Author's note the first: Well, um, hullo there. Begging everyone the necessary pardons for the delay in between updates. We come to you in penitence with a ridiculously long chapter that had to be parted in two (so do expect a future update somewhere far sooner) and a diminished formula. While Ancalyme has – alas! - abandoned us, she's also graciously accepted to offer her input when we come down begging.
…of course, we could claim that was the reason behind the delay, but, er, no, really, we were just a touch overwhelmed by our respective school work. And lazy. Phenomenally lazy, in fact. Don't kill us, for we bring word of where that wretched little dragon is?
Disclaimer: the quotes marked as such pertain to the Book of the Dead. All recognizable characters and concepts belong to their respective creators and the adjacent organizations associated with them.
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May he not be rejected, may he not be turned back…
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Of Many Whisperers
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Run, run, Yomi's son,
Your army's come undone!
Run, run, Yomi's son,
At your side there's no one!
"But Shura's never waged war…" And the little ones argued with him fiercely, and came to their knees to kiss the gift of rings on his fingers.
Hiei was no one's messenger, but coin was coin and hadn't a pretty taste, nor face, and it could buy it all, regardless. A son born to Yomi, of his own clever making – a damnation to two other lordlings who were not easily appeased, but who would welcome ample notice.
Raizen's whores took hold of him once he'd left his spoken charge to the Lord Commander – exacted the compensation for his trouble – and would have easily, oh so easily fled, if only fickle hands hadn't wrapped around his, and if only the dances hadn't begun in the middle of a corridor spiked with the blemish of sophisticated scents and oils and flowers ripened to the point of sweet airy nothingness.
"He's never waged–"
How long had he been in Raizen's realm? Had he brought jewels, other than this horrid tale of ill chosen successors? They circled him, round and round, fair faces and honeyed tongues and children's words, and that never ending trill to their own fair fortune– "Run, run, Yomi's son-"
-
Laughter, somewhere, hot-hot like fire from Ras-
Then, "You can't…"
But, always-
…run, run...
-
Hiei woke with a start, and the knowledge of having to say something.
And he must have already said the words, surely, something rather like a curse, or a blessing, or a touch of the both, though he couldn't remember which.
Shura… the name…what was it? Who? Had he – the faint aroma of quick silver and laurel.
He couldn't breathe. Foreign, as a nomad's touch, the air left him.
He couldn't think.
This isn't me. A thorough realization. This isn't what I'd say.
Malign. Like a plague. Like a dream. To all dreams an ending, though he couldn't foresee it, no, yes, what? Cold. Cold around his lips, and his hands, the very tips, devoid of anything; no contact, no impression, most certainly no acknowledgement of anything, anyone. Instead, an overwhelming, all-encompassing, all-sending-to-the-seven-hells-thank-you carousel ride.
And Hiei couldn't envision, though the little voice snuck tightly in his skull told him everything. No war waged, it said to him. No victory. Rastaltan, and denial.
At some time, he realized, he must have opened his eyes. He couldn't remember.
-
"I see you're awake." Kurama.
Awake? No, sleep. Sleep was – again came the pulse, maddening, maddening pulse, a vice, a whip, the executioner's bang-bang over the sides of his skull. Sleep was kind, yes, but Hiei had to-
– he made the grievous mistake of trying to move, and the migraine severed his ties to the real world. He pawed, searched, haunted - hungry hands, clever hands, please be there, please…
Fear, now. Fever, he had the fever still. Gods.
He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think.
"Can't…"
He pawed some more, pawed like the animal he was, pawed like a – laughter – like a fox. Needed it. Knew what he needed, far too much hurting, too much pain for just one mere creature. For two, however, yes…and he had to find the straps. The Jagan's doing, this pain, all of it. Had to find the-
"Can't…have…do…can't…"
There was an unimaginable array of shape and shade and colour, and his head hurt, and so did his arms, since those blasted females were pulling at them, and –
Too real.
Too close.
More pain, but an ounce of lucidity triggered restraint; he paid the retreating Mandevilla vine a measure of consideration, and then an ounce of gratitude by allowing that it should see to its doing.
The fold was pressed clumsily, but old dreams and fancies disappeared as the ward's energy kept the Jagan's ailing hunger at bay.
-
Kurama's voice registered first, and then the floor, and the sheer absence of any heat whatsoever.
"My thanks," Hiei meant to say, but remained silent. His surroundings were dimly familiar: Kurama's floor. Good. Two corners on each side. Even better. Human conventions demanded that one should rest in the middle of a chamber, to Hiei's morbid fascination at their lack of instinctual strategy: three, or perhaps four openings for assassins, rather than two. Absurd.
But Hiei had woken, and he could fend off any enemies, and the flooring was far too rough for a body bruised and bloodied all over. His formal excuse settled on, he staggered to the mattress, crawled whenever either a light dizziness or that fervent twitch to his insides had him freeze in terror of new lapses of unconsciousness. The ward may have supplied the mind some mild comfort, but Hiei needed his rest. Fluffy pillows and familiar scents, too.
Fear – comfort – sanctuary – something amiss.
…and Kurama sat there, cradled lazily in the seat of his little desk, feeling no great obligation to look accommodatingly flushed, or frustrated, or at some mild unease, but instead throwing him every now and then an idle glance simmering with a cold detachment that Hiei had rather hoped to never have to see again – as if he had long mastered and now possessed the world - and Rastaltan - and Hiei along with it - in the delicate grasp of pale and thin and perfectly human fingers.
"I don't know what you thought you were doing...but you'll only have a tongue for a minute from now to tell me, so make it worth my while." The words came easily, and with them the intent and a cold fury.
Kurama scribbled on, carelessly. "…and what was I doing, exactly?"
"Forty seconds now. I can count."
Hiei would not be ignored. Underlings always found it necessarily difficult to earn the approbation of their superiors; but he was not Kurama's inferior, and answers were owed to him. He had not intended to spend the night. He never did, though Kurama had a penchant for luxury, and so an enviable amount of food and the occasional cover where usually at his discretion. Kurama was neither a good cook, nor silent, and therefore undeniably poor company, but he was certainly not devoid of warmth, sometimes a provider of such, or at least not too glutton when it came to sharing.
The same Kurama was also, however, unfortunately partialto childish bouts of gloom and sulking, tantrums and long – futile- pauses supposedly meant to have Hiei eaten by guilt and repenting of his every little sin. "And how do you propose to do away with my tongue?"
Hiei's eyes narrowed a bit. "Cut it off?" A grin. " Rip it off?" Or perhaps… "Bite it off?"
Comprehension dawned, and Kurama finally deigned to look at him. Yes, Hiei remembered. He remembered everything. And the Jaganshi had yet in his entire life come upon a strategic advantage that he did not like.
"Wait until I die of old age and it decays?" Their eyes met for a telling second. "If you want anything to alleviate your pain… all you need to do is ask."
"Like you ask? For anything?" spat Hiei, still livid. The tight clutch of thin fingers over the covers gave the knuckles an uncanny pallor. He couldn't look away from all the white. Pain was no new rite, it would come, it would cleanse, it would pass. A second wave of spasms and nausea had him reconsider the extents of pride. Finally, he managed to add, "This changes nothing."
But somehow, once Kurama took all the time in the world to slide from his seat, once Hiei had the vial in his trembling hands, everything was different.
"It's quite fast working." No toast this time; Hiei drank quickly, and steadily. "Mind telling me what's going on?"
Fear, again.
This unpleasant interlude had obviously diverted him from giving the matter much precious thought, but even then the logical answer had been born of instinct: too much pain for just one creature.
"It's a pretty little thing, all right, but make the mistake of baring it to your betters, and they'll latch onto the bond like a pack of leeches. No sign of this to other telepaths, not until you've fully mastered it," Shigure had muttered with a tap to Hiei's wards, very much the wise, sophisticated elder telling an overly enthusiastic junior how to behave.
Except he hadn't behaved, not at all – and now it all came down to a choice.
Hiei took it.
After a pause, he said, "You have my sword."
"In my wardrobe." Kurama shrugged, almost elegantly, and his eyes widened in fleeting recognition as he delivered the steel.
When their hands touched, it was to a brief greeting of youki: human-bred, demon, fire, ice, blindness, and that sickening combination that had clung all over Hiei since the moment of his waking. He knew – had known – was impossible for him not to notice, that at some point their energy had woven together. And for lack of other means to explain it and his continued presence there, he had reached the inevitable conclusion that Kurama'd endeavoured in yet another of his silly little ploys: draining him.
Energy was never freely given among demons, and so a pleasurable trickery was nearly always forfeited. Sexual, on most occasions – to overwhelm the body with pleasure was to make it vulnerable in the face of other, more subtle demands. And it didn't surprise him that Kurama should be fairly knowledgeable of such things.
It came naturally to the youko, as to all manipulators, who depended on energy stimuli, and could not summon their own – though Hiei had met only a choice assortment, and left even fewer alive – and silver foxes were indeed rare; he'd only heard the bright tale of this one, in fact, yet he had known from the beginning that Kurama'd not be immune to the attractions of such an exchange, another sleight of hand.
At Maze Castle, Hiei had had little warning.
"Just a taste," then the soft brush of thin lips, and he'd felt Kurama, and that hideous wound, and a touch of his fire slipping, little by little, and then dancing away – until he was lost to something of a haze, and a cloying magnolia scent everywhere. He woke from dazzle and an odd fainting sensation to an even odder shade of warmth over his cheek: Kurama's hand, but Hiei was never usually cold.
"No more. You're no good at this."
They'd shared a laugh, though Hiei still shaking, and then pondered leaving the fools where they lay – until Koenma's summons, which were ill suited at best. Yusuke and Kuwabara had fought heroically, he'd said – and it was apparently not for heroes to be groped and molested by whatever odd turtle critters had taken to various appendages in Suzaku's sewers. Hiei doubted the tall dummy would have minded and Yusuke he even believed would have been privately thrilled. Just like Koenma to deny them a perfectly enlightening experience.
And just like Kurama to keep his silence and leave him no teachings, though Makai had yet again been kinder: Hiei had found answers in the arts of Thakar-no-Arai, and the Ninety Vows of Silence - all means to the same end, the mastering of the many segments of energy fluctuations.
He'd be rather good at this now, he supposed, good enough to be kissed. Dragon kissed.
Reminiscing came easiest with hesitation. He caught the sabre's handle fiercely, every ridge and callus in matching place. "You'll want to look away now. Wouldn't want to offend your delicate human sensibilities."
"Don't worry, my so called human sensibilities won't be offended." In a few words, he managed to extinguish all of Hiei's sentimental delusions; no, this Kurama didn't understand the ache and the humiliation, this Kurama didn't understand anything. "How fortunate. You'd be the one to clean afterwards anyway."
Kurama looked on to him warily, but not without interest. "It wouldn't be the first time."
"But it's something you do so well." The only thing he did well, aside for murder and thieving and wenching. Kurama took what he needed, when he needed it; need made slaves, not companions.
Hiei should know of such things, and the burn on his hand spoke of as much, the burn on his arm from Rastaltan's doings, the already fading burn where the blade had bit of his flesh from the clutching.
Although Hiei had comported himself scrupulously fair, and only taken life's energy from those whose lives he had already won by way of combat, he had been conscious of his relief when the decision had been removed from his hands, and Rastaltan had ceded him his might in the aftermath of the first successful Summon. His own youki, amplified by Rastaltan's? A fountain of power, bestowed destruction upon everything, everyone. And then, ancient words of warning, now holding a promise: The dragon renews itself.
It was disgraceful how he'd never prepared for the eventuality of Rastaltan's inversion of their well determined roles. Hiei was, by right, Master, but he could just as easily be mastered; with the execution of a failed Summon, his energy would serve as war spoils suitably enough. Now it was Rastaltan who fed from Hiei's youki, crushing the Jagan, and the habit needed breaking.
Time to end this.
He let the ward fall, seduced the Jagan out with a small offering of energy, and then pressed the tip against the lid.
Distantly, he thought of how unseemly it would be that he should abandon his stubborn conviction and whimper like some common whore or ill bred craven.
As he shoved it the blade through the third eye's pupil, Hiei did not whimper.
He screamed and wept and bled.
-
Deliver thou me from the great god who carrieth away souls, … the guardian of the darkness who himself liveth in the light. They who are in misery fear him.
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Of Foetid Dreams
-
It was a street like any other in Domino City. Grey asphalt, white lines, cars going whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, nothing more than fast moving pieces of metal to the people on the sidewalk. Nothing more than blurs of colour and sound, if that, to Ryou, who wandered aimlessly, his feet feeling heavy, his mind even more so.
Had it been only so many days since that night, when the Voice had returned? It felt like an eternity had passed, one spent in hazy pain, in memories that were but were not his, in feverish dreams that plagued him both in sleep and when he was awake. When he was, if he was. Even this stroll felt like sleepwalking, he was there, he was moving the body, it was under his control, but everything around him felt surreal.
It was the sleep deprivation, he knew. Last night he had not shut his eyes for more than ten minutes at most before waking up again, disoriented, fumbling for his alarm clock and groaning when he read the time. Still, in those few minutes, images had passed through his mind. Dreams. Nightmares. They smothered him, molested him like love struck incubi, squeezing his chest until he couldn't breathe, because the visions they sent, the images he was shown, were not in the least stimulating. Foremost among these horrors was the last one he had seen, right before getting up in this morning. He'd just lain down again, having fetched himself a glass of water – he'd been so parched –
and all of a sudden he was standing amidst the ruins of what might once have been an old factory at the edge of town. A factory, that is, before it turned into a shelter for that piece of lowlife scum he'd been searching for these past days. Well, he chuckled, it had been a shelter for only a very short amount of time, then, at his hands, it had become a trap of noxious fumes and fire.
He took a few steps forward, his eyes darting left and right, trusting his nose to keep him going into the right direction. The smell was hard to miss and even in the presence of other odours, burnt flesh had its own distinctive, easily recognisable flavour. Another step taken and he halted in front of a darkened piece of charcoal, vaguely human-shaped. He bent down, turned it over. It was still hot to the touch, though he was sure that his victim had not suffered the agony of a fiery death, the smoke would have had him blacken out, asphyxiated him before he felt more than the stifling heat from the flames, a taste of them but not their touch itself.
A pity, really.
When he had roused from that one, the aftertaste of ashes had still been on his tongue and he'd been hot and sweating, even though he'd rid himself of his blanket at some point. That phantasm had been so vivid, so convincingly real, that it had taken a moment or two, before Ryou had been able to distinguish between the arrogant callousness in the dream and his own sickened horror upon wakening.
He'd known the Spirit did terrible things, but up until the first memory he'd never really seen-smelled-tasted-felt them, had only come to himself in the aftermath, when there was nothing worse to see but motionless bodies and little figurines or not even that, because others had already tidied up, or his body had been far enough away, so that he would not know.
Perhaps this was why he was roaming now, he was looking for a way to escape, to go back to that state of not complete but at least sufficient ignorance. To the time when his conscience had been cleaner, when he'd still been that nice boy his mother was so proud of and his sister liked so much despite their age difference – she was four years younger.
And could be a real pest sometimes, especially when she had one of her fits of jealousy.
"Dad sent it to both of us."
No, he hadn't. The note had said 'A Treasure for my Son' – his father loved using old, very old, capitalisation – and it probably was, since it did look expensive enough. It was costly, it was his.
He clenched a fist, nails digging into his skin. Damn his father for being in Egypt the whole time and leaving his son alone and the museum, too. He really shouldn't, the museum needed its director and he wanted his father – and his mother and his sister, too. And, and,… Ryou gritted his teeth, staring angrily at nothing in particular. Thoughts of his family always brought about others, like the accident that they had died in, and he wished that he could just remember the nice things, the happy times, like… like… that food fight he and Amane had had. Boy, had his mother been angry then.
Speaking of food, his stomach growled threateningly and he couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten something. Yesterday? The day before that? Didn't matter now, really, and, well, he didn't want to eat, in fact, didn't feel like it, but he should. If he didn't, his tenant might just do it for him, whenever he decided to take over again and his tastes were… not quite the same as Ryou's.
Blargh.
Grumbling, Ryou let his gaze travel from store to store until it came to rest on a fast food restaurant. It would have to do and, actually, considering that he didn't have all that much money on him, it was just right.
Looking up and down the street, he waited for a lull in traffic. The street curved around a bank pretty close to him, but if he walked fast, he could make it, before the next car came around the corner. Ryou took a couple of steps forward, feet dragging on the asphalt – but he was so tired –, before the muscles in his legs stiffened suddenly and then went completely slack. Arms flapping wildly, like a pelican trying to take off, he swayed backward for a moment before falling flat on his nose. He groaned, carefully touching his face – that would leave some marks for sure. Shaking his head to free himself from such unimportant thoughts, Ryou scrambled to get up and off the street. Which was to say, he tried anyway, because his legs just - wouldn't - work. For a few seconds, his mind was filled with panic and he made frantic attempts to stand up – God, why wouldn't his legs work? –, then everything slowed down to slow-motion. A car came around the corner, its driver distracted by whatever he was fumbling for on the seat next to him. One of his hands was on the steering wheel, holding it in place for the turn. Someone shouted, a drawn-out roar that went on and on and on and –
Flash!
A ray of light from his Ring hit the car, no, hit the driver, hit his heart, hit his soul.
The vehicle swerved away from Ryou, the front tyres changing course, the other two following their lead.
Rolling, rolling, rolling, rolling. Coming closer, closer, closer to the streetlight while people were running, running, running away until…the car crashed into the pole.
As if the loud bang had been a sign the world suddenly moved and caught up.
Shouts surrounded him, women screamed. A pair of hands hauled Ryou up, depositing him on his feet again, though, he was too distracted to notice that he could stand on his own. He pulled away from the fingers gripping him, from the worried voices that asked if he was alright, from the aggravated ones that wanted to know, whether he had lost his mind. He did not heed them nor their questions and accusations but walked forwards towards the wreck and the driver. The victim.
The street seemed unbearable wide and hard and unforgiving, even though he did not have to cross more than three lanes – actually, two and a half, for he had started out in the middle of the first one.
People pushed past him, holding up the traffic by loitering. Approaching cars, trucks, bicycles, what-have-you sounded their horns or rang their bells, then came to a stop before the crowd, tires screeching. Several people swore.
Still, Ryou ignored all this and continued on his way. Even before he got close and had squeezed through the masses that surrounded the car, gawking or arguing or just plane standing around doing nothing, he knew what he would see: lifeless eyes; blood perhaps or twisted limbs, maybe the driver was even still breathing but his stare would be deadened nonetheless.Ryou took another couple of steps before halting, gaze travelling up from the door to the window, towards the face and the eyes. He could not bear to look at them long, turning his head slightly, then stopping.
So this is where…
From the rear view mirror a doll dangled, one of those kitschy Elvis Presleys that were found in so many cars of men in midlife-crisis and women that still squealed when "Always On My Mind" sounded from the radio. His father had one of them in his bedroom, taking up a place of honour next to a picture of Ryou's mother. She'd been a fan and that little Elvis had been hers.
Ryou checked himself, not wanting to dwell on that any more now. Instead he focused again on the doll, which was swinging back and forth, hips moving, hand gripping the microphone, a gleam – a spark of life – shining in its plastic eyes.
A laugh threatened to bubble up in Ryou's throat, hysteria its eager companion.
The King lives. Don't you see, don't you see?
He could not hold back anymore, he needed to laugh, to giggle, to shout it out, to the world. He'd ignore those around him, who would stare for sure; let them stare, it was funny even if they didn't see it. It was freaking hilarious.
So funny, so tragic, so true. Don't you see?
Yes, the King lived, they both did. The King of Rock, an idol trapped inside himself, the King of Thieves, a Voice living inside Ryou's mind.
Don't you see? Hidden behind another's eyes, behind mine. And no one suspects.
No one ever suspected Ryou of anything. The police would come, in fact, he could hear sirens from afar, and they'd ask him questions and he'd answer and nobody would think him at fault, he'd stumbled really, he was sorry, he never wanted it to happen, and he was so, so sorry.
So sorry. I'm sorry.
Something shifted in the back of his head and a single exasperated thought invaded Ryou's mind before it was plunged into utter darkness and he blackened out.
"Idiot."
-
…may he enter in as he pleaseth, may he come forth as he desireth, and may he be victorious.
-
Of Wooed Kalends
-
He thought he heard Kurama hiss. It might have been Hiei's own voice, though he couldn't lay a certain claim on it. The world began and ended with the perfectly vivid sting in his eye, three layers of skin thrice burned, once removed, and then the cleanest incision through pupil and colour and too much light. A momentary lapse from the burn in every synapse proved itself horribly taxing.
His vision blurred, and the pain in his head, and the room, and Raizen's whores were moving his hands – damn those rings, take them, take them!- and the Lord Commander was now holding his shoulders, and he was shaking him, and had Hiei told him about Shura? Shura who hadn't waged war? And his head hurt as he drowned in the Jagan's blood and his tears.
For a moment, he wanted to sink closer in his sheets and his corner and just wretch up and die.
For a moment, he wanted to close his eyes, true born, implanted, all of them.
But the moment passed, and there was so much blood on his hands – and he threw the sword away, threw it on Kurama's carpets, never mind the stains, never mind anything. The Jagan under his claws was a raging beat on torn flesh, but the dragon was not the only one to renew itself, given time, and so Hiei soothed it briefly, asking that it should close, heal.
Somehow, when Kurama meant to gather the sheets around him to spare more linen a red baptism, he was still breathing. He stayed the youko's hand.
"N'aase jisu." A biding for a word, if Kurama could spare the moment, in some semblance of a Southern dialect .Hiei must have said this to the Lord Commander then, too, must have said everything, anything, and still got the accent so horribly wrong, as he was prone to.
Old ways and old tongues and older still retaliation.
"This is blood." A stupid afterthought, but he stilled Kurama's hand on the tainted cover all the same, brushed his own hand over the Jagan's life reds, held it out.
"Blood for blood." If Kurama was intimate with Southern word, then he also knew of Southern offerings of alliance – and this human play thing had, however unwillingly, given him blood the night before. If Hiei wanted an ally, he needed to trust; to trust one as world-weary as Kurama was perhaps the most idiotic conceivable notion, but appearances cost Hiei little, and blood already spilled, far less.
Where in the Makai a blood pact for an alliance would have served as an honour undreamt of for as one as Youko Kurama, in the Human World it came as his birthright. The irony of it left Hiei with a bitter taste, but an extended hand and hopes of acceptance.
Kurama's eyes shone in amused puzzle. "When I feed energy to my plants, they repay me by producing the sweetest of fruits... or most venomous of poisons, depending on my need."
Then he disregarded Hiei's hand, and dug a claw near the Jagan itself – blood from the source, the purest.
Hiei stood there, transfixed, almost caught in a shiver as Kurama made a tentative lick, a finger first, then the other - like playing a game of sorts, another game, and wasn't he winning? Except Hiei wanted to torture him, wanted to rip him apart for daring so much, and yet so little. That blood, a new sort of time honoured unholy wine, stigmata for heathens – the essence of the Forbidden One, so freely given, however much Hiei felt like screaming. It's owed to you! And more, It's yours, and this is all yours, and you were as you should be, except you're not anymore! I want to kill you, do you know this? I want to kill you and let him out, and then chain him and own him and kill him too!
But he couldn't.
That tongue swirled and lavished and took the whole of it in, too slowly, far too slowly.
It repelled Hiei, made him sick to his stomach.
It delighted him and reminded him of home.
Some part of the Summons ritual was still fresh to Hiei's mind, the poetry on his tongue. "Dragon kissed…"
"You're mistaken, I think." Kurama's laughter over the last of his feast was clean and fresh. "I'm still a fox."
"And you're mistaken. I don't need you. You seem to think I do. You, and Yusuke Urameshi. Answers are not owed to you." Well, given their new status, perhaps not quite. He surveyed the odd line of his own blood on Kurama's lips and chin with vicious meaning. "It's arrogant to think otherwise. Are foxes arrogant?"
"If they have reason to be."
"Heh. Arrogant, treacherous and thieving. Charming creatures." Hiei was certain he would never live long enough to regret taking one home. "Sativa, now. Have some Indica in stock. Pay for something in your life. And don't worry, I'll feed your curiosity. If it kills you, why not? What's there that the great Kurama doesn't know?"
Many things, in fact, and Hiei did not doubt this, much as Kurama preferred himself ever the wise mentor to Yusuke's impetuosity and the idiot's awe.
"Mhm, can't have me dead after all. Who'd provide you with the sativa?" Kurama seemed to have enough of a measure of his own importance as to not press the issue. "I gather there's a reason why you arrived here last night half dead yourself?"
"Temper, now. We don't know whether poor Shuichi's heart could bear the tantrum. I'm not here for pleasure. At least... not my pleasure. "
Hiei paused – still difficult, to speak of it so loosely. "A Summon, if you hadn't figured it out. Does that soothe you?"
"That was obvious." The laughter had long died on Kurama's lips. "So what went wrong? Or does a normal Summon tire you out that much?"
"No, it doesn't. Failure. Thrilled?" Hiei's blood, this time, came from his own fangs and their gritting over fragile lips and tongue. He hated Kurama. Hiei hated him so fiercely, and he hated him so perfectly, that he didn't mind the spasms and the nausea, and he was on his feet and pressing Kurama back and knocking his pretty human head to the wall in a dark blur, inviting angry welts and bruises as he tore the human's hand from its place and constricted it over the Jagan anew. "Look at this - look at me now. Failure. Say it, then! Can't you? Too good for it? Too...gentle? Kind? Spare me! And spare me the pity!"
Silence.
"Say it, you idiot! Say it! Failure! Too big a word! Too- SAY IT, SAY IT, SAY—"His clutch denied the human any leeway, but it wasn't enough; the damned human wasn't even weak humanly weak and not even spilling blood, so soon he was repeating the great performance of the youko-meet-wall introduction.
His knees gave out by the umpteenth attempt, and it was for a Kurama with glazed eyes and the most detestable look of pity to stay his fall.
Hiei did not faint again, but wished for differently.
-
Down, on his knees, head kept low in bow – a creature who had known some submission, Hiei supposed, but even from this posture he did so try to meet the knowing glance. There was apprehension in Kurama's eyes, and loss, and something terribly cruel as he spoke. "A failure."
Quite suddenly, Hiei didn't think of humiliation, and plays at power, and the sickly fascination with how right it was for him to be still bleeding from the Jagan quite like this – in light of all that he'd done, and all that he'd lost, and such a perfectly stupid error on his part, wasn't it?
He didn't think that there was a price to foolishness, and that it was consequence and causality which kept him like a pleasure slave in front of an indifferent patron, only just taking the whip.
Hiei didn't think he deserved it, though he did, really, for Rastaltan was king, and there were certain things that not even a forbidden one was meant to do, and which he had done willingly.
He didn't think of anything – instead, there was white blindness, an anger that threatened to build his fire, that pushed his hand – he stopped it in mid air – and his words – unbidden, they tore at his throat – and his determination.
Except for Yusuke, he had never wanted to kill someone quite this badly before.
And, he realized, Kurama knew this, for this was the one true game, the game – and Hiei was indeed losing.
-
"At ease. This won't affect the team." Later, much later, Hiei managed the words again. "I'm putting things right."
He had to, no matter how many Summons it took, no matter if the dragon would ask for true life's blood. By Rastaltan's doing, or that of the Tournament's Committee, did it matter? Dead was dead, and their chances of survival were scarce at best without Hiei's intervention.
At one point or the other, Kurama had had one of those blooms of his deliver Hiei another sheet, and he cuddled to it and the floor savagely. "Of course, there won't be much of a team if you keep seeing to otherwise. Mind telling me what's going on?"
"I'm…looking out for you?" Kurama sounded rather stricken, though Hiei would neither look up, nor dignify such a poor lie with a response.
"You didn't seem to be well enough to answer my questions last night. I, ah, merely delayed you until you were up to it."
Closer to the truth, but not quite. Of course Kurama will have manipulated his way into someone else's affairs by whatever means, but his purpose was not yet within sight.
Hiei let it slide. "You never... 'asked'"
…and then regretted it.
"I'm asking now."
-
Asking.
Wasn't Kurama always? And what could Hiei say? I summoned, you fool, I summoned and lost. It's like a wager, except no one ever wins. Rastaltan was God among Gods, and the true Makai dragon. He would answer, or he would not, as the whim took him. If the chance should rise, he would savour rebellion from a given captor, should only a sliver of energy come forth from contrary sources so that he may assimilate and devour all. Rastaltan, who killed everything in his path – why spare Hiei a glance, let alone obeisance? And Hiei, he had not mastered the Jagan to remain webbed in his make-believe blindness. The realization of his frail possession over such an unrivalled force had come with a passionate haste, and he had tasted of the fears that his prey should deny him even earlier on, when the nets had yet to be cast so carefully, and when Rastaltan had yet to bend the proverbial knee.
"…and they'll latch onto the bond like a pack of leeches." Leeches, yes. Hiei had seen these, and they had come, unwilled, to draw blood. He had detected their presence since his return to the Human World, similarly unwanted, but enforced by Koenma and his idiotic clauses. Sometimes, they were mere greetings of foreign ki; at others, they caused a certain alarm, and then migraines of which Hiei had hoped – futilely- that a demonic heritage would spare him.
Perhaps it was when Hiei, weary from the delayed tryst of weeks upon weeks of Calling, had stopped to cut down his losses, when he'd wavered his defences just a little, when he'd dropped the pretence of a fight in full that Rastaltan has seized the chance and answered another's Summon. Perhaps the Destroyer of Worlds had been trapped, or attracted, or kept in a more appropriate esteem than Hiei could nourish; surely not a greater affection. But somehow, at some point, it had happened, and they'd taken Hiei's God, the only God, the one of his making – and if only had they been there, Hiei would have chewed their bones to the last.
But "they" weren't there. Instead, he saw Kurama gazing at him intently, milk-of-the-poppy in hand, to soothe great pains, or the absence of mind. "Well?"
"I don't have any answers." His eyes passed the broken fingers and the blood caked under the claws, the voice still kittenish. "You didn't…feel any of it, did you, Shuichi?"
"You wouldn't happen to be talking about that bout of energy last night, would you? " Kurama shook his red head mutely, then discarded the potion to some inconspicuous drawer, or stashed it – thief- , then stretched closely, deep in thought. "It must have caused an interference." Low whistle.
It was not that Hiei truly doubted Kurama's human body could perceive the ki disruptions, given his abilities, only that it amused him fiercely to see the former fox so caught up in his display of modest superiority. (Bastard.)
"Yes, it…must have…" Kurama muttered. He looked expectant – Gods knew how long he'd waited for the theory. Hiei hadn't a notion, but a fox weary of banter was a fox willing to obey. Graciously, he confirmed sad suspicions. "It did."
Of course it did. Energy and a metal exponent, and a blood potenta…such a frail combination, such a poorly chosen Summon.
By the look of Kurama, Hiei almost expected them to fall back in their routine: no actual truths, just vague grunts or half laughter, and an odd sort of pleasantries of such a nature that, though no talk of weaponry or swaying the blade would be exchanged, it'd still have the gift of making Hiei most uncomfortable.
A sudden rush of dizziness took him – a prelude to the fevers of one whose ki goes to waste too swiftly.
"Food," he let slip, by way of request. Kurama raised a brow rather put off, but shrugged in something the Jagan bearer decided to deem as grudging acceptance. Sleep called for him, or hibernation, or intimate forgetfulness. Too much ki lost. Too little time, and the body's decision to go into shut down. Anticipated… he should have expected it, now that his energy catered for two. He'd sleep more, these days. Sleep and feed and sleep again. Sleep.
His pace stuttered as he tried to move about – almost fell, threw a hand irritably to sway the help of suspiciously close greenery.
"Kurama...I am still Master." A bite crept to his voice, but he did not look the other's way. "Never doubt it." He could stand. And if not, he could crawl.
When he collapsed again – the bed, so near - it wasn't to crawl, no strength for that, but to bring his hands to his face, kneeling, down, down, down, trying to rip the wretched things off – those damned rings, those damned whores, why didn't they just – Master? Who was Master? Shura? Shura was Master, and Hiei had learned of it, learned of it first, that meant a special reward, did it not? Special, special, as special as he, and he sang to that, really, or cried, something close – singing? But he knew the tune so well, and Hiei could sing prettily, though no one ever listened, and-
"K'rama…wanna hear? Pretty…run, run…run…" Anywhere. "…son…army…undone…" Everything coming undone. "At your side…there's…" Rastaltan - a sister's warm blessing - a lover's smile - a primordial song, this. "…no one… no one… no one."
Darkness.
-
May my name be proclaimed, may it be found, may it be lastingly renewed.
-
Of Broken Reflections
-
Eyes yet again trailing the path of lines drawn on the kitchen floor, Kurama checked one final time for any inconsistencies, any slip of the proverbial pen, but they were all complete and the squares were simply perfect, the angles of one separating the sides of the other into two equal halves. Empedocles would be proud.
A glance at the kitchen clock but it was not yet time, a few more minutes still remained and he needed to be precise in this, needed to use the small window of time that his calculations had allotted him. Not a second too early, not a moment too late. Ariston metron – moderation is best, a maxim that applied to every aspect of life. Take or have too small an amount of something and failure was sure to follow and all too often a shortage in power or skill or number meant death because hiding could not save you, it merely prolonged the inevitable.
'Where is he?'
Lurking on the upper branches of a tree, the young fox watched as a group of youkai searched for him, uprooting bushes and turning stones. They'd picked up his trail not long ago and most likely had believed him to be valuable enough to waste time trying to catch him – a silver pelt was a rare thing indeed and made even rarer by the prices others were willing to pay, an endless vicious circle, which could only end with the extinction of their race. If it came to this, however, he planned to be the last to go.
So they lacked in number and he could do nothing about this, not without first gaining skill and power to fend off those who would try to kill him.
He needed more power.
Such incredible luck that Hiei would offer it albeit unaware. Blood from the Jagan, pure, undulated, and serving Kurama's purpose so wonderfully. It was chancy, however. Power was all well and good but too much would lead to ruin, too. Byakko was an excellent example, the fat cat had swollen and all but burst when feeding of Kuwabara's energy sword.
But Kurama was not Byakko, would not be as greedy and certainly quite careful with this blood at his disposal.
Heh, this also meant that he now had a surplus in supplies, which amounted to one chicken. Explaining to his mother why he needed to keep fowl around had been a challenge, fun though, and for a moment or two he had even entertained himself with imagining various ridiculous scenarios.
'You see, mother, I need it for a sacrifice. Of course, virgin's blood would have been better, but one can't have everything, I guess.'
His lips twitched; as if he'd tell her that.
Hmm, still, there was the problem of what to do with the chicken now that its life had been saved by a surly fire-demon. Actually… it would make a nice dinner for tonight, when his mother came home and perhaps he would surprise her with it. That was for later, however, now he needed to finish this rite.
9:48 a.m. He had better reheat the water, which was still warm, but the hotter it was the smoother this would work, and where was… ah, the bowl with ice was over there, right next to the potion – jasmine and dreamwine. Hiei really was useful at times.
The electric kettle clicked signalling that the water was ready.
9:50. Quick now, the compact mirror rested nearby and a small bowl next to it, on his right, put the ice to his left, the mirror in front of him, and the kettle, make sure he stood within the squares, count the seconds.
9:51. Crack the mirror, place it over the bowl, pore the water over his hand and wash the blood away and onto the silvery surface in front of him. Kurama gritted his teeth, literally aching to pull his left hand away and plunge it into the ice but not yet. First he needed to pore the tainted blood into the potion and drink.
9:52. He was done and now both his hand, buried in ice, and his throat burned; really, he should have thought of getting some ice-cream, as we-
Kurama gasped, eyes flying open wide, as a feeling thousands of tiny marbles making their through his veins and over his skin swept over him. His fingers tingled, his backside itched – though pleasantly –, and all around him plants were singing a melody reminding him of home.
9:53 Kurama had entered the squares, the youko came out.
He turned slightly gazing at the cracked mirror, admiring his broken reflection. Not broken any longer, he was whole, he was complete, he was Youko Kurama once more. Wouldn't that hybrid, who was now sleeping so comfortably in Kurama's bed, blanch when he discovered himself to be in the presence of a living legend.
Actually…
The youko turned slowly, preparing to savour Hiei's expression when he beheld the famous fox thief. It seemed the hybrid, alerted by the sudden rise in youki for sure, had come down to ogle. Chin lifting slightly, he finally stared down at the other demon. This was not the meeting of two equals, after all. While the half-breed might sneer at Kurama, there were no grounds to do so when faced with the youko. Quite the opposite, in fact, and Hiei did indeed act accordingly.
Rapture. Admiration. A glazed look.
The fox smirked, then opened his mouth to, yes, gloat – he had succeeded where Hiei failed, after all – and to put that little wannabe down a notch or two.
What came out, however, was not quite what he had intended. In fact, nothing left his mouth at first. Then, like breaker, a great wave building up and up and up, pain spread through his body, increasing until he could barely stand. He swayed, dizzy, a hand reaching for the table, steadying himself, the other going to clutch at his breast, gripping fine white cloth, tearing it.
He heaved, sinking to his knees, leaving scratches on the table, smearing some of the lines he had drawn on the floor, before eventually covering them with his breakfast and the potion. A rush of pinpricks went through his veins like so many pieces of glass and then he was almost curling in on himself, biting back a whimper. It had left, the beautiful melody had left and he was hurting so much.
Eternities passed while Kurama tried to get himself under control – he had to; he didn't want to. His face was surely showing his struggle, good thing his hair worked as a curtain, bent double as he was, face almost touching the dirtied floor.
His nose twitched and his stomach turned again, but before anything more could leave his body, Kurama righted himself, though he kept sitting where he was. He swallowed once then wiped a hand over his mouth, staring listlessly at the ruins of his works.
If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he would have remained like this a while longer but the thump of a door being shut upstairs – Hiei would never learn that closing it silently was politer or maybe he just didn't care – brought him out of his near-catatonic state.
He sighed. No use crying over spilt milk, as the saying went. Standing up he retrieved a rag to get rid of the greater part of the mess – the rest he would clean later – before shuffling to the bathroom. The taste in his mouth was disgusting; his hair needed washing, badly; and this shirt did really not belong on his body. The jeans were fine, a small mercy, for while he was certainly not prude, he had no intention of being seen and stared at in his underwear, which would put him at quite a disadvantage to boot. If he wanted to get anything about last night's events out of the hybrid, he could not afford to show himself that inferior.
Leaning over the edge of the tub, water running over his head, Kurama attempted to concentrate on the upcoming conversation, meaning to push any thoughts of the failed potion away from his mind. There were, after all, no doubts about what had gone wrong. It had been risky from the start, but he had been willing to take a gamble, since at his current power level he stood no chance at the Tournament and…
Tch. Trying not to think about this, was he? Well, he was failing quite spectacularly.
'Say it. Why don't you?'
You're a failure, too, Kurama.
Now for the big question: should he bang Hiei's head against the wall?
No, while it was tempting to give tit for tat, he didn't actually feel an urge to throw a tantrum and even if – he did have better control than that.
And better manners, too, which reminded him – he better get his guest something to eat. His mother had said that she had prepared bouillon for her ailing son, which he'd only need to reheat.
'I'm not feeling too well, mother.'
A lie then, it was true now.
Wrapping a towel around his head, Kurama went back into the kitchen, turned on the oven, and then sliced some bread almost swearing when he remembered that he had to hold the loaf with his burnt hand. The short time spent as a full youkai had sped up the healing process but it was still far from fine. His throat wasn't doing too well either, which quite effectively took care of the question of whether he'd be eating also. However, while he couldn't do anything about that, he could at least rub some salve into the skin of his hand. That done, Kurama made his way upstairs, dishes clinking and jingling. Keeping his face devoid of expression, he balanced the tray in one hand, opening the door with the other – Hiei had to close it, didn't he? – and entered.
There was a moment of silence before his guest, sprawling on Kurama's bed, spoke.
"A failure. We should have drunk to that."
In Kurama's mind there was absolutely no doubt that, should the hybrid ever find himself without a sword but badly needing to cut someone to pieces, his tongue would more than suffice.
"Touché."
It was a good comeback, though belated, and, as a master of this art, he could recognise and acknowledge it accordingly. Besides, it wouldn't do to aggravate Hiei if he wanted to reach his aim. That didn't equate being a pushover, however. Putting the food down onto the desk, he left it up to Hiei to move his lazy behind and take it, while Kurama himself opened his wardrobe and put on another shirt.
"Twenty akhaari."
Huh?
Now, that – whatever it was – had come out of the blue. Sitting down at his desk and rewrapping the towel around his head, Kurama used this motion as an excuse to delay replying. Was Hiei offering money? But what for? Something valuable obviously since 20 akhaari were no chicken-feed… though, was it even about the sum? It did seem odd that Hiei would mention Ktahal coins.
"Been there much?"
This time Hiei took a moment to answer, sneaking up on the tray.
"No. Which is why I might be wrong. Twenty-five, perhaps. Twenty-eight, if the ends are well kept. Are they? I couldn't tell. It's very...very..." He waved a hand, while Kurama waited for him to finish his thought. He now had an inkling of what Hiei was referring to and he did want to know how he'd describe it, but it seemed he wouldn't find out now.
"Thirty, if there's a name to it."
The summoning might have depleted Hiei's energy and thus reduced the speed at which he moved, but it certainly did not slow down the rate at which he calculated prices. Kurama inwardly rolled his eyes. Yes, the pelt of a silver fox would be worth that much on Ktahal's market and a "name" would raise the price. However, this was his pelt they were talking about.
"Please," Kurama murmured, "you insult me. Thirty-five at the least."
Then, because it was time they started talking about what really interested him, he added: "Less, of course, if your dragon burns it."
Hiei met this comment with a blank stare, indicating quite clearly what he thought about Kurama's inquisitiveness.
"Rastaltan has no quarrel with sickly foxes."
My, but wasn't he friendly today. Then again, illness or any physical discomfort did tend to make Hiei bitchy – but, as anyone who had made his acquaintance could attest to, Kurama would never willingly take on the role of whipping boy.
"Obviously, he won't have anything to do with sickly half-koorime, either."
Double-hit. Made even sweeter because Hiei couldn't seem to find an answer to that. Though, he really should turn his attention back to his objective, he'd seldom become so easily distracted.
He seldom had suffered such a defeat, too. It really was time to get back to Hiei's.
"Or perhaps something else has caught his interest," Kurama asked, finally sitting down at his desk again and crossing one leg over the other, while the hybrid glared at him again.
"Anyone who touches what's mine dies."
Possessive much? It wasn't entirely true, either. After all, Kurama was still alive and he had had his hands on things Hiei considered his own: the sword first of all; Hiei's body, too – he couldn't have left him lying in the middle of his room like that, Kurama might have stumbled over him in the morning (unlikely). It would have made him a bad host, as well, though he'd been an unwilling one to begin with. In fact, considering what had transpired, he'd been very generous all in all.
"And seldom does anyone survive who has touched something of mine. Your point?"
Kurama waited a few moments before it became clear that Hiei would not deign to answer, rather stuffing himself with bread and broth, a few drops spilling and soaking into the sheets of his bed.
"I don't think my bed needs nutrition."
He could be a bit more careful.
"Then what are you thinking?" Munch, munch, slosh.
On purpose now, for sure. How childish – and stubborn. And repetitive. Well, he had dodged the question a few hours ago and it had only been a matter of time until Hiei would again ask why he was interfering.
"I'm thinking that between the two of us, it would be easier to find out who has kept it from answering your summons."
Hiei stopped eating, giving Kurama his full attention for once.
"This doesn't concern you."
Of course, it didn't. His survival at the tournament, after all, did naturally not rest on his teammates' performance – come to think of it, he had to schedule another training session with Kuwabara. Hiei's attendance would be appreciated, as well, but in his current state, he'd hardly be willing to invest some effort into "teaching that oaf how not to ram his sword up his own ass" (Hiei sure was charming sometimes).
"You've made it my concern. I need to know how much to stock after all."
And back to munching and sloshing; still, this time, Hiei seemed to be thinking things over rather than flat out ignoring what he said.
"What do you know of Summons?"
Kurama almost laughed at that, but it didn't do to irritate Hiei now and he would think he was being ridiculed and not believe Kurama even if he explained, which he didn't want to anyway. Either this or Hiei would start laughing at him – it had been an idiotic idea, but desperate times … called for hare-brained notions.
It was a curious state that he was in. The youko in him was not dead – this would have defeated the purpose – but likewise, he was not really alive in the sense that he had not been reincarnated, a process set off by death usually. Neither was the youko a ghost, he was… he was a spirit being.
And spirits could be summoned. At this point in his contemplations – they hadn't been too long ago, just before he'd come up with the idea of amplifying his power – at this point, he had tried to think of ways to reach out to himself…
And then had almost banged his head onto his desk. How was he supposed to reach out if he was inside himself?
'Summoning means calling forth a being from another plane or place and drawing it to yourself.'
It had been a phase, a passing fancy he had indulged in a couple of centuries ago, even going as far as travelling to Ktahal and listening to what madmen and geniuses – and who could tell the difference? – there had to say about this art.
One of them had passed himself of as a teacher rather than a member of some secret society or another, his manner not really different from Kurama's primary school teacher, now that he came to think of it. He'd explained the basics mostly and these in great detail, and Kurama had been bored out of his mind half the time, but every now and then Susumu – yes, that was his name – had parted with a little gem of knowledge that Kurama had been sure would be helpful.
Granted the repetition of such elementary information had grated on his nerves then and he'd let his mind drift from time to time…
Perhaps he shouldn't have, for then he wouldn't have wasted time thinking about ways to
summon himself. Hiei would really get a kick out of this and consequently he wouldn't tell him about it.
"I know enough. Ktahal is an interesting place, don't you think?"
If by interesting one meant dangerous and populated by the world's greatest lunatics.
"I think that you don't know what you're getting yourself into."
A last ditch attempt at keeping him away from what was supposedly Hiei's business alone, but there were other ways to interpret this (if one really wanted to).
"You worry about me?"
How sweet – and totally off the mark, naturally, but it made Hiei's eyebrow twitch.
"I need you alive for the tournament - and you have a penchant for finding yourself in interesting circumstances."
So, Hiei did know that definition of 'interesting'; and he also saw the point of keeping your teammates alive, though Kurama did not really appreciate the insinuation that he was unable to keep himself in that state.
"One of my better qualities, I believe."
'Interesting' could, of course, always mean just that.
"I won't have you meddling. I won't have you hurting," Hiei waved a hand again and Kurama almost expected the slice of bread to be flung across the room, but by now Hiei did seem to have gained enough control over his motor functions to avoid any further embarrassments. The food and the draught he had provided had certainly helped the fire demon regain a bit of strength.
"Do as you wish," Hiei continued magnanimously, as if he had any say, "what you do with yourself beyond this is no concern of mine."
Leave it up to Hiei to hide behind a mask of arrogance, when it was so very clear that, driven into a corner, he had backed down before rational arguments. That wasn't shameful; the opposite held true, in fact. Only a fool would pursue his goals alone, when he obviously couldn't achieve them by himself.
Then again, Hiei had been uncomfortable – hah, understatement of the year and he wasn't
even British – and trying to save face throughout their conversation. Perhaps, he should leave him with a small feeling of victory. Hiei might feel more inclined to share information that way.
"I shall."
A brief flicker of surprise passed over Hiei's face – hadn't expected that, had he? – before his expression settled on satisfaction. He quickly finished eating, then got up gingerly and looked around, the desire to leave clear.
Kurama pointed to his wardrobe – the coat was still inside – and watched as Hiei got it out and proceeded to rummage for a while. Looking for his boots perhaps, but he hadn't had them on, when he'd come last night and, as Kurama heard him curse silently, it seemed Hiei realised this, too.
Leaving the wardrobe – and his clothes, as well, Kurama did not want to imagine the mess Hiei had made, he'd see it soon enough – alone, he slouched over to the bed, opening the window above it. He paused a moment in the frame, a contemplative look on his face.
"Human, spirit, half breed... You're a very odd creature, whatever your nature."
Then he was gone.
-
Author's note the second:
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Viridian Magpie
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Incubus – a male demon that goes after women. The Incubus will lie down on the victim's body, while they are asleep and drain their energy, usually by planting sexual fantasies in their minds. The "correct" demon in Ryou's case would be the Succubus, of course, since that one is female and goes after men. Still, Bakura is male (and would most certainly protest being compared to a she-demon).
"ariston metron" (moderation is best) – attributed to, among others, Cleobulus/Kleobulos, one of the Seven Sages.
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ego
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No Dragon / Rastaltan point-of-view this time around, but Hiei was hideously tiring. One apologizes for the narration and flashbacks that droned on and on and on, for the majority are unfortunately necessary.
Rastaltan remains as he is, and we have taken a number of liberties with Hiei's Jagan, by making it a double-way transmitter between the dragon and his master. While not stated in canon, self stands by the theory. Similarly, the possibility of Hiei's brief messenger enterprises in his early, not-powerful-enough-to-pose-too-much-a-threat days is one self is willing to contemplate and exploit. Canon doesn't state otherwise, and one will cling to that desperately.
There is a Mutant Ninja Turtles reference up there. Forgive self, for self is weak and giggly.