Out of Reach
By: Tenshi no Nozomi (tenshi_no_nozomi@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer:
No offense is intended to people who are highly religious or of the Catholic religion. Please do not flame me or hate me for what I've written. None of what is written in this story is a reflection of my own thoughts toward religion of *any* sort.
I don't own SM, don't own WK, and I don't own... enough said. Plot is mine, though, for the record. One last thing, though- the song included in this ficlet is called 'Velvet' and is performed/written by the J-rock band Luna Sea. Translations for it were found at www.lunasea.co.uk/
Warnings:
VERY angsty and dark, mentions of child abuse, supernatural (angel; clairvoyant powers), character OOC-ness, some parts in first person view (you should be able to tell who's thinking the thoughts), some violence/gore, and songfic.
There are lots of subjects in this story that may earn me some heated letters. However, this is your warning: if you cannot tolerate fics that mention child abuse, religion, murder, mild gore, or murder in a church ( of all places) then please do not read. If you ignore this warning, it's on your own head, and I will not be held responsible for your negligence. You have been warned!!
Pairing: Usagi/Crawford (rather one-sided), mention of an Archangel suitor
Author's Blurb:
Uhm... I really don't like this pairing. I'm really only doing this because, one, it's impossible to make work out, and I want to test my skills, and two, it was requested of me. Some time ago, too...
Just be aware that this cannot be happily ended. No Usagi/Crawford story is possible to end happily if you wish to remain true to at least some of the characters' basic traits.
Song will be in italics, bold, and centered to prevent confusion with the rest of the story. Twin stars will mark the change of scenes/povs, and some events that happened in the past will be put in italics. Bold letters, of course, suggest stronger thoughts (probably close, if not yelling).
I,
Just listening to the lonesome song
that the echoes of your footsteps are creating
It was no surprise, but it hurt. Love is such a special thing, but you have denied it. Instead you have trained the gifts God gave you to become a blood-stained creature. And I weep, because I know that you will fall to the bottom of Hell before you repent your actions.
It's funny, the value you humans put in green ink-stained paper. Sometimes I thought that you were born with a lust for money and power. Those were on the days when I cried because you truly seemed hopeless.
You never did really believe in me. Even as a child you had very little faith in the things you couldn't touch, feel, or see. If you had only given me the chance, then you would have seen me as more than a ghostly figure, but...
You didn't.
It was his own opinion that his life had been leading up to this. To become a part of Estet, and then the leader of Schwartz. As a young boy he had had visions of blood and massacre, but had never feared them.
Because in his visions, he was always the one left standing.
This particular mission did not even hold much challenge. They had broken into the monastery easily and killed the little resistance they'd found. They had made their way to the chapel, which Farfarello was gladly desecrating at the moment with the bodies of those they'd killed only moments before.
Schuldig had gone off to kill the one they were actually after, Nagi was watching Farfarello with blatant disgust, and he... Well, he was wondering why he had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
Why
do I not see you anymore
since that day?
Why
do you keep it closed
since that day?
If it were anyone else, I would have left a long time ago. Your conscious seems to deem you worthless, and so does all of heaven... so I suppose I should, as well.
But...
I can't.
I can still remember when you would see me, and look at me with the eyes of a skeptic that wants to believe. From an early age, your compassion was stripped of you, leaving you cold.
And who can blame you? You, defenseless as a child, unable to do little more than cry. No one stepped in to help the child that was five, going on thirty.
I tried. I really did. I was a failure at that, like I am at everything else, simply because I am too gentle. I was created by God to be gentle, though- gentle and loving and forever compassionate. It is perfection and beauty, and ideally admirable...
But it is also the curse that binds me to you.
Farfarello, of course, looked ready to give it his best shot. Licking his knives, eying the priest like a starved demon fresh out of hell with his one eye... Not even Crawford could blame the priest for quaking.
The feeling was stronger now, warning him. Warning him not to do something... but what?
Crawford did not believe in intuition. Yes, he had his visions, but those were things he could see. He did not trust feelings, unreliable things that they were. Adrenaline might make one into a coward at the last minute, mistaken as a warning from the body.
Visions, though, they were different. He had never been able to trust his feelings, like the one that he was constantly being watched, or that there was someone looking out for him. Instead he trusted the visions, because they were tangible.
Tangible in a sense that not even reality could possibly be. When the visions hit him, it seemed real. Time flowed just as quickly as it normally did, but the senses... The senses were all heightened.
Adrenaline felt like steroids, the faint smell of blood was enough to choke you, the colors in his mind more vivid than his eyes could ever hope to perceive. He used his predictions to his advantage, changing possibilities and outcomes that might have been the death of him.
Unfortunately for the priest, he had Foreseen that if he was allowed to live, he would heal an enemy of theirs in the near future. If they killed the priest beforehand, though, said enemy would most likely die.
Crawford drew his gun from his suit. It was about time they finished this mission.
Something's wrong
I don't feel like doing anything
My heart feels reproached by something
... I'm still too inexperienced.
This is the way humans are, of course. I was told this a long time ago, by the very archangel who tried to warn me away from this job. He told me that humans would bring nothing but heartache, and that if I tried to help you, I would just be shut out.
At the time, I thought he was just trying to keep me there. He had confessed his love previously, had begged me to reconsider. Whether he meant what he said or not, it's come back to haunt me.
As I try to express my disdain for your behavior, I have come to realize that my behavior was disapproved of as well. Does anything matter anymore?
That poor man. A bullet in his heart has not killed him, perhaps nothing will. It is my hope, for certain. If he can endure this, perhaps I can help him. I know he truly believes, because he can see me- he is screaming for my help right now.
Oh, God, I am so cursed. I feel torn to pieces by this cruel reality, tainted by the knowledge I have received. Oh, to be innocent and pure again... When I look in those pleading, desperate eyes, and sit here in a gathering pool of my own tears, so helpless and stupid…
I am reminded of a face that I saw years ago. A look so akin to this one as the child was abused that I am struck with paralysis. Is this karma, perhaps? That because of my negligence before, I should suffer to see the same expression on another human's face, another human I am helpless to save…?
I feel worthless.
What do you intend to do to this poor man, who seems unable to die from unnatural causes? Why don't you give up, leave him alone... Is your desire for money that powerful? Does it drive you so far to hate those around you?
Why, why did I fall in love with someone like you...? I remember your eyes, skeptical but pleading, as though you were asking me to prove myself. Prove myself, by saving you from the stripping of your soul.
But I, to my eternal damnation... I did nothing, the one person that you had faith in. It is no wonder that you are what you are. It is no wonder that you have become a monster in this faithless age of non-believers, where hope seems to have been beaten cruelly into nothing.
It is no wonder that you cannot believe in me. I don't think I believe in myself, either, anymore.
Why
can I not appreciate anyone
since that day?
Why
do I hate this moment
since that day?
Farfarello is quite jovial about this, carefully arranging the dead man's head in the covered dishes where the Bread might be kept on the alter. He commits the sacrilegious deed with such care that it's curious, and from the sounds of his mutterings, he is thinking of hanging the man's body off the cross behind him.
'Take this and eat, for this is my Body, the flesh of Christ, which has been given to you as forgiveness of your sins. Do this now in remembrance of me.' (1)
How obscene.
Nagi looks disgusted, Schuldig just laughed around his cigarette, and Farfarello looks pleased with himself. By the end of the night, they will probably forgotten the way that man's severed head looked in that dish. Something told Crawford, though, that he would not be allowed to.
Religion is a very strange thing, in his own opinion. Only someone easiest to believe whatever they heard would believe in religion. What you could not see, touch, or feel simply did not exist.
And yet... a small memory, faded and torn by time resurfaced in his mind. He was talking to the ghostly figure of a young woman... with beautiful, huge white wings.
'... Why would you want to help me?'
'Because you are very special to me,' she replied with an easy smile.
'But you don't even know me,' he protested, forever suspicious and doubtful. And yet... he wanted to trust that friendly smile, the only one he'd ever received.
'Not yet,' she admitted, kneeling down to his level, 'but I will someday if you'll believe in me. Will you? Believe in me, I mean?'
He brushed the memory aside. That stupid, weak child had disappeared a long time ago, along with any silly nonsense about ghosts. To think that even he had been superstitious to the point of making him see things... How ridiculous.
You're so kind in my dreams
that I want to keep dreaming
... At least for now.
You changed as time flew by-
Time will flow, and I, too will also...
I have believed for too long now that you could change. And in my heart, in the dreams not even I can banish, I still hope that you will change again, for the better.
How could you have changed from a boy willing to have faith in return for a 'friendship' that you'd never had? How could I, the one appointed to lead you to a path brighter than this one have failed you so utterly...?
In dreams, I still see the kind little boy with amber eyes, eager though afraid. You still had some innocence then, but because of my failure... you lost it. For my irresponsibility, you have paid a price higher than is able to be repaid.
I remember being human, once. But I was the exact opposite of you. I became so innocent, so loving, that in time God offered me wings and immortality. I accepted it, and ascended to the heavens where light shines forever.
You, though... Where will you go? Will the devil himself offer you a position on his highest council? No. You will fall into a pit, where you will be burned and tortured for eternity. Because of my shortcomings, you will...
You are long gone by now, probably, but here I stay, in this chapel where blood stains the calls and alter and all the lovely white cloth. The blood never touched me, but I feel stained as well, and I can only cry.
Pitiful wretch. I have no right to cry, when this is all my fault to begin with. If I had done my job... Been more assertive... You would not have denied me, turned away from me.
You would not have told me to my face with your father standing behind you like an ominous monster waiting for insubordinate behavior with his belt... Would not have said that I was not real. Would not have cried tears crossed your bruised, welt-covered cheeks.
I would offer myself to hell if I thought it would save you. It won't, can't possibly. There would be no point, if you refuse to repent and only commit the crimes again and again. I can only help you if you believe in me... and you don't.
I have no intention of blaming anybody
now that I'm carelessly living my life.
I thought that tomorrow came by itself,
But now that I'm aimless
and the moments don't continue onto one another...
He does not believe, and yet... it has too much significance to be ignored. So the despite the questioning looks from his teammates and the mental prodding Schuldig tries, he leaves them waiting in his running car, and speeds back inside.
If his mind were not so well guarded, then Schuldig might have been allowed in. Imagine the telepath's surprise if he were to find out Crawford was chasing after the image of a 'ghost' from his path.
It was a good thing that he had never trusted in the 'kindness' of people.
He sped inside, but stopped and stared, unable to move. There, on the blood stained floor between the pews and amongst the body parts left as party favors from Farfarello, she sat.
Still beautiful, more real and... whole looking now than she'd ever been. Golden hair cascading to the floor around her, head bent in grief with delicate hands covering her face as she sobbed.
In her sorrow, she had not heard him burst in through the large wooden doors. She sat there in her flowing, porcelain white gown that seemed to glow and reflect the light back at him blindingly, the very figure of tragedy.
Crawford's assumption that she was a 'ghost' had been wrong. Incredibly wrong, from the looks of it. Ghosts, after all, did not own pairs of wings that shimmered a soft ivory glow and refract pastel rainbows off of their glossy feathers.
Impossible.
And yet, before his very eyes, a second appeared. This one a man, with more wings. Perhaps six of them, from the looks. (2) He was clothed in the same white material as she, a tall, willowy and beautiful figure as well.
Perfection, he realized. They both symbolized perfection as humans could never achieve it.
"It's time to go, Usagi," he said to the young woman on the ground, gently taking her hand and pulling her up.
She said nothing, but continued crying almost helplessly. Dragged up by his insistant hand like a limp, delicate doll.
It was rage that drew him to draw his gun out. Pure rage that she had left him to return now, and to mourn after the bodies of those self-righteous bastards. You were supposed to be my friend, but you left me. I believed, and you left me.
He pulled the hammer back, making an audible click that echoed in the cavernous room despite the softness of it. Her head wiped around, hair flying out around her like a golden halo as she focused her attention on him. Her eyes widened, perhaps out of fear of the gun or at the sight of him.
Her eyes then softened, filled with tears. His hand shook hard, and he could hardly keep the gun trained on her. They spoke to them, in a volume that could not possibly be ignored, with an expression he'd never seen before. The message was incredibly simple, but unbelievable for him.
I'm sorry.
In a moment's time, a memory better left unremembered bloomed open in his mind like a bloody rose, sharing with him again the terror of his childhood.
The feel of a leather belt falling hard on his back with repeated blows, his skin feeling like one big bruise.
Back on fire; a crying, snotty, red, screaming mess. Daddy, daddy, please stop!
But disobedience is not tolerated. Another switch up, and then another swoop of the bloodied leather belt falling across his back. Another blow of agony that threatens to swallow him like a roaring red sea of blood and blackness.
And she watched, with those pitying sorrowful eyes. Didn't move, looked shocked, frightened… and pitying. You said you were my friend. That you'd protect me! Protect me now, he begged.
She's a ghost, a nothing, a nobody. She'll leave you to die…
And still those azure eyes peered at him with that fake sympathy. Not moving, shaking her head… 'I feel so sorry for you…'
No. Don't you dare. Don't look at me like that.
I don't want your pity.
He pulled back on the trigger, and fired. It wasn't quite on purpose, a combination of nerves and suppressed feelings from too long ago resurfacing.
The other angel grabbed her, moved her toward him possessively, protectively. Another bout of rage, and he felt like shooting again. Instead of nailing her in the arm or shoulder, the bullet hit her wide-spread wings, and a small cloud of feathers exploded off of them.
A gasp of pain escaped her mouth, and she buckled, hanging onto her protector for support. Blood oozed from the wound, but disappeared even as it hit her feathers. Simply vanished.
She looked at him, azure eyes filled with tears and fear and hurt.
"Why," she barely dared ask.
It was all that he ever heard from her mouth, though. No explanation, no pleading, no words of comfort, even though he didn't want them. He tried to convince himself later that he just wanted to make her suffer, but he was never certain.
In the next moment, they glowed bright, then faded from being. The only evidence that was left behind that clued her existence were the pure, ivory feathers laying on the floor.
He walked to them slowly, bent down, and picked them up. Unlike her, they didn't disappear. The soft, fragile, velvet feathers remained in his hand, shimmering up at him. He had a piece of her, but not the piece that he'd wanted.
What had he wanted, anyhow? If he could keep her from flying away with those angels… Make her stay… What good was that? Did he want to return that pain he'd felt?
Perhaps… but then, why was it that when her eyes had filled with tears that he'd felt like he'd shot himself? Those eyes told him… she knew she wasn't good, was to blame. Hadn't kept her promise, had failed.
Was it possible that she'd stayed in the shadows, waiting for him to believe again that she truly meant to guard him? A remembrance of a whispered, frantic apology a he passed out on his bed that night, her truly concerned face…
Now she was too far gone for him to ever hope reaching again. What was it that she'd waited around for all this time? Did she mean to make up her inadequacies to him?
By now that same sea stained red with blood and blue with tears and black with pain had carried her far away, out of reach.
Perhaps…
The door to the chapel banged open again, and Nagi entered. "Crawford, c'mon- we have to get out of here, Schuldig says there's cops coming."
It was true; a vision hit him as soon as Nagi said the words. He nodded an affirmative of his understanding, and tucked his gun back into his pocket. Gently, gingerly, he plucked the feathers off the floor, putting them in his pocket as well, only pausing momentarily to lift a single one to his lips.
It was best to believe that there was no connection, no feelings. That he was beyond that now. Yes, it would be best to face it only in his dreams, to remember that kind face only then, to never be reminded of it by this world.
"Crawford, what are those...," Nagi questioned curiously.
But Crawford gave him no answer, and merely walked away.
That I think I can reach something...
(2) - I have never read the bible very in-depth. I know that there are different kinds of angels, and I forget what they call the six-winged ones (or even if they have six wings in total). So anyhow, I'm sorry if this is a mistake, though I'm not going to go and actually try to look the stuff up to correct myself.
:Fin!:
Wow... I wrote that in one sitting. Took me at least two hours... Partially cuz it's so cold in this room. >.
I'll have this thing edited tomorrow, probably- no time now, and I'm way too tired- but I won't release it till Friday, probably. Which, actually, isn't so far away.
I hoped you people liked it. I know it was kinda dark, and maybe the ending was a bit rushed... but I really think I did okay. Although, what is up with me and the religious themes lately...?
If you liked what you read- or even if you didn't- then please send me an email or a review. I'd be happy to hear what you all have to say, though to be frank if it's a flame about the religious things or the abuse scenes... *shrugs* I won't read it.