Chapter Two - Nirvana
"Hear those prey children . . . with tears that cannot fend . . . like cascades in nirvana . . . who traced pictures with their blood."
Like who thrist for eternity's period, breathing no other breath except suffocation, the nightingale, awoken, took a gallant breath as if she took her first taste of air.
"Where am I?" Became the words that confusion would expressive, could expressive. Nothing could be answered in return, for the room she inhabited was bathed in a cruel obsidian darkness. Underneath her fingers was the China's silks, like of what she dreamt all through the times and lives that past as she remained Kanryuu's "precious" porcelain nightingale, a prize to uphold.
To sing her lifetime in songs of definite depression, for that was the solo emotion that ran through the young maiden's veins every minute of every day. Informed of nothing, knowing oblivious, all that this "curse" recollected was the flash of irrepressable desire when someone whispered possession in ways called to only a woman.
"Mine. She is all mine."
In contrast with the demons in the dark were the virginal glow of moomnlight streaming patterns on her skin, the girl took a few steps forward to view the new world that she became imprisoned in. Beyond the moonlight rivers and pearl oceans held the silowhette of a stranger. Aligned with sweat, his muscles pulsated with the strength of his exercise, which currently was some sort of swordsplay. It was beauty, masculine lithe in all actions.
A refine dance, intricate, made for beautiful men which held power in all aspects of his life. From this distance, she could tell this spirit embraced power and bloodshed as his only lover. For this, he was cold and relentless, glass that could never be shattered, steel that no one could deform.
I crept closer, clinging to the bare moonlight that highlighted his performance. Suddenly, my heartbeat sped gradually, as his impulsive action was one of the most carnal sights I've known to endure. The sliver of tongue graced his wound, continually. Yet his eyes, orbs of amber that held power in grasp, captured my gaze. There was some obscene pleasure found in those amber gaze, as if he found some ecstasy in my faint obsession of the eye. His tongue swept across the blood-stained lips, as if a treat had been devoured and missed.
Sure enough, this innocent child-woman was captivated, with his eyes and his act. Seduction in its simplest forms appeared to have formed.
"Seduced she had become. . . Revolted the nightingale never will . . . For purposes she knows not . . . For purposes her soul will never seek."
To this I sung with the curse I've been born with to bear for the rest of my days, the curse that brought me to imprisonment once more. Purpose only to serve as an instrument of the mighty: a tyrant's nightingale.
Beyond the power soiled in his amber depths, the virgin could sense the reckless abandon of pain and solitary confinement of his emotions. Heedless to say, the man dealt with pain without the shed of a tear, or a cry of woe. All to say was that his pain was his anger. And his anger became the heart in which countries bow to their knees.
Yet he will die a lonely man, pitiful in every sense of humanity. When power is no longer a necessity for him, emotion plays no role in his soul. He will simply die in body as in soul.
"Pity. I have pity towards a manslayer who sheds blood and knows no mercy. For it is rather a sad ending to his tragic tale, far tragic than those of his victims. Because . . . he knows not what death does to his own. Ironic, really."
"Why should you ever pity a man who deserves none? It insults me to think I should receive pity at all. What makes you in belief that I would allow you? You gave you the right to show such petty emotion? Don't, just don't."
His words were a clear statement across the room, even across the inky darkness. There he stood, masculine and power in every aspect of his figure . . . a king who made no atonement towards others. Never had she seen such a creature who birthed so many ripples against the horizon of her skin.
Again, those amber orbs pierced where no sword could not slay. Through the soul.
"Tell me, why don't you want to receive pity? You deserve every single bit of it . . . every cruel and tantalizing stroke of this weakness, this emotion should be yours and yours alone. For it is you would dies every time, you massacre life. You kill your own."
Sword, used for the purpose of manslaughter, was drawn from his side, glinting underneath the sliver of moon. Soon enough, it neared the very curve on her throat in attempt to mark scars seen by the phyiscal eye. Instead of those cold ambers, it burned a passionate golden, out of anger and rage. It was hell incarnated.
"Never had a person seduced such thoughts of death as you do. Never had I lost my cold front except for you who stand before me. Tell me, do you fear for your life? Do fear me?"
"I fear not that I would lose my life, for I have attained none. It is gone, perished with this curse whom I bear like stained blood in shape of cross in a world who shunned the living presense of difference. Tell me, Battousai. What else would I fear losing when I am just a mere body with no soul? Why should I fear to lose what I have none of? Why should I fear a man who fears his own destruction?"
True to all my declarations, I stood an even front, as cold and unwavering as he.
"Damn it, woman!!! You don't know what I could do to you. I am a man who memorizes death himself . . . things far greater than death. I fear none."
"What could be far greater than death?"
At this question, he neared ever so closer to his next victim, which would not lay vulnerable to his trickery. As his journey towards the minute shadow of his target, the Hitokiri Battousai appeared more corrupted and omnipotent than before. Each step causing him to rise miles above all else. Only mere inches from her body, all the nightingale could see were those amber hues, in rage, in anger, and in passion. (Not sexual passion, freaks. Passion for killing. Gawd, people are such assholes.)
"Insanity." Fingering a lock of hair between his callous hands, it was as if he held perspective in every action, in every caress of the fingers. There existed lay cold potential for compassion. Then he took a wiff from the ebony trails of silk which was vulnerable to his omnipotency.
"What difference is it to the insane and sane? I could sense your vulnerability." To her statement, her fingers, softer than heaven's clouds, lightly kissed the temples of his face, trailing to his prominent cheekbones, to those enigmatic depths of amber. Suddenly, with the speed of light and time, his own fingers seized the fragile wrists, bringing them above the heights of her head.
"Compassion. What does a man who seeks no weakness need compassion for? Again, you know not what you are doing. Nor, what would become of you once I'm through. So I suggest, you halt your action, woman." His fingers trailed to the mark stained on the ivory contours of her flesh, in friction with the callouses embedded on his own skin.
"You see this. You are now of my possession . . . you belong to me."
His head drew nearer to the spot; the brevity of his breath was apparent on her skin. Hungry, the king took it into possession, like a man who held starvation as his soul, who thirst for the sweetness of his woman. The velvet feel of the tongue had inhabited every pore.
"Here, you starve. Yet, I know you grief as well. Stop pretending, Battousai."
Words brought his teeth down on the wound, blood surfacing to the skin's horizon. Harder and in rage, the man brought a harsher rythmn (spelling?) to his war cry.
"You taste sweet, bitch."
Her voice was no more than a whisper, yet her words was a katana through a man's flesh, dangerous and true.
"Battousai, pity has found you again. Weep, it would not make you any less a man to cry."
Deeper, his teeth plundered the sweet liquid, scarlet upon his lips. Her cry could be heard from miles. It was of an innocent girl massacred by this beast. A malicious grin etched upon her skin. His tongue than tended to the newly-made wound.
"If only I could taste all of you, I would give my men, my power, my all. You speak in lies, for this you must be punished."
The words that would pass through her lips brought the widening of his eyes in sudden shock for the very first time.
"I forgive you . . . you are a man, a wounded creature. You may drain me from all these mortal necessities, but I will assist you in your atonement. I will bring your humanity back. This I swear my life."
Left in the blanket of darkness was the silowhette of a man encripted in stone, embracing the slumbering figure of a virgin sacrafice.
"Damn, woman. What has she done?"
A/N: Whatcha think? And to that bastard reviewer that said that I should be ashamed for asking reviews in return for chapter update, a message to her: it's not like I get paid to write these cheap stories, so butt off my 15 minutes of glory. I have no shame to my current occupation; it might be cheap to you, but hell, it's not like I care what you think. *turns into angel mode* Thank you all for reviewing, please forgive me for that rather crude comment I made towards a . . . erm, comment. It's just that when I have something to say, I say it. So, por favor, don't shun away constructive critisism and/or reviews because I acted like a PMS-ed bitch. *smiles*
"Hear those prey children . . . with tears that cannot fend . . . like cascades in nirvana . . . who traced pictures with their blood."
Like who thrist for eternity's period, breathing no other breath except suffocation, the nightingale, awoken, took a gallant breath as if she took her first taste of air.
"Where am I?" Became the words that confusion would expressive, could expressive. Nothing could be answered in return, for the room she inhabited was bathed in a cruel obsidian darkness. Underneath her fingers was the China's silks, like of what she dreamt all through the times and lives that past as she remained Kanryuu's "precious" porcelain nightingale, a prize to uphold.
To sing her lifetime in songs of definite depression, for that was the solo emotion that ran through the young maiden's veins every minute of every day. Informed of nothing, knowing oblivious, all that this "curse" recollected was the flash of irrepressable desire when someone whispered possession in ways called to only a woman.
"Mine. She is all mine."
In contrast with the demons in the dark were the virginal glow of moomnlight streaming patterns on her skin, the girl took a few steps forward to view the new world that she became imprisoned in. Beyond the moonlight rivers and pearl oceans held the silowhette of a stranger. Aligned with sweat, his muscles pulsated with the strength of his exercise, which currently was some sort of swordsplay. It was beauty, masculine lithe in all actions.
A refine dance, intricate, made for beautiful men which held power in all aspects of his life. From this distance, she could tell this spirit embraced power and bloodshed as his only lover. For this, he was cold and relentless, glass that could never be shattered, steel that no one could deform.
I crept closer, clinging to the bare moonlight that highlighted his performance. Suddenly, my heartbeat sped gradually, as his impulsive action was one of the most carnal sights I've known to endure. The sliver of tongue graced his wound, continually. Yet his eyes, orbs of amber that held power in grasp, captured my gaze. There was some obscene pleasure found in those amber gaze, as if he found some ecstasy in my faint obsession of the eye. His tongue swept across the blood-stained lips, as if a treat had been devoured and missed.
Sure enough, this innocent child-woman was captivated, with his eyes and his act. Seduction in its simplest forms appeared to have formed.
"Seduced she had become. . . Revolted the nightingale never will . . . For purposes she knows not . . . For purposes her soul will never seek."
To this I sung with the curse I've been born with to bear for the rest of my days, the curse that brought me to imprisonment once more. Purpose only to serve as an instrument of the mighty: a tyrant's nightingale.
Beyond the power soiled in his amber depths, the virgin could sense the reckless abandon of pain and solitary confinement of his emotions. Heedless to say, the man dealt with pain without the shed of a tear, or a cry of woe. All to say was that his pain was his anger. And his anger became the heart in which countries bow to their knees.
Yet he will die a lonely man, pitiful in every sense of humanity. When power is no longer a necessity for him, emotion plays no role in his soul. He will simply die in body as in soul.
"Pity. I have pity towards a manslayer who sheds blood and knows no mercy. For it is rather a sad ending to his tragic tale, far tragic than those of his victims. Because . . . he knows not what death does to his own. Ironic, really."
"Why should you ever pity a man who deserves none? It insults me to think I should receive pity at all. What makes you in belief that I would allow you? You gave you the right to show such petty emotion? Don't, just don't."
His words were a clear statement across the room, even across the inky darkness. There he stood, masculine and power in every aspect of his figure . . . a king who made no atonement towards others. Never had she seen such a creature who birthed so many ripples against the horizon of her skin.
Again, those amber orbs pierced where no sword could not slay. Through the soul.
"Tell me, why don't you want to receive pity? You deserve every single bit of it . . . every cruel and tantalizing stroke of this weakness, this emotion should be yours and yours alone. For it is you would dies every time, you massacre life. You kill your own."
Sword, used for the purpose of manslaughter, was drawn from his side, glinting underneath the sliver of moon. Soon enough, it neared the very curve on her throat in attempt to mark scars seen by the phyiscal eye. Instead of those cold ambers, it burned a passionate golden, out of anger and rage. It was hell incarnated.
"Never had a person seduced such thoughts of death as you do. Never had I lost my cold front except for you who stand before me. Tell me, do you fear for your life? Do fear me?"
"I fear not that I would lose my life, for I have attained none. It is gone, perished with this curse whom I bear like stained blood in shape of cross in a world who shunned the living presense of difference. Tell me, Battousai. What else would I fear losing when I am just a mere body with no soul? Why should I fear to lose what I have none of? Why should I fear a man who fears his own destruction?"
True to all my declarations, I stood an even front, as cold and unwavering as he.
"Damn it, woman!!! You don't know what I could do to you. I am a man who memorizes death himself . . . things far greater than death. I fear none."
"What could be far greater than death?"
At this question, he neared ever so closer to his next victim, which would not lay vulnerable to his trickery. As his journey towards the minute shadow of his target, the Hitokiri Battousai appeared more corrupted and omnipotent than before. Each step causing him to rise miles above all else. Only mere inches from her body, all the nightingale could see were those amber hues, in rage, in anger, and in passion. (Not sexual passion, freaks. Passion for killing. Gawd, people are such assholes.)
"Insanity." Fingering a lock of hair between his callous hands, it was as if he held perspective in every action, in every caress of the fingers. There existed lay cold potential for compassion. Then he took a wiff from the ebony trails of silk which was vulnerable to his omnipotency.
"What difference is it to the insane and sane? I could sense your vulnerability." To her statement, her fingers, softer than heaven's clouds, lightly kissed the temples of his face, trailing to his prominent cheekbones, to those enigmatic depths of amber. Suddenly, with the speed of light and time, his own fingers seized the fragile wrists, bringing them above the heights of her head.
"Compassion. What does a man who seeks no weakness need compassion for? Again, you know not what you are doing. Nor, what would become of you once I'm through. So I suggest, you halt your action, woman." His fingers trailed to the mark stained on the ivory contours of her flesh, in friction with the callouses embedded on his own skin.
"You see this. You are now of my possession . . . you belong to me."
His head drew nearer to the spot; the brevity of his breath was apparent on her skin. Hungry, the king took it into possession, like a man who held starvation as his soul, who thirst for the sweetness of his woman. The velvet feel of the tongue had inhabited every pore.
"Here, you starve. Yet, I know you grief as well. Stop pretending, Battousai."
Words brought his teeth down on the wound, blood surfacing to the skin's horizon. Harder and in rage, the man brought a harsher rythmn (spelling?) to his war cry.
"You taste sweet, bitch."
Her voice was no more than a whisper, yet her words was a katana through a man's flesh, dangerous and true.
"Battousai, pity has found you again. Weep, it would not make you any less a man to cry."
Deeper, his teeth plundered the sweet liquid, scarlet upon his lips. Her cry could be heard from miles. It was of an innocent girl massacred by this beast. A malicious grin etched upon her skin. His tongue than tended to the newly-made wound.
"If only I could taste all of you, I would give my men, my power, my all. You speak in lies, for this you must be punished."
The words that would pass through her lips brought the widening of his eyes in sudden shock for the very first time.
"I forgive you . . . you are a man, a wounded creature. You may drain me from all these mortal necessities, but I will assist you in your atonement. I will bring your humanity back. This I swear my life."
Left in the blanket of darkness was the silowhette of a man encripted in stone, embracing the slumbering figure of a virgin sacrafice.
"Damn, woman. What has she done?"
A/N: Whatcha think? And to that bastard reviewer that said that I should be ashamed for asking reviews in return for chapter update, a message to her: it's not like I get paid to write these cheap stories, so butt off my 15 minutes of glory. I have no shame to my current occupation; it might be cheap to you, but hell, it's not like I care what you think. *turns into angel mode* Thank you all for reviewing, please forgive me for that rather crude comment I made towards a . . . erm, comment. It's just that when I have something to say, I say it. So, por favor, don't shun away constructive critisism and/or reviews because I acted like a PMS-ed bitch. *smiles*