DISCLAIMER: Kyuuketsuki Miyu is the property of Narumi Kakinouchi. The excerpted lyrics are from the song "In Her World," which is the property of its writer, Julie Flanders, and the band which performed it, November Project. Please note that these lyrics may not be completely accurate, as I could not find an official copy and so wrote them out myself.
Portrait of Darkness
Renn Ireigh
She may be known by many alternative names – Guardian, Hunter, Vampire – and many combinations of her own personal name and a patronymic that she cannot lay claim to, but she began as Miyu – will end as Miyu – and intermediately will always be Miyu.
And she is, or perhaps I should term it was, my daughter.
She was put off at first, I think, by my cold exterior. I started out life full of a vitality appropriate for one born only to die, but I have never ended that life, and so have lost the vivacity over the years, having it replaced with a languor that belies truth. I still have my old fire within me, though it is buried under layers of frost. But the fire never burned for her, it burned only for the paintings I cherished because they were like me – a moment, a person, captured, forever frozen in time. For her, for my daughter, there was only the ice.
She did not know enough, at that point, to be embittered over that; all she knew was that her father, as she put it once, was not like "all the other Daddies." She sensed it – the life in others was missing in me. But somehow I think she must have known that I loved her, that the icy surface contradictory to the fiery vitality inside.
My daughter was wonderful – perfect in every way. She had everything – not just superficial outer beauty but radiant, quiet inner beauty as well; not just intelligence for mathematical facts, for grammatical structures, but also a wise intelligence that contradicted her few years; and she had the spirit inside of her that shone so brightly that I couldn't bear to think that it would ever be destroyed.
The Osa knew her perfection in the ways of humankind, but she was perfect for his use as well. She had the spirit and vitality, but also the capabilities to use what powers had been granted to her, and the fierce tenacity which would never allow her to give up in a fight. He envisioned her as a sort of serial killer, but not as a killer – as a Returner, a deporter. He intended to mold her into an emotionless Hunter.
And then her own Guardian came for her, to kill her, and saw in her what I had always seen. He waited too long, regretting the destruction of such a perfect being, and as he struck at her life-force she struck at his. Their blood mixed – and never would there be loneliness, never emotionlessness. In that one task, at least, the Osa had failed. He could not isolate her completely.
He promised that he would come, our leader did; he promised that he would come for Miyu to establish her birthright as Guardian. We prayed that he would forget, but he didn't, of course. Who could forget perfection? And my daughter was perfection. For him, and for me.
Because I was her father. She shared my blood.
Because I am her father, and always will be.
And I did not want to share her. I do not want to share her, except with others who share her blood, who gave her that blood, who let it mix in her veins to define who she was and who she would become. Though her own Guardian Larva is perhaps responsible for her maintained sanity, I begrudge him the part of her life that he shares that I cannot. He is everything she needs – a father figure, a brother, a friend, a love. All rolled into one.
Only one role do I begrudge him. I, and only I, am her father. And I do not like others taking my role. The fact that I cannot is irrelevant.
I cannot because I allowed my wife to change me into what I am, to make me into what I am, and I paid for it by being apart from my daughter. I will never see her again, face to face, and she will never see me except in a dream.
And perhaps this is for the best. Or it might be for the worst, but we will never know. We will never have a chance to repeat it, to experiment, this is our one everlasting life. We have no opportunity for another.
I look at her as if she were a portrait, or several different portraits, each illustrating the same person in a different way. Fragments, attempting to make up a whole, but they never will. They can't. They aren't.
She might look at me as a painting, too, a memory poured out at the tip of a brush. She remembers me. I remember her. But we do not remember each other. We do not remember interactions.
The day at the sea. The exception.
The next day I ceased to be the only father figure she would ever have.
And tomorrow's tomorrow, what I was dreading came to pass. Her destiny stepped beyond the door.
Her destiny joined with her.
And so came the Guardian.
…And the braids in her hair
Come undone
And she is happy in her bed
Books of yellow
Books of red
Every night
In her sleep
She can fly
Away
Who's the greatest little girl
Who's the best that ever was
Someone promises to come and take her
But I hope he never does
Who's the greatest little girl
Who's the best that ever was
Someone promises to come and take her
But I hope he never does
But I hope he never does