The Last Wish, Chapter 28:
The Only Way.
~*~
Miaka stared at Nuriko in confusion, feeling the chill bite of the night wind against her cheeks, the scratch of the roof tile against her legs, and knowing that this was real. This was real, so then how...?
"W...Wake up?" she whispered.
A sudden flood of images stung against her eyelids, bright and painfully-clear.
--nuriko lying limp in the snow chiriko with reddened fingers clutching his wound mitsukake collapsed and cold hotohori smiling into the sky, clinging to that photograph and crying . . . tokyo crumbling, nakago, tamahome!, yui-chan, stone crashing down at her from the sky, about to crush her--
nuriko.
...Nuriko.
The violet-haired boy sat silently beside her, studying her face; with gentle fingers, he brushed a piece of reddish-brown hair from her cheek, pausing in the motion to smudge away her tears with his thumb. "That's real," he said, very softly. His arms still circled her shoulders, making her feel loved and safe...yet, somehow, she had never been so alone. "Can't you feel it, Miaka? How wrong this is? Can't you feel that this isn't where we're supposed to be?"
She shook her head, mouth dry, heart aching, then broke free of the warmth of his arms and stumbled to her feet. "No," she said, hearing her voice rising shakily but not caring. "No. Th-This is my last wish. This is my LAST WISH! It's REAL! I CAN CHANGE THINGS! I CAN!"
Nuriko didn't move. He sat silently on the black tile of the roof, legs tucked against his chest, hands clasped at his knees; the snowy aura swam around him, sometimes fading, sometimes burning, and it was a long time before he spoke.
"There's only one way you can change things, Miaka." His voice was very low, almost unrecognizable; she couldn't have looked away from his gaze even if she'd wanted to. "When you realize--when you accept this . . . when you accept that you cannot change this, that this wish is worthless . . . " He shook his head. "That's the only way you can change it. That's the only way you can give all of us another chance."
She took another step backwards, having the sudden icy sensation that the world was spinning. "No." She knew that there was more she should say, more that needed to be said to block the realization of whatever it was that she didn't want to realize, but that was all that would come out. She felt the back of her knees thud into something, and turned to find the ladder back into the house waiting there for her. Best to get back down there, be with her friends--protect them. She had to. That was her duty as Suzaku no Miko. That was her duty.
The only thing stopping her, she found, was the look Nuriko was giving her. His eyes were so sad, his features twisted in grief; she longed to go to him, to comfort him, but that churning fear inside of her wouldn't let her. If she went to him, if she kept listening to this . . . Reality was sand, slipping silently through her fingers, and she had a terrible, gnawing suspicion that if she heard much more of what Nuriko had to say, it would all slip away, and she would lose everything.
Caught between Nuriko's sad eyes and the terror of losing all grip on reality, Miaka could only stand there at the top of the ladder, the night cool and dark around her, and wait for a decision to come.
It came more quickly than she wanted, and certainly not in the form she would've desired.
From far downstairs, a door crashed open, and someone screamed.
Nuriko was on his feet in a second, sadness snapping into fear, but Miaka didn't wait for him; she scrambled down the ladder, barely managing to hold onto the rungs as she moved, and sprinted for the attic's trap door. That ladder, she didn't even bother with; she leaped down through the square in the floor, landing on all fours in the upstairs hallway with an "oof!" and a flash of pain in her kneecaps. She was aware of a new sound now, one that she wasn't certain she was ready to face--but then Nuriko was beside her, looking pale and fearful in the dim hallway lighting, and she knew that she could only go forwards.
She marched down the corridor, trying not to hear the thunder of feet from downstairs or the shattering of glass or the low moan of someone in pain . . . no.
"They're here," Nuriko said quietly. He was floating along just beside her, clothing and hair rippling as if in a great rush of wind, and she didn't have to ask who it was that he meant.
The Seiryuu seishi were here.
For her.
She should have been afraid, she thought as she walked calmly to the stairs. She should have been terrified. These people, these enemies from the Book, were here to kill her--they were here to take her life away and make her leave her friends, her loved ones . . . Tamahome. Yet, try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to feel anything but that dull, painful ache in her heart.
It had to be this way. This was the only way.
"Miaka, you can't go
down there!" Nuriko shouted, grabbing her arm and spinning her to face
him. His eyes were wide, a genuine hint
of fear glittering in the rosy-violet irises.
"Tenkou's dream failed, so he's sent the Seiryuu to kill you. You can't go down there! Miaka, if they kill you . . . "
"If they kill me--" Her voice sounded soft and strange, hardly like her own. "--then this will all end. Ne, Nuriko?" Tugging free of his grip, she started to move down the stairs; she could hear the crash of pots and the thudding and grunting of a fight coming from the kitchen.
The staircase was long and slightly-curved, bathed in rich, royal red carpeting; her fingers smoothed against the banister as she descended, tingling against the polished wood. She was about halfway down when the crashing from the kitchen abruptly stopped, and the moment it did, she felt that horrible, familiar clenching sensation in her chest, that feeling as if something very much a part of herself were being torn away . . . She paused there, nails digging into the wood of the banister, and thought she could hear the ragged, angry sound of sobbing from the kitchen.
And then Nakago stepped into view at the bottom of the steps, and the breath vanished from her lungs.
Their eyes met, both widening in near-identical expressions of shock. He was clad in a white dress shirt and navy slacks, a shin-length trenchcoat wrapped around his body; a bloody tear clung to the edge of his mouth, and the front of his shirt was splattered in scarlet.
Blood. Oh, God, why did they try to stop him? Why didn't they just let him get me? Then no one would have to die. No one would have to die again! Oh, God, please . . .
Nakago had seemingly overcome his initial surprise; he took a few steps forward, a grim, almost reluctant smile touching his lips. "Suzaku no Miko," he rumbled.
His eyes were cold and blue, but somehow not as cold as she remembered--something was different about him now, something that gave her the impression that he would rather be anywhere but here. His fingers trembled, occasionally traveling to the bloodied front of his shirt as if trying to cover the stain.
She turned, wanting to ask Nuriko if Nakago truly was different in this life, if he truly was decent enough not to enjoy killing--but Nuriko wasn't there anymore. There was nothing behind her but air and the strangely-normal glow of the hallway light, and she couldn't help but wonder what had become of her friends.
Looking hesitant but determined, Nakago reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and tugged out a long, porcelain-handled steak knife. Its blade was rusty with blood, but the blond man hardly seemed to notice. He took another step forward, his eyes locked on hers . . .
. . . and suddenly, there came a thundering of feet and a roar of rage from the kitchen, and then a fiery blur slammed into Nakago, knocking the man onto his back on the floor. The knife went clattering into the nearby living room, the blood smearing against the white carpeting; as Miaka watched, Tasuki hurled himself at it, and a moment later was clutching the handle in his fingers, gasping for breath and looking angrier than she'd ever seen him. He stood there for a moment in silence, crouched in the living room doorway, and glared at Nakago.
"You bastard," Tasuki spat, tears streaking down over his cheeks. "You fuckin' killed him, you bastard. YOU FUCKIN' KILLED HIM!"
The blond man had just picked himself up from the fall and was climbing to his feet, smiling at Tasuki in a way that rang icy-cold in Miaka's mind.
If . . . if he kills Tasuki . . . If he kills Tasuki then fate will be changed and Tasuki will be dead and that can't happen it has to be ME, IT HAS TO BE ME BECAUSE THIS IS ALL MY FAULT IT HAS TO BE ME!!
Before she could reconsider what she was doing, Miaka let go of the banister and hurried down the stairs; Tasuki gaped at her, mouth moving without sound, but it wasn't long before he managed a sputtered, "W-What the fuck do you think you're doin?"
Nakago smiled at her as she came to a halt beside him, his eyes going cold and icy, and reached into the other pocket of his trenchcoat.
"MIAKAAAAA!" Tasuki howled, starting to rush forward; Nakago turned as the red-haired seishi charged, raising one hand as if to block a blow, but as he raised it, the fingers began to glow blue with energy.
Tasuki's eyes went wide, and he tried to skid to a halt, to get out of the way, but Nakago was too fast; the room was suddenly flooded with blue light, searing and painful, and as Miaka watched, Tasuki was hurled backwards by the blast of energy. He slammed into the far wall, skull cracking into the plaster, and then crumpled to the floor and lay still. He was still breathing--she could hear it moaning through his lips--but how long would that last? She had to do something. She had to end this before anyone else was hurt.
Nakago turned back to her.
To her surprise, his eyes were wide and startled, and his gaze kept flickering down to his hand as if doubting that such a blast of energy had actually come from him.
He's never used it
before. He must've known he could, but
he . . . he never used it before.
He's not a killer, is he? He never
was.
He's just trying to survive.
"I . . . " He stared at her levelly, drawing a new, unbloodied knife from his other pocket. "I didn't think this would be necessary." A slim line arced through his brow. "But it seems this is the only way. No one else must die."
Miaka nodded, trying to swallow but finding her mouth too dry, and very carefully clasped her hands behind her back.
"I know," she said quietly. She wanted to sound firm and brave, like she had known all along that this was where it would end, but her voice was small. "Could . . ." She closed her eyes. "Could I . . . see him, first? Just once?"
Nakago stared at her for a
moment; she felt his eyes penetrating deep into her soul, searching for
truth--it was a long time before he nodded.
"Hai." He inclined his
head towards the kitchen. "He's in
there."
Wrapping both arms around herself to halt the shivers, Miaka turned and walked silently through the kitchen archway. The first person she saw was Chichiri.
He was sprawled on his stomach just inside the door, groaning slightly but unconscious; his bluish hair was matted with blood, both arms wrapped around his stomach, a bloody gash streaking down his arm. Just a few feet away from him, curled on his side with a huge lump of bluish purple rising on his temple, was Tamahome. It seemed strange, to see him lying there; Tamahome had always endured, had always fought until the very last, never giving in . . .
She thought she could see him stirring a bit, as if he were about to wake up--Nakago would have to hurry.
She was just about to turn back to the blond man, suggest that they get on with things, when she noticed the small, still form on the other side of the room. Despite the grandeur of the rest of the house, the kitchen was fairly small, with a row of cabinets lining the walls and a wooden breakfast set positioned in the center of the room. Just beyond that set, lying on his back with the sleek black hilt of a knife protruding from his stomach, was Chiriko.
A pool of scarlet oozed around him, staining the checkered floor and soaking into the wood of the chairs; his small fingers clung limply to the handle of the knife, and even from across the room, she could see that he wasn't breathing.
Another.
Another of her friends, dead.
Dead because of me.
She spun on Nakago angrily, tears springing from her eyes. "Do it!" she screamed. "Do it before anybody else dies!"
Nakago didn't hesitate. He reaffirmed his grip on the knife, keeping his icy-blue eyes locked on her, and raised the blade with a steady hand. "This is where it ends," he said quietly, and she couldn't help but hear the note of regret in his voice.
He really isn't a bad person. He just wants to live...
His muscles tensed, tugging the knife back slightly in preparation for the final blow--Miaka tried to steel herself against the coming pain--
...and suddenly there came the crash of the front door flying open, and Hotohori and Mitsukake thundered inside.
"NAKAGO!" Hotohori bellowed. He had no weapon, nothing but his fists and his rage, and yet as Miaka watched, he began to run for the blond seishi, long chestnut hair whipping out behind him like a cape.
Time seemed to slow.
Nakago glanced from the charging shichiseishi to Miaka and back again; Miaka could practically hear his thoughts, could very nearly see the slow turning of his mental wheels, churning towards a decision.
She knew who he would choose.
She knew, with a sinking, agonizing certainty, that Nakago was going to turn away from her and kill Hotohori, and then probably kill Mitsukake somehow, because . . .
She sank to her knees on the floor, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing a hand to her face.
Because that was what was supposed to happen.
There was no changing it.
There was no fixing it.
It was meant to be.
She felt warm hands on her shoulders, sturdy and strong, and turned to find Nuriko standing there behind her, his image whispery and pale. His eyes were as sad as she had ever seen them.
"I never could have changed it, could I?" she murmured; her voice sounded strange to her own ears, as if it came from beneath a deep well of water. "This wish . . . It can't work. Everything that happened there happened here because I can't change it, because . . . because it's already done. I can't change it because it's already happened."
Nuriko knelt beside her. Cupping her cheek with his palm, he shook his head slowly. "There's no way you could've known. You just wanted everyone to be happy. It was a good wish, Miaka. But Suzaku knew that it couldn't bring you what you wanted--he knew it, and he knew that the only way to show you that it couldn't was to let you live it."
"Is this--" She drew a shuddering breath, glancing around the wrecked kitchen with wide eyes. "Is none of this real?"
Nuriko smiled at her and, shaking his head, leaned forward to kiss her lightly on the forehead. "Baka," he whispered. "Don't you pay attention to anything? Just because it's a dream doesn't mean it's not real."
To Be Concluded.
~*~
[Note: Don't be confused. All will be explained in the next--and, shockingly, last--chapter. Thanks to all who read and review. ~Ryuen.]