When All Lights Go Out
By Seishuku Skuld
Series: X
Pairing: implied Seishirou/Subaru
Warnings: whatever usual baggage comes along with SxS
Date: September 2004
Disclaimer: borrowing the CLAMP characters for the purposes of world domination. CLAMP doesn't say I can't, so I'll give them back when I rule the world—mwa ha ha ha ha.
---------
There was a reason he kept the curtains closed. There was a reason there were
no electric lights in his apartment. All the outlets in the wall were
bare, the phone cord long disconnected, its plug lying on the floor
gathering dust. Where there once were lamps there were now only empty
tables and lonely corners. He had thrown the lamps out long ago after
they had been shattered, but there were hundreds of lights greeting him
as he stepped through the doorway, opening the door with a slow, silent
swoosh that barely disturbed the rows of flames that stared at him
curiously as he shed his outermost layer of clothes and lay them on a
chair hidden in the darkness.
He walked past the lights and they
barely swayed as he passed, standing, tall and upright, unwavering in
their dim glow, columns of golden teardrop crystal, moving only to the
whispered voices of the spirits which would occasionally come to
disturb him.
It was an expensive and time-consuming habit to
keep up, but the Sakurazukamori had enough of both for at least two
expensive habits—cigarettes and candles—with enough leftover for the
minimum necessities that every human required.
His hands were
bloody as he glided into the kitchen, leaving dark stains on the
counter and on the handles of the door of the cupboard above the sink.
He went about this routine every night when he came home. The metal of
the brass handle was already covered in several weeks of dried blood.
It was a ritual for him--morning, noon, night, and whenever he had the
spare time. His rooms were stuffy, dark lairs for he never opened his
window or his curtains, and he always kept the door shut. What small
drafts came in the through the cracks beneath the door were quickly
consumed by the lights. He had long ago ceased to wonder what would
happen to him once the oxygen ran out in his room. He supposed the
lights might flicker out one by one and he be extinguished with them,
but he had only given that a moment's thought before passing on. There
were faster, more efficient ways of death than slow suffocation, and he
could count at least twenty, half of which he had used himself.
The candles burned around the clock, even though he had long since
thrown out any time-keeping devices and let his body's natural rhythm
adapt to the constant night, shifting it slightly from its normal
circadian course. Often he found that he would wake up from the fitful
naps that served him as sleep just as one candle was dying, its light
extinguishing in a trail of smoke, and he would scramble up from his
bed, his floor, or his couch, hurrying to replace the cooling pool of
wax with a new, bloodstained column.
They were pleasing to his
eyes whenever he returned to his home, his eyes so accustomed to the
dark that they were unable to tolerate the light of day for very long.
The semi-darkness of his abode was much more pleasing to him, the drops
of flame standing tall and unflickering as if frozen in time, save for
the drip-drip of wax that told him time was indeed still passing.
His teacher had told him once a long time ago, when he was first
growing into his power that candles were heralds of the spirits, bright
lights capable of reaching far into the netherworld to serve as beacons
for guiding spirits home. This place in particular was home to many
spirits, some more malevolent than others. They were drawn to him—his
lights and his power—but for the most part the spirits passed him by,
taking curious looks at the apartment and its occupant before going on
their way, doing whatever capricious spirits did. He would occasionally
open his eyes suddenly in the middle of his meditation and see the
candlelights flicker, all tilting in one direction as a ghost would
approach, drawn like an insect to the light, only to leave disappointed
when it discovered that the lights hadn't lit the path to its home, but
instead to the residence of another.
He could never hold onto
them quite long enough to ask them questions; he had yet to capture the
elusive spirits which flitted sometimes by his rooms. And those that
did linger did not seem to know much—their memories lost—as they
wandered like children. He was kind to these ghosts, his rare smiles
born out of some strange tenderness buried deep inside his heart.
Perhaps it was just nostalgia that bid him to do so. Or perhaps he did
still feel something for the innocent wanderers his lights attracted.
He did what little he could to guide them home, in hopes that one day
if they might remember, they would come back to him with the news he
sought.
This day he was trying extra hard.
It was already late into the afternoon. He had been awake since the previous night's sundown, but he was not tired. Since reentering his house he had been sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor, the symbols of his practice carved and burned deep into the wood. He had put them there when he had erected the candles, in hopes of catching the spirits.
He opened one eye as he sensed a small disturbance in the air around him. He turned his head to the side, seeing the candles there flutter. Without another thought he extended both his hands and eight black ofuda fell onto the floor about him, flared briefly with light and then all went back to darkness, save for the fact that he had finally captured a spirit. That one had lingered longer than others, perhaps because it was a young one, too curious for its own good. Or perhaps it liked the feeling of his house and the sugary taste of his power, and decided it wanted to stay for a bit. Regardless of its intentions, he asked with it his usual formal politeness whether or not the spirit had seen the person he was searching for.
The candles danced as it
spoke, the lights disturbed by the ghost's movement. The flames jumped
and fell, some candles burning taller and brighter than others, as
drops of hot wax fell and congealed onto the floor, spelling out a
strange but precise language that only he could read.
No.
He sighed and was about to wave it on its way, but the wax continued to
fall, large beads of white plummeting to the floor with soundless
splashes.
But I can hear him.
His lifted
his eyebrows in question. He felt the ghost drift in front of his face
and settle there not too far away from him. The wax stopped falling,
the candlelights pausing as the ghost stilled. Perhaps it was trying to
recall the subtleties of human expression. It was a few moments before
another bead of wax fell on the floor.
It's a pity you cannot.
He cocked his head to the side every so slightly, not fully believing
this spirit which had stumbled upon him. It was the not the first time
he was unwilling to believe a ghost's words.
Did you know that murderers can't hear the screams of spirits?
The ghost flitted through him, pausing in the center of his mind's eye.
He could not see its form for it did not chose to reveal itself to him,
but he could feel the chill of its otherworldly touch, his skin
prickling at the contact as it drifted through his chest, and wrapped a
wraith-like limb about his cheek.
He says he is glad you can't hear him.
The spirit laughed and a few of the candles sputtered out.
Because that would make you sad.
The spirit laughed again, and half the room was filled with the smoke
of extinguished lights. It clouded his vision and dirtied the thick air
of his room, and he lost his grip on the ghost's presence.
But you are already rather sad, aren't you? That only makes him cry more.
The spirit sneered in contempt and rose from its position before him,
rushing from his home quickly, passing invisible hands over each and
every candle and snuffing them all out. Then, satisfied that the room
was dark and silent, the wraith winked out of his plane of existence
and left him alone.
It was turning again into twilight by the time the tears that had fallen on the floor had dried. The smoke had settled out of its thin, silky tendrils and covered his home in a blanket of foggy haze. He had already fallen in sleep in zazen and had not read the final words of the candles that the spirit had scattered, the last drops of wax fallen haphazardly. Had there been a light in the room he surely would have seen.
Seishirou is waiting.
But all the candles had gone out, and it was dark when he woke. He sighed then, picking himself off the floor and groping his way into the bedroom where his neglected bed lay.
He did not bother to light the candles again, and his rooms forever remained in darkness.
End When all Lights Go Out