Author's Note: Just when you thought I was never going to get around to writing the next chapter. . . . But this is it for awhile, I mean it! I'm moving halfway across the country, I don't have time for writing fics! Not that I'm likely to stop writing even while we're moving. -_-;
Oh yeah, comments to reviewers are at the end, as usual. If you haven't been following with "Black Dove," don't worry about it - it's not critical to read these fics side by side. Well, unless you're, like, massively impatient or something. ~_^
Warnings: Insane amounts of angst, cutter!Hisoka, blood (kinda), angst, ornery!Oriya, spoilers for Kyoto (well, duh), more angst, and use/abuse of empathic abilities. Oh yeah, and did I mention the ANGST? ~_^ Yeesh, if this keeps up, I'll have to recategorize this fic yet again.
Disclaimer: Yami no Matsuei is the property of Matsushita Yoko - I'm just borrowing a few things. The plot is definitely mine, though. I mean, really, who else would do this sort of thing?
V. True Colors
The distant chiming of bells confirmed what I had already suspected: not only was I awake, but it was Sunday. I had already spent four days at the Ko Kaku Rou, and in my heart, I feared I would not be leaving this day either, though I wasn't sure why. Just a feeling. One I was desperately wishing I could make go away. I wanted to go home.
The room was empty as I pulled myself upright. I could feel Mibu-san's presense all over the room, but it was the muted feel I sometimes get from objects that a person has owned and treasured their entire lives. It was strange to think that Mibu-san had several such objects in his room, but then he was a strange individual. I stretched my senses carefully outward, but I wasn't being watched. My caretaker was likely down at the bathhouse and there was no one in the immediate circle of rooms or the garden beyond the door.
Mibu-san had been watching me so closely the last two days that I hadn't been able to check my blood. The bandages were nearly all gone, except for light dressings on my back, as even the deeper slashes began to heal. I felt stronger than I had, but the sureness of my own magical power was still absent. I needed to know the truth.
My hands were trembling by the time I reached the otherwise unadorned wall where he kept his most prized katana. I pulled the slender blade from its sheath and hesitated. I still wasn't healing properly; if I did this badly, could I bleed to death? His sword was sharper than a surgeon's scalpel; it would slice me to the bone if I wasn't careful. But I needed to know. Compromising with myself, I ran my palm across the very tip, a small and shallow cut.
The sword dropped with a clatter against the honey-oak floorboards, but I barely heard it. I was too fixated on my palm, horror rising as not even a pinhead of red appeared in the cut I'd made. No pain, no blood, yet there should have been both. The sting of the incision, the immediate welling up of bright crimson . . . but no, there was nothing. As if I had done nothing at all.
I stooped to the sword, wrapping my injured hand around the shining blade in masochistic fascination. This time I felt the steel's bite into my flesh, but still the blood refused to rise. Never before in my life had I longed to see that crimson tide, but I felt that longing now. Oh please EnmaDaioh, by all that's holy, let me bleed!
And then it came, sluggish trails of suou gel, dark and unnatural. Slow lines of rust that crawled down my fingers, seeped across my palm. Like a rabbit hypnotized by a cobra, I watched the oily trails of what I shuddered to call my blood flowing sluggishly from the self-inflicted wounds. It hadn't changed at all in the last two days. If anything, it looked darker than before, more alien and sinister.
I was trembling, the sound of approaching geta finally registering only a moment before they stopped. But even the sound of the door sliding open did nothing to shake me from my half-trance; the sludge that was my blood was still oozing trails down to my elbow, a tiny pool collecting on the tatami mat.
"BOUYA! Shimatta . . . what do you think you're doing??"
"I . . . gomen, Mibu-san, demo . . . I had to know. . . ."
"Know what? That you're still not healing? I should think that to be rather obvious," he muttered as he rummaged through his pharmacy cabinet. His anger battered against my shields, threatening to break them into nothingness. His temper twisted at me, a situation that was not improved when he sat before me with a rustle of heavy silk.
"I. . . ."
"You what? Foolish child . . . what am I supposed to do with you?" he demanded as he carefully wiped off the excess blood . . . blood that was still slowly welling up from the dozen slices in my hand. For a moment I thought I might be sick, nausea threatening to expell what little food, if any, remained in my stomache.
"Easy, bouya. Close your eyes if it helps," Mibu-san murmured, his anger suddenly dissipating like morning mist before the sun. Still, I couldn't look away, watching entranced as he carefully bandaged my trembling hand.
"I . . . I had to . . . to see if it had changed. . . ."
"Now you see it hasn't," he said softly, trailing the wrappings past my wrist. "Don't do this again, daijoubu?"
"H-hai," I whispered, knowing full well I had no intension of obeying that request. It wasn't logical or sensible, but watching that suou flow . . . I hadn't been able to stop it. The way it defied all the principles of biology that I had learned, the slick feeling as it crawled across my skin. Finally, an outward expression of the stains I carried on my soul.
"Promise me, bouya," he whispered, a strange urgency in his voice, a desperation to protect that I couldn't understand. I was nothing to him, so why should he care? But his intense eyes bore into my own, commanding a sacred oath while refusing to be denied. I knew I couldn't make that promise, couldn't say anything while those dark eyes held me in thrall. I forced myself to look away, acquiring a sudden and intense fascination with the wall hanging beyond Mibu-san's shoulder, an artful painting of a crane rising into the mist.
"Bouya . . . promise me you won't do this again. Or must I remove all knives from your surroundings now?"
My silence and my refusal to meet his gaze said more than words ever could as I studied the room, desparate to fixate on anything but the man before me. The walls were a pale wash of eggshell, unadorned save for the wall hanging, their bland color interrupted by the bands of black wood that marked out each segment and the very furnishings that gave the room it's aura of Mibu-san's presense even when the man wasn't present. The stark contrast of decorative rice paper screens in black and white. The warmth of the dark cherry wardrobe in exile in the far corner with it's matching dressing table and the cabinet that was secretly a pharmacopeia. The sidetable that had served us well in the past few days, it's glass top obscured by a stack of books and the newspaper from the day before. The two futons, Mibu-san's larger permanent bed still rumpled from my night's sleep while the smaller one he was using for himself was already rolled and stored for the day, a blue round hiding beside the wardrobe.
"You delight in making trouble for me, don't you?" the man murmured, but despite the annoyance in his tone, there was an undercurrent of worry that flowed clearly from Mibu-san's otherwise quiescent mind. As before, his emotions confused me, so infused with a warmth of which even he seemed unaware. And something else, something transient yet persistent in it's recurrence in his emotions. A desire for something, but what remained unclear.
"Bouya? Silence does not become you. . . ."
"He should have found me by now. Why do I feel so dead inside?"
I hadn't meant to speak at all, and certainly I hadn't intended to say that. Not that the confession by itself mattered much, considering I had already as much as admitted that I would cut myself again if given the chance. The bite of steel, the flow of blood . . . it was almost like being alive again, only better because this time I controlled the pain.
"You sent your messenger, bouya. He will come for you as soon as he can."
He was trying to reassure me, I know, but his words were transparent to my empathy. While he wanted me to be happy, I was shocked to realize that Mibu-san also wanted me to stay. Was this the desire that had been lurking so long? Part of it, perhaps, but not all.
Our routines were scant comfort as the day grew progressively longer. Mibu-san watched me with a mix of worry and frustration, knowing what I wanted to do yet unsure how to terminate, or at least curb, that desire. And I had nothing to tell him. Perhaps when Tsuzuki came . . . but I could almost feel my palms itching with need as I spent another morning watching him with his student. A need that did not ease under his watchful gaze through the lingering afternoon.
"You take nothing from me, bouya. Not even the peaceful sanctuary my home provides. Am I still so loathsome in your sight?"
"Should I see you as anything but a reminder of what I have suffered?" I demanded harshly, lashing out the only way I could at the only target I could reach.
"In five days, have I not proven that I am nothing like him? Have I not shown that I am, in truth, his opposite?"
"As if that matters!" I growled. "You would have killed me for him! Why should I trust you?!"
"Why indeed," Mibu-san said in suddenly icy tones. Dread clawed at me as I felt the anger that threatened to spill out into violence, held in check by an iron control I could barely comprehend. He drew his haori about his shoulders and stalked out of his office where we had taken refuge from the rains. He wanted me to think he had gone, but I could still sense him outside the room, doubtlessly staring out at the courtyard. From the feel of his mind, he was still battling against his anger, arguing with himself though I didn't understand why.
It wasn't until I pulled back from his mind that I saw it lying on his desk: a small tanto blade. Was the whole world mad? After spending a whole day watching, making certain I had no chance at this, he left me alone with a blade? Even if it were dull, he had to know I would use it.
I didn't even remember picking it up, let alone crossing the room to his desk. It had been well kept, the blade sharp and as deadly as any in Mibu-san's collection . . . in the right hands. Not that I honestly believed I could kill myself, nor did I truly wish to do so, but. . . .
The bite of steel brought a small smile to my mouth, one quickly lost when a shadow fell across me. I cursed myself for a fool for not realizing Mibu-san had returned, waiting for an angry explosion that didn't come. Instead I could only feel calm detachment as I watched for the slow ooze to rise from my slashed wrist.
"So this is what he has finally done to you, bouya. . . ."
His hand clamped down on my wrist, covering the gash and breaking the temporary trance of suou. With practiced efficiency, he slid the tanto into his obi, then rebandaged my wrist with a deft yet gentle touch.
"You knew?" I asked, but even though he remained silent, he didn't need to say anything. "Why?"
"Why leave the blade? To see how serious you were. I am a man of little consequence in this world; if you truly wish to die then who am I to stop you?"
"If that were true, you wouldn't've come back," I muttered, annoyed at him for disrupting me.
"It is true. . . ."
. . . though I wish it could be otherwise, Mibu-san continued silently, his thoughts pouring into the empty silence between us. Which made no sense to me and from the look of him, the desire didn't really make sense to him either.
"I am no one of consequence, bouya, but I will not stand passive when you have no cause to die again."
"As if you care," I snapped, verbally pushing him away again. It was the only defense I had, the only way I knew to regain the space I needed from him. Too bad it rarely worked.
"Perhaps not," he conceded with that faint smile that did more to take the wind out of my sails than any anger. "Perhaps I only pretend to care because I do not wish to be killed should your friends find you a corpse."
"Bastard."
"Merely enlightened self-interest," he murmured, brushing aside a stray lock of my hair. "But truly you are too beautiful to simply die."
Strange, but I could feel myself disassociating as burning rage consumed me. Those words . . . that was what Muraki had said that night. Too beautiful to simply kill. Like an observer in my own body, I watched myself grab the tanto out of Mibu-san's obi, slashing upwards as I did so. Anger rushed through me, giving me a burst of speed and strength I wouldn't have otherwise possessed. The blade sliced through layered silk but the motion was arrested before I could reach skin as Mibu-san's years of warrior training reacted to the threat I presented. I fought against him, desperate to summon the protective magic I had unleashed in the past, but it refused to surface. And then I was disarmed, face planted firmly against the tatami mat.
"Have you still not learned such a basic lesson, bouya? Never attack in anger."
"Release me!"
"The only one holding you here is you," he replied placidly, the pressure abruptly released from my shoulders. "If you're strong enough to fight me, then you're strong enough to leave."
But it wasn't true - all my strength had come from the sheer rage at his words. Without real strength off of which to feed - and with Mibu-san's success at proving his superiority once more - the rage was dying, leaving me lifeless and weak once more. I felt weaker than I had since awakening in Mibu-san's care, unable to even roll over. Confusion rolled through me, his confusion, and it took all my strength just to moan softly at the psychic assault of his emotions. Confusion, anger, annoyance with me, irritation with himself, and others more ethereal, all pouring into me.
"Oya, Bon, up with you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to find the strength to move. It was a vain effort as I couldn't even find the strength to speak to him, to yell at him to leave me alone. And though I tried to stop them, traitorous tears of frustration gathered at the corners of my eyes. It was wretchedly unfair; I was stronger than this! What had that bastard Muraki done to me to kill even the flame of my magic? He was probably laughing at me, pleased with his ability to make me forget everything he had done from the time he'd kidnapped me.
Fresh anger surged through me at that thought, though it wasn't nearly enough to grant me the strength of the last one. Why make me forget everything? With no memory of even being kidnapped, with a blank space from that time until I woke up in Mibu-san's bed, all I had were the nightmares, twisted replays of what he had done before. They were torture enough, as far as I was concerned, but Muraki had never before been so easily satisfied. Why hold me so long only to give me to Mibu-san? How had he changed my blood? Why hadn't Tsuzuki found me? What was taking that messenger so long? And why couldn't Mibu-san keep his damn emotions to himself?!
"Up, bouya!"
"You think . . . I'd still be here . . . if I could leave?"
"You were strong enough to attack me a moment ago. I have no use for guests who are so discourteous."
A bitter bark of a laugh coughed out of me as a stared at the tatami in front of my face. There it was, the arrogance I remembered from that night, six months ago, washing over me and mingling with my own pride, my own venom. Mibu-san may call himself a man of no importance, but he had all the arrogance of one born to the imperial court. I fed on that arrogance, forcing myself to roll over so I could scowl up at his perfect face. A man his age and his profession had no right to such a perfect face.
"And it doesn't strike you that I haven't moved since?" I snapped, letting loose the full of my venom on the man.
"Get out of my house!"
"Gladly! Just give me a good toss! Maybe then I can get out of that bastard's damping field or whatever the hell it is he's done to this place to keep Tsuzuki from finding me!"
He stopped short at that, and I felt uncomfortably vulnerable under that intense gaze. The raggedly disrupted drape of his kimono did nothing to help that, the angling slash hanging open to expose the bare chest beneath as he stood over me, arms akimbo.
"You have less sense than a drunken gutter snape!" he growled at last, his glare softening as he offered me a hand up. "What possessed you to attack?"
I hesitated, afraid of what new rush of emotions would pour into me if I took his hand. Then again, his emotions were already coursing through me; accepting the help couldn't make things any worse. He pulled me to my feet with annoying ease, still waiting for an answer to his question. I focused on a lacquered tray to keep from meeting those dark eyes.
"He said that. That night, under the sakura. He said I was too beautiful to simply kill. He always calls me that: his beautiful doll. . . ."
"Aa, bouya . . . gomen. I didn't know. . . ."
"No, of course you didn't," I sighed, momentarily surprised at the sudden change in my mood. And then I realized he was still holding my arm, contrition and calm pouring into me from the physical contact to the point that it was overwriting my own emotions and responses.
"Forgive me?"
"I . . . it's not your fault. . . ."
There was something more he wanted to say, but the desire was so nebulous that even with the physical contact between us, I couldn't understand it. And then the delicate thread between us snapped as he released my forearm.
"Can you walk on your own?"
"Only one way to find out," I grumbled as I struggled to regain my emotional equilibrium without his calm forcing itself onto me.
Progress from the office back to the bedroom was slow, but I refused to lean on him. And there was no reason to hurry. Two days with no sign of the dove or Tsuzuki and I was only that much more convinced that Muraki had done something to shield the whole compound. Worse, I was beginning to worry if the tracking dove would even be able to find me again; I didn't understand how the magic worked and so had no way of knowing if or how it would be affected by the magic that was keeping me hidden. And then there was the suou sludge that had replaced my blood. . . .
I stopped to stare out at the night-darkened courtyard, the colors of spring washed out to dull greys and blues. There was something I was missing, something more than just the fact that I couldn't remember Muraki holding me captive at all. Something that would explain why he would even bother with everything he had done. He was a madman, yes, but there was usually some logic to the things he did, some underlying reason. But this time the reasoning eluded me.
"If you're too tired to continue. . . ."
"I'm fine!" I snapped, pushing off the wall to continue my slow shambling pace down the passageway. Mibu-san sighed with a patience that was both comforting and irritating.
The final distance, from the door to the futon, suddenly loomed large before me as I stopped at the room's threshold. Before I had always at least trailed my fingertips against the wall, comforted by the building's solid presence, should I need it. And often I had. But there was nothing like that in the space that yawned before me now and my recovering sense of ego refused to ask or even accept Mibu-san's aid. No matter that, after only three steps, I feared I would collapse where I stood. Ten more steps and then I could collapse with the cushioning of the bed to break my fall. I would make it on my own, I didn't need help.
Another three steps and despite my stubborn intensions, I had to stop, to pause and hope that by doing so I would recover the strength to finish the course. From the way the room was swaying slightly, I did not have much confidence in my plan.
"Stubborn child," he murmured, a steadying hand suddenly at my elbow. "Must you do everything the hard way?"
"I'm fine," I muttered, but this time he didn't release me. A gentle nudge and my feet betrayed me, carrying me forward to his bed. With his signature silent care, he helped me out of my kimono and into proper sleepwear, pausing for me to lay down before drawing the bedsheets up to my shoulders.
"Sleep well, bouya. There is always tomorrow."
"That's what you said last night," I replied peevishly.
"And it is still true, bouya. Now sleep."
I watched him turn down the lights before walking out of the room and some perverse part of me wanted to stay awake until he came back, just to prove he couldn't order me about. But I could not deny that I was exhausted.
Find me soon, Tsuzuki, I thought fervently. I want to go home.
End Notes
As promised, notes to specific reviewers. But first, a general thank you to everyone who's reviewed. Every reading, every review, helps me gauge where to focus my attention when it comes time to work on the hordes of stories running around my creative workspace. Ahh, if only all fandoms were as encouraging as this one. Then again, you guys would have to wait even longer for updates if that was the case. ~_^
Lisette: To the first question (on Hisoka's healing), ah, well, that's an ongoing mystery. As for the second, if you haven't yet, I suggest checking out "Black Dove," which is approaching this little crisis from the Meifu angle. ^_^
Kage: The first time I saw your review, I had to laugh...something about your declaration that I have a fic, I suppose. ~_^ I can't help but wonder why that seems so . . . exclamation-point-worthy.
Oreo: RICE! *ahem* I'm working on that description thing, honest. See? First-person and I are still dancing around each other in terms of my actually getting setting described properly. As for the larger circumstances . . . well, you know how I am by now - evil as possible. Remember, everything you think you know is wrong. ~_^