By Kitsune no Alz
The sun crept below the horizon seemingly more slowly than usual, as though, perhaps, it was afraid of the dark. After all, anything might be shrouded in night's concealing darkness. Yet for all the sun's hesitancy the evening enfolded the world in an embrace both gentle and soothing. As the last daylight faded and twilight descended, birds twittered first more loudly and then let their calls die away as they took to their roosts and settled down. Similarly, children shouted their good-byes to each other even as neighbors politely bid each other farewell and goodnight, workers drove home to their families, housewives set about preparing dinner, young lovers met in secret and smiled shyly at each other, two schoolboys held hands and promised to meet tomorrow...
Gradually, though, the little sounds grew quiet as people were lulled by the comforts of family and home. It was the companionable quiet spent with loved ones, or the quiet of peace and relaxation for those alone.
That is, for all but one.
There was a certain place where the silence that hovered was not warm and cozy. The silence was still and broken and cold, like a shattered mirror's jagged pieces lying forgotten on the floor. It was a silence that weighed heavy in the air and heavier on the soul, comfortless, agonized, and lonely.
There, past the broken gate and shattered stone pillars, there in the shrine, a tall youth lay on a wooden floor permanently stained by innocent blood. With one hand he traced the spots, scattered wide and worked deep into the smooth, worn panels. This was the floor of his childhood, the wooden boards over which he had run with his sister and his best friend in games of tag; the ones that he had polished by hand from the time he was old enough to hold a cleaning cloth; the floor that he had walked over nearly every day of his life...
The floor upon which he'd found his mother's limbs scattered, her glistening intestines strewn, and held in his hands her crimson-dripping decapitated head, blank blind gaze wide and beseeching pity.
The floor upon which he'd found his sister crouched over their father's near lifeless body, blood pooling out around him from the various gaping wounds dealt his torso.
The floor upon which his so-called fate had begun...
The youth rolled over onto his back, spread his arms, and closed his eyes. Against the blackness of his eyelids, he saw his sister. She was beautiful, caring, compassionate, an angel come to earth with eyes a liquid dark gold and hair to match, a sweeter disposition than any he'd ever had the fortune to know. Her laughter was gentle, her manner delicate. She had never harmed anyone in her life. He had loved her as much as a brother could, and sought to protect her from the harshness of the world. He was her big brother; he protected her fiercely. He had been the strong, steadfast tree that sheltered her, the little singing bird.
Distantly, far distantly, he heard her whisper. The last words he'd ever heard from her lips, breathy and pleading.
"Onii-chan..."
Escape from memory was impossible. His thoughts cruelly recalled every detail to the forefront of his mind. Breathy, pleading, trembling, words dredged up against unconsciousness, against fate itself.
Her gasp had been a little surprised, and he had barely discerned it from the sickening impact of the sword stabbing through her breast. Blood had lashed out from the wound and painted his face in speckles of red.
And he had smiled.
Smiled to hear her tiny gasp. Taken pleasure in the inevitability that was her life pouring out in crimson rivers. Laughed to see his best friend scream in anguish as he cradled the angel's corpse in his arms.
He turned onto his side and curled up, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them close. His eyes pricked hot with tears.
Even as he had murdered her, her last thoughts had been those of love. Love for him, love for their mutual best friend. He had killed her and she still loved him.
"Kotori," he whispered, voice choking. In the thickening darkness, nobody heard him; nobody listened to him. The name fell into the empty air and was swallowed, and it seemed to him as if he had never spoken it and it had never been.
His sister. His little sister.
Oh god...he'd killed her...killed her and enjoyed it...
His teeth clenched. What cruel perfect irony that he, her big brother, her protector, her shield against violence, had become her careless murderer. Careless indeed, for after her death, he had thought of her little—virtually not at all.
Together, big brother and best friend were supposed to have protected her, been there for her when she needed them, acted as—
Best...friend....
"Kamui," he moaned. It was a tiny, pathetic trickle of sound, agonized syllables wrung from a grief-constricted throat. Curled tightly into a ball on the floor, he lifted his hands to his head.
He had killed Kotori.
And he had killed Kamui after.
"Fuuma," he heard Kamui's voice, broken in sorrow, calling, calling, calling for him to return, to come back, please, Fuuma, come back, be yourself again, please please please...
Over and over Fuuma had tormented Kamui, his best friend, his truest friend, his beloved friend. He had cut down those important to Kamui, not only because it was one step further towards the earth's renewal but also because it had amused him to watch Kamui crumble from within. Each death was another blow dealt to the Dragon of Heaven's heart, and Fuuma as the Dragon of Earth had smiled to see the grief and anguish he wrought while making true others' wishes.
Smiled also because their destiny was foreordained.
Such that he had believed in the absolute fate, the unchangeable future, that he had experienced a kind of perverse ecstasy in every sick act he had committed. Oh, but he had known that he was granting their wishes—and he had, he had, that was the truly terrible thing, he had granted their wishes, but in a twisted way that brought no one happiness. For what was the happiness of a single human when compared to the endless agony of the earth itself?
Worth enough. He knew it now, too late. It was worth enough.
"Mirai wa mada kimatenaite," Kotori had called down, her final belief echoing on and on as he had believed that they hurtled towards the world's immutable destiny.
But she had been right. She had been right.
If only he had seen what she meant, if only he had understood, if only he had believed—
Kotori was already dead. And he had killed so many others—Kasumi Karen, the pure-hearted Dragon of Heaven prostitute; Arisugawa Sorata, the brash and bold monk from Kouya; naïve and devoted Nataku and the scientists at his laboratory and Nataku's grandfather; and countless others, most of who remained nameless but never faceless in his mind.
But Kamui...Kamui could have lived. Would have lived.
Because Kotori was right, would always be right. The future is never decided. Fuuma had believed destiny foreordained; and then Kamui had sacrificed himself for his beloved friend's sake and proved him utterly, utterly wrong.
Because after Kamui's death on the Dragon of Earth's Divine Sword, Fuuma should have wrought destruction upon civilization and obliterated that pestilence known as humanity from the world.
But Kamui had brought him back. Kamui had passed on his life, his love, his dreams and wishes to him—and brought him back.
Kamui had brought him back.
And in doing so, Shirou Kamui had demonstrated more love and compassion than Fuuma had the grace to ever deserve. Those eyes, piercing and yet strangely gentle as well with their understanding, intensity a bright glimmer like sunlight shining through liquid amber—Kamui's eyes eternally gazed into his own. They had held such nobility and such sacrifice within them that Fuuma could not turn away, and now the memory of that beautiful gaze never left his mind. Like Kotori, Kamui had extended his hands and words in hope and love, and bid him return and carry forever the lives of those he had killed within him—and carry with him the hope of the world.
Within him there lay the existences of Kamui and Kotori, his mother, his father, his companions and his enemies. There they were, eternally, shimmering memories shrouded in grief and self-hatred and recrimination. His fault. All his fault. Entirely his fault.
Fuuma buried his face in his hands and felt the tears burn across his cheeks, hot and scalding, and drop silently to the floor, molten diamonds on bloodstained wood.
Rage at everything, at the past and himself, vied with helplessness, and the latter won out. Bitterness flooded him, spreading like bile through his mouth and cinching tight over his chest until he thought his heart would explode. The chances, the opportunities, the possibilities—all gone, extinguished forever with the lives of countless others. His closest kin and mostly companions he had by his own hands killed. All because he had listened to the cries of the earth and been oblivious to—no, he brutally forced himself to admit, ignored the pleas of those who loved him.
He had killed so many when he had forsaken his loved ones and sided with the earth.
Among the dead were his little sister and his beloved friend.
Kotori.
Kamui.
The future was undecided and the past unchangeable. The earth cried and Fuuma wept alone, tortured and tormented.
The hope of the earth, though, lived on inside him, and he would live for it, and live for those whose lives he had ended.
But who was left to hope for, to love, to live on for him?
Fuuma screamed into the night, and nobody heard.
End