismon knew it. And knew that Piedmon hated him for his knowledge.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was time to look at dealing with Piedmon. With that clown gone, the ranks would fall to ruin. None of the other dark masters would be able to function without Piedmon, so there would be no real opposition for him.

And with Myangela, he didn't think that he would have any problems afterwards either.

– – –

~Latin used in the chapter:

"Veritas" – means [truth]. a/n: Angelus' last name was said first, as with the Japanese (i.e., Veritas Angelus, instead of Angelus Veritas)

"Electus" – means [chosen]

"Alumno" – means [student] or [disciple]

"Episcopus" – means [bishop]

~Japanese used in this chapter:

Okaasama, Okaasan, Kaasama, Kaasan – all are terms for mother (the 'O' is an honorary prefix)

Otousan – means father

Neesan, Neechan, Oneesan – all are terms for sister (the 'O' is an honorary prefix)

– – –