Heavenly
Author: Kagetsuya
Fandom: Gensomaden Saiyuki
Pairing(s): You'd like to know, wouldn't you?
Rating: PG13, for some language and violence
Warnings: shounen-ai, implied het, some citrus, some Japanese, tense changes, TWT ("Timeline? What timeline?")
Archive: FFN, Yume no Kage. Anywhere else, just ask.
Writing Conventions: * * * = scene change; emphasis/in-text translations, 'thoughts', "speech"
Disclaimer: Only my dear, lovely Celestine and everything connected belong to me. Gensomaden Saiyuki and all its characters belongs to Kazuya Minekura, Enix, etc.
Summary: A child of taboo, twin youkai, and a violet-eyed swordmaster. What's the ikkou gotten into now?
Notes: a) I know the summary sucks. Live with it. I have to. =D b) Yes, there are / is a pairing[s]. Just not gonna list it/them. All the romantic stuff takes a backseat to the adventure, to the story itself. So if you're filtering fics by pairings involved in them, sorry. However, if you really want to know, you can e-mail me with a good reason why I should tell you. *nikoniko*
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Prologue
There were fires. The city was swallowed up in the great, dancing flames, which were licking upwards, ever higher into the night sky. Every few moments, there was a crash as another structure succumbed totally, roofs caving in when the wooden frames burned up. The blaze spread quickly, aided by the wind and the closeness of the buildings, eating through everything in its path.
There was screaming. Cries of terror, footsteps, people hurrying away, tugging their families, the scant few belongings they managed to grab, behind them, trying to get as far away as possible in the least amount of time. Cries of anguish, of those who had loved ones too late to save, of children who realized that they had left a toy, a pet, a favorite blanket behind. Cries of hysteria, those who could not move for fear they were already dead.
There was death. The sound of metal ringing against metal, thunking against wood. There was the sickening, soft, slicing sound of metal cutting through flesh. The defenders were hopeful and uselessly valiant. The attackers were fierce and arrogantly triumphant. Those who were neither merely ran, between walls of flame, over the fallen who were now only fuel for the conflagration, away. That was the one goal. Away. From the fires, from the screaming, from the death.
High above, tall spires rose, witness to the catastrophe. They were silent, dark but for the orange of the fire reflecting against the stone. These towers, ancient beyond memory, had another story imprinted into their walls, a story they would keep far beyond the death of the very stones they were constructed of. The fire did not reach this citadel. The outer walls were too thick that the screaming was muffled. Empty, the castle was, but for death and lingering grief.
The throne was made of the finest gold and glittered with more than a hundred jewels. It sat upon a great dais, amid a room filled with great tapestries depicting various battle scenes, pillars with tendrils of vines made of silver winding up them, sconces made of gold. In the center of the high back was a crest, two swords crossed within the embrace of a crown of vines, set against the backdrop of feathered wings. Around this crest were magnificent designs, more vines, finely detailed feathers, geometric patterns, runes. There, too, were the precious stones, diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, all flickering in the dying torchlight. From the chair's back stretched a huge pair of feathered wings, also created from gold, detailed down to the very wingtips. It was a beautiful sight, a show of great wealth and great power.
At least, until the darkness fell completely and no one would be able to tell the difference between it and a simple, wooden barstool.
Sitting upon this throne was a figure whose deep ocean-colored eyes could no longer see the extravagance around him. He sat there, as if surveying the vast hall before him. He sat there, arms at the rests on either side of him, every inch of him regal. He sat there, still, unblinking, the trail of blood that had trickled down his chin long dried up.
Betrayal.
Chaos.
These two were fast friends, skipping around hand-in-hand.
While behind them, a kingdom crumbled to dust.