About her steps the trunks are bare, the branches
Drip heavy tears upon her downcast head;
And bleed from unseen wounds that no sun staunches,
For the year's sun is dead.


And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted:
And birds that love the south have taken wing.
The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted,
Weeps, and despairs of spring.

From Elegy by Robert Bridges

Chapter Five: The scene enchanted Hanamura Mika looked at her boss's empty chair and scowled. Nagira Syunji had to be the most irritating man in the entire world. Everything he did irked her. He was lazy; arrogant; self-serving; manipulative; overbearing and entirely too easily distracted for his own good.

That's what she told herself, anyway.

She tried to concentrate on her work, but it was filing. And menial, mindless tasks prompted her thoughts to wander again. She wondered where he'd gone. Maybe…maybe he'd had word about the delinquent girl? She quashed the stubborn kernel of resentment that sparked at the thought. There was no reason to think ill of the child, especially after what had happened. And yet, he'd been so cheerful after she'd gone – even if, deep down, Mika knew he was screaming inside. But false bravado was easier to stomach than honest grief, and she chose to ignore the fact that Syunji's brother and the delinquent girl…Robin…were most likely dead.

Syunji? When had she started to call her boss "Syunji", in her thoughts? She flushed and brought one hand to her heated face. She caught Hirata's eye and pursed her lips in disapproval.

"Surely you have work to do?" she snapped, pushing back her chair and rising. "I'm getting some tea," she announced loudly, leaving the room and disregarding the chuckle that followed her exit.

Mika bashed the teapot onto the bench and added the tealeaves with a shaking hand. She poured in the boiling water and allowed the mix to steep. Bracing her arms on the bench, she let the steam drift over her face and settle heavily on her skin, beading over her foundation.

Nothing had been the same after they'd gone. The counselor – she tried very hard not to think of him as Syunji – had become a bit…hollow. In every sense of the word. He worked harder than ever before, she had to admit that, but he seemed distant and distracted. He had to be reminded to eat, sometimes - and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He'd become…brittle. He didn't seem to care about anything. He went through the motions like it didn't matter anymore. But then, this morning –

He swaggered up to her as she unlocked the front door.


"Mika!" he'd exclaimed, smiling widely. She could only stare back at him in confusion. "I'll be out of the office today – something's come to my attention. So be a good girl and reschedule my appointments, will you?"


Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, he managed to light it, stow the lighter and brush past her before she found her voice.


"Counselor!" she cried, running down the stairs after him. "Your diary is booked solid! Mrs Kanamayo will be here any minute, I can't just –" he silenced her again, this time by spinning and placing a finger against her lips.


They stood for a moment, connected by that one touch. He stared at her, as if willing her to understand something…but she just couldn't concentrate for some reason. Seconds, hours later he stepped back and winked.


"I'm off to see some long lost friends," he added quietly. He walked away, while she stared after his retreating form, absurdly thankful she hadn't yet applied her lipstick.

What if…he'd been trying to say…he'd found…

Water traced a path down her cheek and she blinked, coming back to the present. She reached for a mug and busied herself with pouring the tea, telling herself it was just the steam. She was definitely, positively, absolutely not crying.

That's what she told herself, anyway.

Michael stood in the elevator, hands in pockets, deep in thought. He was doing some mental arithmetic, but two and two were inexplicably making three.

Something was not right.

The cage shuddered to a halt and he waited a moment for the doors to open. He crossed the room and sent the Guard a jaunty wave before making his way through the gate. The other man glanced up from his magazine and did a double take, eying the hacker with surprise. It was almost like he couldn't believe it.

You and me both, buddy, Michael though as he let himself out of Raven's Flat. He was feeling better already. With every step away from the forbidding building his heart grew lighter and he felt…he felt like he could breathe again. The STN-J office had somehow become a prison again, and he didn't think he could handle the simmering mistrust a moment longer.

He walked for a while, with no specific direction in mind, just glad to be away from the four walls that had become his entire world. There was life outside of Raven's Flat. He knew it – he researched it – and he wanted to live a little himself.

Squinting, wishing he hadn't left his glasses back at the office, he found himself pulled from his reverie by the sound of humming air conditioners. He looked up. Somehow he'd doubled back on himself and ended up outside Harry's. He stared at the low building for a moment, before shrugging and making his way inside.

He navigated through the labyrinthine corridors, and eventually found himself in the main room. It was all but deserted. A trio of businesswomen shared a table in the corner, conversing quietly, and a male customer had a booth to himself, poring over the sports section of the newspaper. The bartender stood, watching him, drying some glasses.

Strangely embarrassed, Michael made his way to the bar and pulled up a stool. The bartender gave him a gentle smile.

"What can I get you?" he asked, setting the glass down carefully.

Michael ran a hand through his hair. What did one order at a bar? He was obviously underage, and it was too hot for coffee.

"Er, a Bepsi, thank you," he answered, naming the first soda that came to mind. The bartender inclined his head gracefully and walked off to prepare it.

Michael looked around. It was pretty swank, this place. Shiny, ambient…strange there weren't more customers. Of course, he'd been there once before, but there had been more important things to think about than the décor. He'd also been a bit dizzy with the heady rush of defiance, having left Raven's Flat for the first time in two years.

Now, he could leave whenever he wanted. He had the freedom…and he was afraid to use it.

The bartender returned with a tall glass of fizzing liquid, a slice of lemon draped artfully over the rim. Michael took the drink and fiddled awkwardly with the straw.

"It's Michael, isn't it?" the bartender asked, startling him. He nodded and took a big sip of his cola. The bubbles seemed to burn up through his nasal passage and he sputtered noisily, half choking on the drink. The bartender handed him a napkin.

"Thanks," he muttered, ducking his head. Why did I even come?

The other man watched him wipe his face. "I hear you have a new Hunter."

Michael nodded. Robin had told him the bartender – what was his name? – was familiar with the goings on in the STN-J. Robin. He took another long drag on his straw. The bartender picked up another glass – or was it the same glass? – and resumed his methodical wiping. Michael's eyes followed the movement of his hands. It was strangely relaxing. Somewhere behind him, water gurgled.

They sat in silence for some time. Kobari Yuji, that was his name! It came to Michael and he felt relieved that he was finally closer to equal terms with the enigmatic barkeep. He gulped down some more cola.

"Do you speak English?" Kobari asked suddenly, startling Michael. He gaped for a moment, then remembering it was impolite to stare, shut his mouth and nodded.

"Not often, anymore, but yeah…I'm actually American." He ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. He didn't look Japanese – wasn't it only to be expected he spoke English? Unless the bartender thought he was from Europe…but everyone spoke English, didn't they? He puzzled over this for a few seconds, until Kobari leant in close and spoke softly, without moving his lips.

"Have you ever heard of a poem called Jabberwocky?"

Michael racked his brain, but the memory, if there, proved elusive. His reply was in English, as the bartender's question had been.

"It rings a bell, but I can't say I know it."

Kobari transferred a number of clean glasses to a tray, then carried them over to the sink and set them under the tap.

So they are the same glasses! Michael thought with some satisfaction, having had his hypothesis proven correct.

Wiping his damp hands on his spotless apron, Kobari returned to the counter and fixed Michael a serious look. "The poem is taken from a novel called Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll. You haven't read it?"

Michael swallowed. "Um, no. I didn't have the book, but my sister did."

Kobari nodded gracefully. "Then I'll just tell you a few things about the poem. Its compiled of nonsense words, terms made up especially for the story. They're not real words, but the way they are used tricks us into believing that they are. It was such a believable illusion that now, a century later, some of the terms Carroll created especially for Jabberwocky are accepted as dictionary words."

Plucking a wet glass out of the sink, Kobari resumed his rhythmic drying. Michael furrowed his brow.

"I-" he began, but the bartender interrupted him, quiet voice firm.

"You would be able to find that book at any bookstore in town. I do recommend it. But now, please excuse me." The tall man inclined his head and went to tend to the table of businesswomen.

Michael pushed back his stool and fished a couple of crumpled banknotes out of his pocket. Dropping them on the bar, he made his way outside. He stood for a moment, looking back in the direction of Raven's Flat, before turning resolutely and walking in the opposite direction. Work could wait. It appeared he had some reading to do.

Amon was stunned. He was unable to do anything aside from standing in stupefaction at finding his brother lounging in their doorway. Nagira pushed himself upright and ambled over to where Amon stood, shocked.

They stayed like that, a moment frozen in place and time, before Nagira sliced effortlessly through the tension that had built between them.

"Hey bro," he said – rather lamely, Amon thought – fishing in his pockets for the ever present packet of cigarettes. Hackles still raised, Amon could only incline his head at the greeting.

"Booyah," he heard his sibling mutter in triumph, pulling the smokes from somewhere in the shadowy depths of his coat. His lighter flared and hissed, and with a clink tendrils of smoke wafted towards the ceiling, spreading through the space between them.

Unable to bear it any longer, Amon shifted Robin until she was cradled in one arm, digging in his duster coat for the keys and slinging them at their unwelcome guest.

"Make yourself useful," he ground out. Nagira chuckled, catching the keys, and moved to open the door. Amon pushed past him and took Robin to her room.

She hung from his arms like a broken doll, one bird-boned arm resting in her lap, the other flapping uselessly out of his hold. She looked so tiny, so fragile, so defenseless that he felt a wave of self-disgust wash over him, seeping in to settle next to the self-loathing and self-remorse. He was her warden, and yet he'd failed to protect her. Was he good for nothing, after all?

Amon lowered Robin onto the bed, gently, extracting his hands from beneath her with infinitesimal care. He sat next to her, the beds springs creaking acknowledgement of his weight. Surveying her slight form, he allowed the questions from earlier to dwell in his mind.

First and foremost…what had happened? He'd been too caught up in the adrenaline rush; too concerned for Robin's wellbeing to fully consider the implications of what he'd done. This moment of reflection afforded him the first opportunity to understand what exactly had occurred.

He truly was a Witch. He could no longer dismiss it. He couldn't even ignore it completely, as he preferred to do with things that confused or bothered him.

When faced with irrefutable proof, even Amon Nagira had to admit the truth.

Suddenly lightheaded, Amon found himself kneeling next to the bed, knees pressed against unyielding hardwood. He rested his forehead on the coverlet, one hand reaching blindly for Robin's, grasping it like a lifeline. Save me, Robin, he thought, twisting the cool, slim fingers in his own, save me from myself.

He fancied the smooth hand gave his own a gentle squeeze, and his head pains vanished. Unwilling to move, he remained bowed for a moment more, sweet solace in the silent comfort of his ward.

-

Amon returned to the kitchen to find Nagira rifling through the cupboards, sorting through the packaged foods.

"Make yourself at home," he remarked dryly, moving to the small table and lowering his aching body to the larger of the two chairs. His half-brother didn't turn at the sound of Amon's voice, and kept sorting through the dry foots until he seized upon a particular ramen brand.

"Where's your kettle?" he asked casually, lips working around the ever-present cigarette. Too exhausted to even consider the ridiculous nature of the situation, Amon only pointed tiredly to the top of the refrigerator.

Nagira busied himself with preparing his impromptu snack, while only years of training kept Amon sitting upright. He just wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep. Does Craft take this much out of you, all of the time? Does Robin feel like this?

"Guess it's true about the mile in the other man's shoes," he muttered to himself in some surprise.

"What you babbling about?" Nagira asked, slurping the completed ramen.

"Nothing that concerns you," Amon replied coldly, suddenly remembering he and Robin were in hiding and that no one was supposed to know their whereabouts.

"How did you find us?"

Nagira smirked, his expression of superiority marred somewhat by the string of noodle hanging from his mouth.

"Little birdie," was his only answer, sparking Amon's tired annoyance to dangerous levels.

"No, I mean it. How did you find us? If you managed to discover our position it's not too much of a stretch to imagine that Solomon isn't far behind."

Nagira didn't even flinch in the face of his sibling's ire.

"Let's just say you wouldn't believe me if I told you," he replied, scraping at the ramen. He pointed his chopsticks at Amon. "Well, you wouldn't. When the little miss chooses to wake up, I might explain it to her. I guess a Witch would underst-"

Amon slammed a white-knuckled fist onto the tabletop, startling Nagira and sending the empty Styrofoam container flying.

"It didn't occur to you," he began frostily, "that I would return with Robin unconscious – failing my ward – only in the most extreme of situations? I have no time for childish antics, brother. How did you find us?"

Nagira blinked, and gave a half-hearted chuckle.

"Eh, guess you're serious. No helping it then."

Amon watched him, eyes narrowed, and waited while Nagira ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture.

"Well, you see…I dreamt it."

Amon nodded, disbelievingly.

"You dreamt it."

"Yeah, I just had –" he broke off as Amon calmly raised himself from the chair, and didn't move when he grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. Amon brought his face close to Nagira's and nearly spat the words at his brother.

"This is not a joke. I don't have time for these imbecilic games of yours. I don't know why you sought us out or even how you found us, but Robin is hurt and I just can't –" he broke off as a mug careened across the counter and crashed to the floor.

Releasing Nagira and whirling around, he noticed the ground was shaking slightly, moving as if by earthquake. The fridge door slanted open, and a carton of milk slipped from the shelf, falling at his feet. He watched, dumb, as the milk pooled around his feet and spread outwards, sluicing over the vinyl in an insidious crawl.

The utensils drawer began to rattle, and steadily grew louder as the tremors increased. His chair knocked itself over with a startling bang! and in the midst of the cacophony Amon could only think I hope this doesn't wake Robin. The image of his injured ward was like a splash of cold water, and desperate to halt the quake before anyone else was hurt, he thought as hard as he could -

STOP!


and then movement ceased.

Just like that, the room stopped shaking. A semblance of normality returned to the kitchen, punctuated only by the slow swing of the refrigerator door.

Nagira reached out and gently pushed it shut. Amon looked away, unwilling to see the judgment in his brother's eyes. He could almost hear Nagira's jumbled thoughts and feelings of confusion; and dwelling on these, he missed the look of understanding sent his way before Nagira got to his feet and broke the heavy silence.

"Well, I know where you are now, so I can drop by at a more convenient time."

Leaving the irony and a repentant Amon behind, Nagira left the apartment.

Once safely outside, Nagira rested his forehead against the cool wall, exhaling in a shuddering heave. This close, he could see hairline fractures splicing the brick, evidence of what had happened moments ago. Not privy to Amon's silent musing; he'd nevertheless seen the signs. It had happened. Just like he knew it would.

But he hadn't expected it to be like this.

Sighing, he shrugged, and pulled himself away from the wall. He lipped a cigarette from his packet and started the trek downstairs, deciding to return sometime next week. Amon had some questions to answer…

And one of them was just how exactly the Eve of Witches had been rendered unconscious.

Jabez felt the Hunt had been a success. Karasuma had cornered the Witch and was working to deflect any Craft attempts while he'd readied the tranquilizer and chip. He'd then worked to tag their quarry, noting with some amusement Karasuma's averted eyes and rigid stance. Of course, it didn't surprise him. It had been obvious from the beginning his partner was sickened by the new methods adopted by the STN-J.

"Would you prefer we terminated them?" he asked her quietly as they made their way back to her car, parked several streets away. She's started at his sudden question, and it was a struggle to hide his satisfaction at her obvious discomfort.

"I…er…as a Craft user…"

"And what is the difference between a Craft user and a Witch?" he interrupted smoothly, a carefully inserted note of genuine query making it seem anything but practiced.

Karasuma seemed almost indignant.

"That's the very first thing we learn in our training! That a Witch uses their Craft for malicious purposes with intent to harm others, and that a Craft user has to come to terms with their…"

She hesitated and Jabez wondered cruelly what word she was searching for. Gift? Affliction?

"…powers, and either live without them or use them for the good of all mankind."

"But essentially," he countered, "the Witch and the Craft user both have the same…powers. Is that correct?"

His partner nodded slowly, face frozen.

"So the only difference lies in the mind?"

Karasuma rounded on him. "What exactly are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, it's only conjecture –"

"Every human has a comparative level of strength and wit, but only certain percentages are inclined towards violence. They choose to use their proportionate abilities for a harmful cause. Psychology plays a deciding factor in all such matters!"

She stopped as they reached the car, but her impassioned words hung between them for the rest of the awkward return to Raven's Flat.

As the elevator made its painful ascent to the office, Jabez couldn't help but ask,

"Every human with the capacity for violence is still a human, according to your theory. That makes every Witch a Craft user…so then what of the opposite? Is every Craft user a Witch, within?"

The elevator doors opened and Jabez made his exit. One down, he thought, sneaking a glance back at a frowning Karasuma, following him slowly.

Sakaki looked up as he entered the office.

"Oh, hey Jabez," he said, giving him a crooked smile. Jabez nodded, moving to his seat, noting Doujima napping at her desk. Michael was nowhere to be seen, but the computer boy could wait. Just a couple more to go.

-

Mindful of the furtive looks Karasuma kept sending him, Jabez worked quietly for the rest of the day, and made his escape around dinnertime.

He returned to his apartment and went directly to the bathroom, wanting to verify something that had been nagging at him all afternoon. Leaning over the basin so as to get a closer look at the mirror, he reached up and parted his hair, pressing it hard against his scalp.

"Shit," he muttered. The nagging feeling had been spot on. Amongst the black fibres, close to the scalp, was a very faint regrowth of pale ginger hair.

This chapter was muchos setting up, so sorry if it didn't excite anyone :( And an ambiguous chapter ending that came partly from my inability to end things well and partly from my own impatience in wanting to get this up as soon as possible.


Sorry for the delay! I've actually got precious little plot and planning done for this story, so updates rely heavily on the whims of my muses. This chapter hasn't even been beta-ed. I've also been knee-deep in manga, so direct any residual anger towards Alice 19th; Kodocha; Hot Gimmick; Kimi wa Pet; Hana Yori Dango; Snowdrop; Zettai Kareshi; Kamikaze Kaitou Jeanne…and, well, a whole lot more.


Thanks to everyone who reviews, and all those patient people who have stuck with this story. I hope the next update comes a lot sooner. Till then, bye!