Disclaimer: CLAMP owns CCS.

memento mori

Going downstairs in the middle of the night, simply to have a snack in the kitchen should not be a problem to her.

It was a given that her mansion was absurdly, incredibly big—almost like a castle that sat on the top of a snow mountain, overlooking the humbler and modest houses below it. She had memorized the twists, the turns and the secret passages. She crept and snuck out of the mansion, each night, after her discovery of Sakura-chan's double life, productively. Her female bodyguards, the sleeping house cleaners, and the overall security guards did not know of her whereabouts. The security cams plastered everywhere did not stop her down. Nobody and nothing could. She was a wall; a wall could avoid things; it was there, they existed, but no one really noticed.

And, yet…an irrelevant—and irrational—fear dug deeper and soaked into her two-hundred and six bones. Her hands were clammy and cold and they were shaking as she deftly shut her bedroom door.

'Be quick, be clever, don't trip, don't waver…' she chanted absently, her blood humming in her ears. She licked her lips, eyes adjusting to the darkness, eyes prepared and squinting. She began to move. Be haste and be careful were the things she learned over the couple of years she had done this. Sneaking out… there was something tangy and sinister about it. Yet she loved it. She did it almost every night despite that Sakura-chan and her Sakura Cards were safe now; in addition to that, there were no troubles brewing in Tomodea. Their lives were peaceful, ordinary even. There was frankly no point of her sneaking out, save for her love of the excitement.

But there were indeed seconds that fleeting thoughts would pass her, if she let had let them: Somebody recording her every move, her every dance…somebody kidnapping her, realizing that she's Sonomi Daidouji's daughter in one glance…would somebody seek her? If they had, she wondered if the police would find her dead and naked the next day, if her eyes were glassy, and the blood drained from her body. She wondered, secretly, if rain, scavengers, bacteria would then consume the evidence, and nobody could find her. No one could help her. At those imageries that forcefully projected itself in her mind, she slapped herself mentally, and opted for going to the kitchen only as she was safe within the confines of the mansion, postponing her nightly escapades, just for this one night.

Now, she thought, wistful, if she could only obtain spectacular, inhuman eyesight, she would not have to rely on nearly tripping up on the life-sized statue—the gift that her Father had bought her last Christmas—that seemed to happen to her always, to know that she had arrived at the stairs.

Touch. He could see their deaths with one single touch. Had he worn gloves, had he hid, he would not have to peer into their intimate, personal lives. Not many people knew. The society, the young and the old, even the dead didn't know. He could see them and their lies, their pretenses, their ironies. They gave him their marks, each swearing that he would miss them; he would lie and concur, but their purpose not lost. Through them, he could be what and who they were, whether they were conscious to it or not. To him, they were interesting specimens, each unique and different from the last.

It was indisputable; it was a verity that they had no idea, really. No clue at what he could do to them, what he could mold them into, and that brought lazy, wicked sniggers to his creatures, doused with their own putrid smell. You control them exceptionally well, Eriol-sama, better than Clow Reed could ever do. Even the powerful Sakura-san and her dreams sprinkled with the essence of tomorrows—the dreams that she learned to jot down during the spotless sunrises so she could refer to it later—did not know…oh, there were no exceptions. All of them were gullible, naïve.

Especially sixteen-year old schoolgirls. They were his favorite. "Pleasure to meet your acquaintance," he would tell them, Englishman-like, and he would raise their dainty, rosy hands to his lips. Then the visions would come, almost as if he asked for it. This one would die twenty years from now. AIDS. No cure. Poor little thing.

And when their purpose was nothing but a trace of energy dribbling from his chin, he would leave a kiss on their sixteen-year old rosy hands, "Goodbye," and an infectious grin, "We shall see each another again sometime, I'm sure."

He was like a god, felt like he was one. A devil of a god, his mother had spited him. Yes. And he would think of the anonymous and their ends, particularly these two living things, now rotting, now buried. Angela Medina: ran away from home, away from parental abuse; but she was not safe; she would die in the hands of her boyfriend. It was tragic, really, that Angela. He met her in the dark, saw her face like an open field. He almost devoured her, her momentary release, her freedom. They assumed too much, but they knew not a lot. A fantastic example was that ill-fated boy. Saki Sarorou. Saki was whiner, a follower. Saki was a nurse living in Tokyo, but he was obstinate, not acknowledging his imminent death: cancer. It was dreadful, their deaths. And the lot of them was in his reverie, haunting him.

He really was fortunate; he the reincarnation of Reed; and reflecting of Saki the Ill-fated Boy, and Tragic Angela… He would not tell them over their corpses that he enjoyed it, their sad and happy lives, all of it; he hated that he enjoyed it. But he did not admit it, that he fancied basking in the glories of the richly devoted. He loved them, honestly. That was why he hated them all, hated that he relinquished their breathy whispers, their flirty messages, their twisted philosophies—and those sixteen-year-old schoolgirls—until he plunged in for the kill.

Tomoyo was on her toes, her steps nippy as she passed by the corridors. She was considering what she was going to do while Kyo was in England. Her first thought was to consort with her best friend, Sakura-chan. But unfortunately, the Kinomoto family (and their family friend, Tsukishiro-san) and Li-kun were going away on vacation in Hong Kong; they were going to leave fourteen days away from now. They had invited her to come with them, naturally, but she had declined. Her Father was going to drop by in Japan, she elaborated to Sakura over one of their sleepovers. Sakura, who was jerking Kero-chan's ear for wolfing down the sweets she had made for Li-kun, had beamed at her and said, "That's great, Tomoyo-chan! It's too bad that—oh, no! Come back here, Kero-chan!" Sakura yelled at Kero, who slid out of her clutch and flew past her; she beamed at Tomoyo again. "The invitation is still open if you changed your mind, though!" said Sakura hurriedly, before running after Kero.

Sakura was glad for her, that she knew. Her Mother, however, was not pleased of her decision: "Do not get your hopes up, darling," she warned her, "it is plausible that he would not come as he is a busy man."

Tomoyo knew that her Mother was looking out for her. Of her two parents, her Father was the busiest. Ever since she was a child, her Father was overseas, managing the Daidouji's businesses in other parts of Asia and Europe (and now, America); he was seldom to be at home, and he never gave her a call. The only correspondence they had was through the birthday and Christmases cards and the lavish gifts he sent her. Tomoyo did not see any pictures of him framed in the mansion, either, but she did not question her Mother if they were divorced or separated.

It was plain that her Mother cared for her regardless that, sometimes, her Mother did not make it to one of her birthday parties that she herself had arranged, so her secretary would come instead as the surrogate. And her Father…well, she was not confident if he did love her and her Mother.

Perhaps her Mother knew of her speculations, which was why she gave her all she ever wanted, but not necessarily, what she needed. The glamour did teach her many, many things, two of which—dancing and singing (her sewing skill was self-taught and her filming skill was, well, for her entertainment)—her Mother forced her to like.

"Bösendorfer? That piano is a Bösendorfer? Dear Kami-sama! It's beautiful."

"Thank you, Mother…Do you suppose Father shall be pleased?"

"Why would he not? I think he'll be more than pleased! He loves playing the piano, you know, and this makes me happy and so very proud of you, Eriol, that I could die this moment, just to be happy."

"I implore you not to speak of death like that, Mother, it is not a game."

"I know, I know, I was simply jesting… Ah, well…Come now; let us get some tea and cookies for you to get that handsome face of yours to cheer up, shall we."

"Finally," she murmured, seeing the watery shadow of the kitchen door. She looked up and down, her hearing sharpened, appreciating the sheer loneliness, the absolute silence of the eternal darkness that emanated from the ceilings, and the empty hollows.

Only to be disturbed by her stomach grumbling softly.

Smiling grimly, she recalled why she wanted to go to the kitchen in the first place. 'Kitchen, fridge, the leftover sushi…got it.' The door creaked with a quiet squeak. One of her eyes peeked inside; there was nobody there.

She blinked. How odd. The recently hired house cleaner, Naoko Yasanawa, habitually joins her to have a snack at this hour. For a second, she wondered if Naoko had told her Mother of her activities. But Naoko was her ally and her friend; she would never tell anybody. She trusted her. Shrugging off that spiteful thought, Tomoyo strode directly to the refrigerator, and gained access to its contents swiftly.

She scanned for the leftover California sushi rolls from last night's dinner, spotted the container filled with sushi within seconds, and was about to retrieve it when her mobile vibrated inside the small purse she carried around the mansion.

She knew that only four people have her private number: Her mother was out of the picture, as she was in the Toy Company, working overnight. Sakura-chan was probably asleep, as it was already midnight, but Tomoyo would not count her out. Kyo-kun's flight was tomorrow, so he was likely resting by now; but he did give her his word that he would call her...

Hand over her mobile, she answered it, "Daidouji Tomoyo is speaking," genial and brief.

"Tomoyo-chan!" cried a charming voice on the other line.

Tomoyo recognized the voice instantly. "Meiling-chan!" she exclaimed, her astonishment unmistakable, but she recovered shortly, as Meiling did mention that she was going to give her a ring the other day. Something about the red-eyed girl going around the world in eighty days, Tomoyo supposed, she serving as her breathing diary.

Meiling laughed. "Am I interrupting your date with your midnight snack?" She inquired Tomoyo teasingly, "Because, well, I have to say, Tomoyo-chan, it is quite rude of you to hang up on me just because you and your lover, the sushi delight, are having a rendezvous, when I'm calling you from the other side of the world."

"My date can wait," replied Tomoyo gamely, barely managing to conceal her snicker. Her beige nightgown whirled jubilantly in the moonlight as she gracefully perched on a soft-plush chair.

"Uh-huh."

What had Meiling had said before, when she greeted her, had sunken in. "You're 'calling from the other side of the world'?" Tomoyo reiterated, mentally doing her geography. "Hong Kong isn't extremely far from Japan, Meiling-chan, and though I'm curious and I'm certain that you are tantalizing me, I won't ask where you are."

Meiling protruded her lower lip in displeasure. "Mou, you're no fun!" There was a pause on Meiling's line. "Anyway, if you must know, I'm abroad." She gave a delighted scream. "I'm staying in a hotel in Florida. Florida! In fact—" She gave another ecstatic scream at which Tomoyo smiled slightly, "I'm going to ride all the roller coasters, the creepy tunnels, and the kiddy scream-o rides in Disneyworld in a few hours!" Meiling proceeded to lie on the bed, absentmindedly noting to check out the Florida sky later. "But," she continued eagerly, "that's not the only reason why I phoned you, Tomoyo-chan."

Tomoyo raised an eyebrow, interest piqued.

Meiling did not wait for Tomoyo to respond. "I had an epiphany!" she burst out, tears of joy erupting from her wet red eyes. "You know what that means, Tomoyo-chan?" she asked rhetorically, not minding the tears that were streaming down her face, "I have cried over Syaoran enough, and then, today, WHAM! I do not have to cry over him anymore! I don't need to." She clarified.

Tomoyo's almost lilac eyes, speckled with a bluish tint, widened at Meiling's declaration. She had known Meiling for years, known about her love for Li-kun, and her giving up Li-kun. It was how she and Meiling became friends. Both had lost their hearts from unrequited love; both did not know how long, or when, they would move along. Yet they hoped, almost knew that there was a light at the end of the road, even if it meant that they would be alone.

"I'm happy for you, Meiling," she finally said, meaning every word of it. "I really and absolutely am."

"I'm happy for me, too," confessed Meiling, choked, as her realization hit her full force. Sniffling, she said, "Anyway, let's change the subject; this weepy and schmaltzy stuff is making me cry." Wiping her tears away, she accused Tomoyo, "You have not told me anything about your love life yet. Spill it out, Tomo-chan!" she commanded.

Tomoyo just chortled to which Meiling snorted, but as fast her humor came, it was lost over the seriousness swimming just below it. "As you know, Kyo-kun and I will be having our seven month anniversary in two weeks, though he won't be here to celebrate it with me..." She paused, expecting Meiling's reaction since she did not like Kyo-kun, claiming 'you're too good for him Tomo-chan'. She was rather bewildered, as it was the most peculiar that Li-kun and Meiling-chan agreed on the same thing.

"Oh," said Meiling, gently probing, which surprised Tomoyo a bit, "does that mean that you don't need to cry over her?"

Tomoyo ruminated on what Meiling had asked her, silent. This was she afraid of—facing the questions she avoided by not thinking of it. Apparently, though, she had to confront it sometime; and apparently, the time was now. Did she need to cry over Sakura-chan still? Was she—in Sakura-chan's words—happy? She was in love with her for as long as she could recall, for far for anyone's comfort, possibly Kyo's, in particular. However, she did not confide in to Kyo of it when she first agreed to date with him; she could be selfish for once, couldn't she. But she felt responsible for Kyo…he thought she was in it for him, for love. She wasn't; but her plan had backfired.

She did not see him coming: This boy with earthly brown eyes trained on her as if she was the only person in the world; this boy with his whispers—don't be afraid—in summertime, his warmth—I'll take care of you—in wintertime... She could not pass him up: he was too sweet, too sweet when he said Love. So she took his hand, and that moment, when she took her chance, was still fresh in her living memory. It was as if they were floating on water and the wind crushing their lungs, her arm linking to his and she was flying, flying without wings—And then, gasping, comprehension had fell upon her that maybe—just maybe—she knew the answer.

Tomoyo smiled. "Yes, Meiling-chan," she said sincerely into the phone. "I am done crying over her…but I still love her, you know," she blew a breath, and she was still smiling, "…I just love Kyo-kun the best."

"Love?"

"Yes, Eriol, love—you must pour love into your piano by artistic means. Otherwise, you play tunes that are as deadly as carbon monoxide when the pianist does not have any emotions. Love is to passion. Passion is to love. "

"With all due respect, Mizuki-sensei, passion can be anger as well."

"Surely, you adore creating music with your hands, no…and that is passion, Eriol, but there is no love, and that's ugly...or perhaps, this particular hobby is of Reed's—?"

"My Father's, but I like it, and I don't ever need love."

"So, you say you cannot love?"

"No, that's not—"

"Hush. Listen, perhaps you do not understand what love could do to you right now, but I assure you, Eriol, you'll understand. You'll change your mind. And you'll thank me for it."

He was watching her again.

It was another sleepless night, he knew, as his blue eyes were dark, staring through the grandfather's clock, staring right at her, following her, looking through her….She was beautiful, like fine silk, and she was by herself in the mansion at last. But not without his help, he leered, of course not. He tailed her everywhere, would see her crumble. And as always, the dark-haired girl did not see him. As always, her hair, her lustrous black hair, fanned her face like a curtain, obscuring her pretty, innocent eyes. Oh, he would burn in hell for this, his mother told him. But oh, how much he wanted to reach her skin, breathe her in…

"...I just love Kyo-kun the best."

It was enough to fuel his mouth in discontent, into a snarl. He gripped his staff, stiff. He heard her all right; he heard her crystal clear. He heard her and her thoughts; it slipped into his mind like waves eating the sand on the beach in winter. Love? He seethed. How could she, saying that aloud, professing to the world his name, her ardor? She should be on the floor, broken, dejected. His eyes darkened. She should not have done that; she did not move on easily, and yet she did. What a stupid girl, he thought maliciously, planning this all along, her wrong move.

But he had known this before, he had waited for this night to happen, hadn't he…Oh, indeed he had, thought of it with that dead man's lovely Sonata, and drank wine with her imaginary blood. She was the icing on the cake; the mosaics of her mortality planted in his patch of lilacs and lavenders. But she was still going to get it. She was going to pay dearly; no one has done this to him without playing his game.

And it is such a shame, really, a sly voice spoke in his head as he looked at her—envisioning her with a gash on her throat—over his shoulder. She honestly is a beautiful girl…but she must shatter, and if you can't have her, you would break her.

His fingertips bit the inside of his palm. Oh, yes. His smile was wide, his sun staff glinting in the moonlight. Break her. He melted out of the shadows—yes; he would break her—before letting out a predatory growl.

She almost dropped her mobile in the process as she cocked her head towards the noise. Was Naoko-chan here, now? She stood up, looking around the kitchen, wary. "Naoko-chan?" she called out, her voice scarcely a whisper, "Is that you?"

There was no sound.

She tried again.

The ticking of the grandfather's clock was the only thing that answered her call. She frowned. Was it all in her imagination? "Ah," she murmured, sauntering to the soft-plush chair she was sitting on moments ago. She must be losing her mind, then. She sighed, her eyes wandering aimlessly, with no sense of direction. Then, in the corner of her eye, a spark of light flashed. But that wasn't what caught her attention… A young man with a pair of irresistible dark eyes materialized before her, from out of nowhere. She did a double take, her heart stilled, fear poisoning her veins. He stared. It was as if he was purposely doing that to her, testing her; and he was looking at her like that, with such disdain. Then he slithered, and her heart sunk, paralyzed on the spot. He was moving towards her. She could shift, could not think. She could not speak. But what was she to do? A thought shouted at her. Do something! Anything!

He came to a halt at once, few inches near her, appearing to reconsider something. Yet she had a sinking feeling in the stomach—a single tremble—that he would not stop there. He seemed to read her thoughts and his lips bent terribly, and it was sick, his hollow cheeks and that face, so expressionless.

"Look at me," he said quietly, his hands approaching her face. But she still stood there, quite paralyzed, not looking at him. A shadow crossed his face then, but she was intent on looking at her bare toes, unmoving, stone like. He hooked a finger to her chin, strained her to look at him.

"Look at me, Tomoyo-san," he repeated, as quiet as the first one, her eyes now upon his. She did not dare to breathe, her pulse quickening. His eyes were mesmerizing, hypnotic, and they were so very real. And his pale lips…it drew her in as a flame would do to a moth…and it curled downwards…and…how did he know her name?

She did not have time to think. Alarmed and discomfited, she staggered backwards, towards the kitchen entrance, shooting terrified glances at the young man. Phantom? Her mouth was dry. Her mind was in scatter—but her instincts told her to run as fast as she could—and she was praying to Kami-sama, almost wishing that this was a nightmare, fake and breakable like cheap glass. But before she could even rush out of the kitchen completely, his long fingers grabbed both her wrists in such a supernatural speed it was all in a puddle of blur, and pinned her to the wall. She could merely whimper in horror. Her eyelids fluttered close instinctively at his proximity, his breath ghosting over her face as though he was going to inhale her. She froze at the contact. She tried to screech, to cry for help, but the back of his hand brushed her cheeks lightly, and it was solid and cold and insubstantial at the same time and she jumped back as—

She was the only one there.

She released air that she did not know she was holding, her chest throbbing with oxygen, her dark violet orbs robbed from their natural color. She rubbed her eyes, out of breath. Looking around the kitchen, she was confused. What had happened? She looked down at her toes. And when did she get off her feet?

Funny, she furrowed her brow, she did not remember. It was though she had been dreaming. But it was not often that she forget things—mundane things such as this. There had to be a rational explanation why she was standing, why her back was leaning on the wall. There must be. And as if in her own volition, there were fragments on the tips of her fingers, as though they were words on the edge of her tongue: There were shadows, yes, and eyes…her cheeks burning…a young man—

Her frame shook. Yes, yes…she remembered now, though it was still a bit indistinct. It was as though that splinter of memory broke all impossibilities: The young man…phantom…eyes…it all clicked! Her gaze swept up and down the kitchen, but it was as it had been—silent, empty. Trepidation crept on her skin as possibilities plagued her. The iridescent moonlight that was once illuminating her face had leeched off all the color as one question came into her mind: Was the mansion haunted?

Half of her said, it could be, it must be; the other half of her argued, saying that if it were—that ghosts did indeed embalm in the mansion, their eternal tomb—wouldn't it have occurred sooner? Wouldn't she remember? Suddenly perturbed, she shook her head. No. It was a phantasm. She swallowed down the bile that was bubbling up her throat. Yes, it was a fantasy, an illusion. Nodding to herself, her conviction stronger than a flimsy resolution, she brought her mobile back to her ear.

"Meiling-chan?" she said timidly, partially hoping that Meiling hang up on her, partially hoping that she did not.

"Mou!" fussed Meiling into her mobile, irritated; however, Tomoyo was relieved that she was still there, and her tense shoulders relaxed. "I thought you left me for good so you could go frolic with that date of yours…" Meiling went on, "but all things aside, what were you really doing, Tomo-chan?"

Tomoyo ran her hands through her hair, silently considering whether it was a good idea to tell Meiling what had happened to her moments ago, though she honestly was not sure herself. If she did tell Meiling, would Meiling think she was clinically insane? Or had she gone crazy, paranoid of what was or wasn't there? She shook her head again, as though this was going to erase the sensations—the fear—that were flinging themselves at her. No. Stop it. What she had seen—experienced—was a phantasm, period.

She chose the closest thing to the truth. "Oh, nothing," Tomoyo said dryly, her wry smile accompanying it, "I was simply wondering whether my obsession with leftovers is the best method to sustain my health."

Note: Eriol's a disturbing man, isn't he. …I hope this version is slightly better than the last. English is my second language, so I would greatly appreciate your feedbacks. And, if you have seconds to spare, please tell me what worked or what didn't in this chapter. Thanks so much for your time! -distrust