*Disclaimer: This work is NOT meant for sale or any other way of profit, it was created for entertainment only. All rights reserved to Digimon belong to Toei and other people that created and realized the project. If Digimon belonged to me it surely wouldn't end the way it did. =P
Digimon fanfic: Proud - Sephiroth
(various pairings)
Kitsune
November 2003
Author's notes: I'm beginig to wonder why have I titled this fic "Proud". There's absolutely nothing to be proud about it, except perhaps that this is my longst fic ever. And yet... well, I'm happy when I write it. I've dreamed it up over the last 4 years and... heck, don't you like to see your dreams come true? ...bah, I'm blabbering! _ Aaaah! Go on to the fic!!
HEAVY YAOI LIME alert! Yeee-haw! *^.^*
Warm rays of autum sunlight glittered golden over the cold marble floor, but only the ones that had struggled their way past the thousands of sky blue mirrors held by delicate glass nymphs and white-stone elves leaning gracefully upon the tall strictly grey walls, so silent, so distant from each other, souless carvings that they were. Years past, skilled hands had lended them eternity, through art and love, through sweat and blisters, all to please their lord. The magic light that danced through the room were heavens alone reflected from above, shiny and mistc and endlessly blue far up to the pale moon and stars. But whilst the lord eldered and died, as has his son and his son's son and the sons after him, they still remained silent and unmooving, bystanders forced to witness joy and grief, love and hatred, honor and embarassment, justice and thretchery - forced to watch life and never know what it felt like. Beautiful, eternal - that they were, all their lords longed to be. But what was beauty and what was eternity worth when they remained cold and alone?
Embraced by the spell of nymphs and elves was a lone throne. Golden vines sprang out of the marble steps to embrace it, silver leaves leant upon it to enchant it, both greedily basking in the shimmering sunlight mirrored upon them. Golden and crimson satin pillowed the seat, old as time, yet soft as a cloud. Upon it, sat the pained form of a thoughtful king.
War. Such a simple word, such a dreadfully bloodstrained maning. Who thought of it, he wondered. Who could ever enclose so much pain, hatred, violence, sacrifices, dissapointment, sweat, blood, death and grief in one three-lettered word? Who had such a power? He'd give anything to have it. Maybe then, war would be a song, a passion, a caress, a blessing, a victory, an honor, spring and joy for his people. But as things lay, all he kept thinking about was the risk he had taken. Were the lives of his men worth their freedom?
His counclers kept remarking his Highness was too nice of a king, that rulers don't need to noutrish such care and affection towards their people. But he couldn't help it and, truthfully, didn't want to anyway. Didn't the Seraph say every single living being had been brought to life by the Sacred Tree and had its place below the sun? So did the maids, so did the monks and scholars, so did the soldiers and farmers and fishermen, same poor as royal, Juniahumon or not. And everybody's life was prcious and unique, much more than any of the juwels in the royal treasury could ever be.
For years he had obediently payed taxes to the demanding Gennai Order so they would let his citadell in peace. But it seemed it had been too long since Juniahumon were given autonomy thanks to the Seraph's sacrifice. They were neat, culture-loving, creative and philosophical digimon, all of which the Gennai feared. Primal and stupid they could handle, but intelligent and wise was another song. Was it the fear of being wise-cracked that had forced them to change their mind and leash their wild hords upon his kingdom? He was sure.
Despite his lead status power, he felt weak. Paying taxes and diplomatic peace threaties he could handle, but war... He was no fighter. He was no strategist, no magical protector. Realization hit him heavily as the Order refused his peace negotiation - he was no Seraph, even his sacrifice couldn't seal his people's safety again. But, oh if it could... ! Nothing would have stopped him from ripping his heart out of his chest 'till it'd beat quiet and bleading 'in Remembrance' under the Seraph's wings...
He leaned back sorrowfully, gripping the wide gold and silver embed recliners. Worthless, weak, pathetic were the words that echoed in his mind, were mirroring him the bare truth of the downfall of his beloved people.
"Jun...," he mumbled, shaken, as if it could save him, suck him back in that world of dreams where he could simply cuddle close in a loving embrace and cry, without questions, without laws, without expectations. Where he was loved and protected and understood...
He shoock his head then, unable to keep remembering less he'd feel his tears fall. He stood up from the glittering throne and called for his servants. "Tell my sons to come before sunfall," he pleaded and bare blue feet ran to comply, happy to be able to do one thing more for the beloved ruler.
~o@o~
"Kokmah..."
His head shot up instantly as the melodious voice called him out of his prayer. His long golden braid that had rested neatly over his shoulder, with a violent swing flew to leash upon his back. He felt it slap harshly upon his barely covered frame, but that held no importance. It could have as well been an axe or sword or the most deadly of spells, it didn't matter as long as he could hear it say his name... They were such sweet tones, such a bolting thrill as he felt himself unworthy of hearing them. He raised his eyes to the dorway, smiling sweetly as his night sky gaze was mirrored back, as were the long golden locks, as was his soul. From the doorway, his brother Tiphareth was watching him with care.
"Dearest outoto..." that wonderful voice spoke again, and he couldn't stand it, he picked himself up from the steps he'd been kneeling on and in a rustle of heavenly white robes he dashed to meet the soft embrace. The Seraph had said the Sacred Tree is the only to cradle us whole again in perfection, yet those soft arms, that unique parfume, that gentle smile... could a world without them really be perfect?
"I've came to see you," his wonderful brother whispered, bold affection running stong beneath his veil of words. Kokmah urged his eyes to meet his again, as much as it was nice to be held in his warm embrace. Those eyes again... they intoned a silent spell, wordless, soundless, unknown to books and monks, to the Serph and the Sacred Tree... only he knew it by heart. He let himself be mesmerised, enchated, bewitched by those eyes that could reflect the glitter of the wishing star that was his wonderful, kind, unique soul. Near they came, nearer by the second. Smiling lips touched his and his world spun. Forever or not, he'd greet his death with opened hands if it met him there.
Lips parted, tongues danced, fingers flew... it was all happening so fast, so intensley, so triggingly that all he could do was whish more. But all the flowers in the garden wheiter away when winter comes, he knew. Soft lips grew cold upon his own, gentle hands turned firm on his shoulders and his name echoed him awake as a first morning sunray upon the pillow of his dream. "Kokmah!" it called him back to his senses as his vision cleared of his fog of passion.
Oh,... what guilt! That angelic visage, that heavenly illusion- he had kissed his own brother. Again. But what was he to do? Every time he questioned his heart to whom it belongs, it gave him the same dirty answer. But how could loving such an angelic vission be dirty? He couldn't say. He brought his hands up to cover his face, to deny his sinful eyes the beauty of his golden love, to pusnish them.
But even closed, all he kept seeing were night sky eyes, same as his own, comming closer. He was embarassed beyond belief and wearing a blush to match it, he was sure. And he was to become the Seraph's elite Knight? With such impure thoughts clouding his mind and straining his flesh? He had came to the royal chapel to purificate himself, to root strongly his faith in the Sacred Tree, to spread his wings as the Seraph has, for his first battle was beyond the night's treshold. How was he to gleam with hope for is troops if he himself couldn't bare to hope for the only thing his heart ached to have? He tore himself out of his brother's arms and crouched down curling on himself. Grow up, he thought, I want to grow up...!
"Kokmah?" resonated the wonderful melody of tones through him again, "What's wrong?"
He didn't raise his head, not even when soft hands reached to caress his face, not even when a loving kiss was planted on his tample. What's wrong, his beloved had asked him... As if it wasn't evident. Everything was wrong. But beyond anything else, the Sacred Tree was wrong. Wrong having birth him as Tiphareth's brother, wrong having forgot to bless him with the power of speech. So manny flowers bloomed within his heart, rare and unique in their own way, just waiting to be gifted to their sun, their moon, their earth - to Tiphareth. But he couldn't give them away, not without his voice. So the words remained frozen in his throat, and he could only wait for the winter to come and bare the blooming meadow of his heart. Why didn't the Seraph seal love away too? Wasn't love evil as well?
"Should I answer that question?"
Both brothers' identical eyes snapped up towards the owener of the voice. Geburah stood in the doorway, tender autumn eyes regarding both of his princes. He had left his armour in his rooms to be oiled until tonight, so only his white robe covered his coffee-tan skin. He smiled lightly, stepping into the small chapel and closing the door in his wake. He felt his lords' eyes dance upon his form aprettiatively and having a hard time remaining compostured, litteraly even, he repated his words gently, "Should I, prince Kokmah?"
The younger prince nodded, smiling and Geburah offered him his hand. Watching his little brother stand up and place a fether-sweet kiss on his commander's cheek, melting into his strong embrace, Tiphareth leaned back against the wall, sighing. "You had scared me out of my skin," he breathed, relaxing, stretching a bit more than neccesarry while basking in the predatory look that his Comander gave him. But not only him. With a scarlet blush decorating his cheeks, Kokmah was shyly watching him as well.
"Let that be a lesson to you then," Geburah sugessted mildly, "Lock the door if you wish to remain unbothered by wandering eyes, my leech."
"I don't mind _your_ wandering eyes," purred Tiphareth, slowly playing with the strings of his belt, a belt under which his white tunic was suspitiously starting to bulge...
Kokmah hid his face in the hollow of his Comander's neck, watching his brother moving so sensually was burning him, consuming his sanity. He felt himself straining against his better gugement, pressing onto the older digimon. He was mocking the testament again, he was having impure desies, in the chapel even! He pulled at Geburah's robe softly, silently calling out for the feeling to linger, teasing him some more, yet knowing it was wrong. But in Geburah's arms everything felt right, he was the high law, wasn't he?
The tan Comander's hand, clawed, but careful, lifted his chin to meet his eyes, and a sea of chocolatte, sparcled with desire, warmed his senses further. "Prince Tiphareth," he smiled, intoning his brother's name, "prince Kokmah is troubled, as you've noticed, as am I. Fancy how the cause of our trouble is the same..." Subtly, Kokmah never noticed when, the Comander's tigh found its way between his and slowly, just to tease himself, he started riding it, wrapping his arms around the older Juniahumon's waist not to slide off.
Tiphareth watched them with a content grin, of course he was the source of their trouble, he damn well made sure he always was. But it wasn't just a cocky tease. Geburah and Kokmah were the two beings he most cared about in the entire Digiworld, the ones he'd do everything for if only asked. And now it seemed they were asking him, pleading him gently to join them. Playing untouchable reluctance as his reputation would dictate, became very hard, harder by the minute, and he let his belt slide down onto the bulge of his tunic. Pulling the strings again harshly, he constricted it painfully, head falling back against the wall in elasion. Hands, he decided, he wanted hands on himself, all over. And lips, sweet gentle lips...
He picked himself off the wall and slowly approached his beloved ones. "If there is something bothering you, then we better see to it straight away," he stated sleekly, his voice light and inviting. Geburah watched him wrap gentle hands around his brother's waist and softly the younger digimon melted onto him, folding his arms back around his neck, still unable to stop rocking against the offered tigh. Downward Tipharet's hands wandered, down until he grasped fistfuls of his brother's white tunic. Playfully he lifted it up his body and above his waist, exposing the small, jockstrap-like white cloth that was still barely covering his most intimate parts.
Kokmah was panting by then, red with realization of what he was doing, even more embarased now that he could see just how his pouch pressed against Geburah's coffee-tan tigh. He rocked his hips with an expertice he never knew he posessed, every rub easing his briefs lower and shooting his need higher. His mind was fuzzy and clouded and throughout it all he felt his tunic being lifted off of him, replaced in a moment by his brother's gentle hands. He reached into Geburah's robe-folds eagerly, urged to share the passion felt, urged to concentrate on giving some of it away less he'd succumb too soon.
Soft hands, soft as his own could never be, sneaked beneath the fall of his robes, slender fingers grazing over his pouch. He groaned in surprise, muscles bucling with the spontaneous reflex of needing more. And the fingers gave him more. They roamed and explored, rubbed and squeezed, until he was riding them on, following their lead. A lightning-like feeling stroke his mind, and he had to wonder... hadn't he felt this way before? Hadn't he dreamed about it tonight? He wasn't sure, all he remembered was a sweet teen sqirming beyond him, pushed against the wall by his force, shimmery blond locks, night-sky eyes... "Takeru..." he muttered and the fingers rubbed him harder, rougher. He could feel his organ-pouch part, his member springing out, lubed, ready, needing...
"Enough," ordered Tiphareth, stilling his brother's hand underneath Geburah's robes, "let us sit down." The other two stilled their motions with unearhtly force of will, but only because their prince's voice promised them heaven. Barely resisting to keep their hands at bay they turned to Tiphareth, their sun in this void of lust. But the void only deepened as they took in all of his perfect skin, all of his willowy form when his robe pooled around his ancles, his long fair locks framing him delightfully like a golden halo. Holding, they settled on the althar, Geburah kissing his younger prince gently while lifting him on the ceremonial table, their eyes quickly moving to look again upon the beauty they were addicted to, Tiphareth.
"With the Seraph's blessing, for the Sacred Tree," he intoned the silence, moving closer, night-sky eyes ablaze, "may our desires be fulfilled."
And as he came, wordlessly and soundlessly as always, wrapped tight in Geburah's embrace with his brother deep inside him, Kokmah's heart was bleeding sweetly. Being kissed, not knowing by who exhatly, he saw the light of faith wash his sins and summon his strenght, winding his hope into certancy.
'Sure. Whatever you want...'
Such a devoted feeling. All was as it was meant to be...
'Davis.'
Such a faithful ring to the word. If only he could guess who did it name...
~o@o~
"He called me!" he jerked to his feet, slamming his fists against the picth black table he was sitting at, as if awaking from a furious dream, flushed, startled. His eyes were opened, he was sure, despite all he could see were anonymus shades of dark grey and black. Forcing himself to calm down, he inhaled deeply, eyes snapping suspittiously from side to side. He wasn't where he had fallen asleep, he was certain of it, and he wasn't alone. "Where am I?" he inquired demandingly, senses sharp in the dark.
A sweet chuckle danced all around him, making him jump. It seemed tumbling off the unseen walls, softly so, but creeping coldly uderneath his skin in his veil of fear. Still, he was the Child of Courage and Friendship and would not crumble under any threat, no matter how deadly... then he remembered. He _had_ crumbled. He had cried, unstoppably, cried himself to sleep. Love, death, denial, lust... it had been too much for him to take. Taichi had never crumbled, Yamato never cried - and he did both at the same time when all he was threatened with was falling in love. He slumpled into his chair, sighing. Maybe he was still dreaming. Maybe the chuckles were only his brain laghung at his heart's stupidity... What a wired dream...
The laughter stopped and he snapped his eyes open against the darkness surounding him. The thought white little spots formed out of nowhere, dancing beyond his eyes, but as they begun to stick together, more and more of them, he actually realized they were small constantly changing numbers, one and zero, over and over.
Binomical system? Data? ... Digiworld?!
As if fired by his realization, the room brightened in a powerful flare, making him jelp, rushing to cover his eyes. As he felt safe to open them again he peeked at his surroundings, and did a doubletake. It wreren't the violet void-like walls, nor the wide, old-style, polished oak table he was sitting at what jerked him out of his revire. What froze the bloodflow in his veins was who was sitting passively by each side of the table. Miyako and Iori. But he had no time to freak out, for a voice across the table called his name.
"Daisuke," his name tumbled off the non exhistent walls, as the chuckle had, and he snapped his head up to glare at the one intoning it, meeting a slightly familiar face. An ellegant man sat across him, his short raven-black locks glowing subtly emerald, almond-like ebony eyes enchanted by thin oval glases. The collar of his pale yellow shirt contrasted his void-black suit in an ellegant way and he leaned his chin up on one hand, the other thacing abstract patterns over the leathered coves of a thick tome placed on the table. "You are most welcome," the man smiled, but without any hint of wrmth and it chilled the shocked out boy to the bone. "This," he continued, waving his hand over the table, "is a temporal lock. I'm afraid you won't find it very pleasant, but it's the best I could do."
"Temporal lock...?! Masaka!" Daisuke gaped, unbelieving. "This is Digiworld!" he groaned, somewhat shielding his fear the only way he knew how to when he couldn't run away from it, with anger.
"Yes, you are quite right," the man pushed his glases up his nose expertly, "but then so am I."
Pressured by the ebony gaze, Daisuke grabbed hold of his recliners gripping them painfully. Pain was good, he decided, pain was keeping him at bay, giving him something else to concentrate on rather that his fear. "Who are you? How did I get here? Why the fuck am I here?!" he snapped, glaring.
The man only laughed, his deep soft voice echoing back and forth through the empty place. "Now, now," he chided, "no need for such harsh words." Then suddenly his features steeled, serious, and he leaned back in his chair. "I am the one that brought you here, I am the one that will answer your questions, the one that will end this sharade the Chosen Children brought upon their fate."
"The heck?!"
"You'll have to cooperate," the man continued, ignoring Daisuke's outburst despite annoting he would answer his questions, "for the lives of your two frends here, as well as the others, depend on you." He leaned forward, pushing the book firecely over the table's surface till it fell in Daisuke's lap. "Read," he ordered, leaning his chin on his fists.
Startled by the book's weight, the boy quickly lifted the tome on the table, regarding it's covers. Black leather, with silver-embed corners and a colorless round stone decorated the front page, quite old too, by what he could tell. But his mind didn't stay on the book for long. His friends' lives? Had he heard correctly? If it was so, why would he spend time reading instead of figuring how to save them? To him it didn't make sense, and he sure as hell wasn't going to do something without explanation. He swallowed hard and looked the man right up in the eyes, mouthing a decided "Why?"
The man sighed, not loosing his composture. It seemed to Daisuke that for a moment, the ebony eyes unveiled to expose a glimpse of fear and worry, a tortured soul swelling with pain. "Because time is running out," he said in his cold manner, but he didn't state whose.
Daisuke's eyes lay on the tome again. Couldn't the man read the book by himself? He was just wondering what was so special about it when by posing his hand upon the cover to open it, golden lines flared to life upon the leathered surface. Jumping he quickly drew his hand back and the lines faded. He glared upon the man quizzically, but recieved a steady look in return, as if patiently urging him on. Gathering his courage, he touched the book again. As before, the golden lines emerged, forming patterns and signs, connecting and curving, until the golden drawing was complete. Embracing the colorless gem were now ten circles, posed in a simetrical sort of way. One above, three in a vertical row on each side and below. Each of them was conected to others and had a sign of the sort that surprisingly Daisuke found out he understood. "Which language is this?" he asked, bemused.
"Jewish, it is believed," the man answered, leaning back into his chair, adjusting his glasses again, "but it doesn't matter, you'll read it in a language you can speak. What does the cover say?"
Curious, the boy concentrated on the circles, reading, "I think they're names, though the top and the bottom one has some strange marking... I think it means 'angel' or 'messiah' or..."
"Seraph." The man jumped in, but it wasn't a suggestion.
Daisuke watched him, unmoving. Perhaps the man had actually read the book. But it seemed as though he insisted on him reading it too and the boy decided he had no other choice, plus he was getting really curious now. What a wired dream I'm having, he thought again as he read. "Kether (Seraph I), Kokmah, Binah, Khesed, Geburah, Tiphareth, Neecah, Hod, Jasod, Malkut (Seraph II)..."
"Sephiroth," the man mumbled thoughtfully, but as Daisuke lifted his confused eyes to him again, he motioned him to continue, "Open it."
Throwing one last glance at the golden drawing, Daisuke tried to remember the pattern. He was sure he had seen it somewhere, in history class perhaps? Touching the book made something flare inside him, only he couldn't place his finger on what. But it made him feel respectful towards the tome in way, as if it beheld a great deal of power. So he drew the cover open, yellowish pages greeting his view. Upon the first, in ellegant black symboles, was some sort of a song.
"Sun shall come and Sun shall die
Wars and blood shall paint the sky
Be proud to do what thee my
Thy faith shall find a way."
He regarded it for a moment, still wondering how in the heavens could he understand a language and typography he had never before heard of. His oak-brown eyes darted to his passive friends shyly. Miyako was sitting still, petting Hawkmon that rested comftably in her lap, her grey eyes lost in a mist on emptiness. Iori was leant back, looking up at what would be called cieling if there was any. He looked as though he was watching the shimmery violet void, titling his head to the side every now and then, emerald eyes drifting off into space.
Were they... dead? It had been said they died in an accident, hadn't it? So what were they doing here? What did it meant their lives depended on him? Daisuke couldn't dig out a single answer, but didn't want to ask, for he feared that knowing would only hurt him - as it had with Takeru. In a way, he felt as though it would be better if he had never found out about his feelings towards him, then all would be right. He would not have been burdened by them and the blonde would eventually get over him, forgetting he had ever felt that way.
As for then... the more he thought about Takeru, the more he was concerned. He could never feel the same way about him... or could he? The blonde was his best friend, the one he could always rely on, so he surely wouldn't want him any harm by feeling the way he felt. Yet what he felt was wrong, and now what he himself was starting to feel was wrong as well. No longer had he ached to be with Hikari, even less now that there was no challange presented. And his first kiss... he had no idea if it felt right or wrong, he was too windy at the time, so maybe... if Takeru kissed him one more time then he would be able to tell and let his heart at peace...
"Please, read on," the man hurried him in his formal voice, and he noded complying. Turning yet another page, neatly scrolled with the ellegant symbols, though slyghtly different in typography, he sighed deeply. The book was thick, and the time ahead was running low, but somehow he felt as though things should not be rushed, not when it came to his friends lives, not when it came to his. Because sometimes, only time knew the right path to take.X
Right, so Neecah (the elf) is Mimi, Binah (the blind Mathron seer) is Hikari, Geburah (the comander) is Taichi, Tiphareth (the sexy prince) is Yamato, Kokmah (the mute paladin) is Takeru, Khesed (the gentle king) is Sora and Jesod (the elder monk) and Hod (the centaur) are Iyou and Koushiro. Wierd I know ¡-¡0 but... What would happen to the 02 digidestined? Who is the man with the oval glasses and why does he seem familiar? Is this story going to make any sense?! Tune in for the next chapter of: Proud - Rain of Feathers! But, before that--- REVIEW! Onegaiiiii! _
off to chapter n°12
mail to Kitsu
