Ch. 15: The Spirit Yukino
"Rogue," a townswoman calls out a two-story window. Rogue rips his nose from his book, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose. A copy of Of Human Bondage sprawled in his hand, he shuts the text as she speaks. "Rogue, my dear boy!"
"Good morning, Ms. Stalkton." He smiles, moving his glasses to the top of his head, taking his bangs with it. "How are you? Has your son written to you yet?"
Ms. Stalkton chuckles and shakes her head almost tragically. The poor thing—her son works at the Magic Council as a secretary, a job that requires his utmost attention. But even then, every child must always make time for his mother. "No, no. But I do have a surprise for you!" She disappears under the windowsill for a second and returns with a nicely wrapped bun. "Catch!" Rogue, with little effort, snatches the thing out of the air as it flies to him. "I know you love my cinnamon rolls, and I know a young man should never skip breakfast."
"What? I would never do that!" Rogue laughs, breaking into a wide smile, the sun reflecting off his sharp features brilliantly.
"Coffee isn't breakfast, dear!"
"Uh… What was that?"
The woman cocks her eyebrow. "Don't think I haven't noticed your cheeks sinking!"
Rogue laughs a bit harder. "You got me. Thank you! What's the damage?"
"It's on the house, darling!"
"Ah, well." He bows his head. "Thank you again!"
"Where are you off to?" She leans on her arms with a wider smile. "You don't have class today, do you?"
Rogue chuckles. "I do, actually! I'm late!"
"Oh, dear! Pardon me!" She laughs nervously.
"Don't be a stranger! Come by the guild for dinner, sometime!"
"Certainly! You have a nice day! Say hi to Young Master Sting for me!
"Yes ma'am!" Rogue waves in parting at her.
And off he goes, asserting all his attention back into the world between two hard covers. It's similar to the parting of the Red Sea as he walks. Women drag their children behind their backs and watch him with firmly planted eyes, labeling him as "that mutt" with squinting eyes. Men pause conversations and bring their mugs down with suspicious gazes, whispering to each other, "Don't mages have people to save instead of gawking at books?"
"He's always been odd."
"Dumb-asses. That's the Sabertooth member who rose from the dead last week!"
"Good day," Rogue greets without looking at them. Silence.
On the other hand, girls gawk over the granite expression on his face, the focus in his eyes as he explores a world more intriguing than our own. "Rogue~!" They giggle, waving their polished hands, seated cross-legged atop porch banisters. "How're you doing today?"
"Ladies," Rogue answers, again never peeling his eyes from the text.
They all squeal and continue giggling. "He's so cute!" one chirps.
"He was talking to me!" snaps another.
"Clearly he recognized the only lady here," insults the last with a dignified wave of her fan. Rogue disappears into a little black dot down the road as they argue, noticing no one—or everyone. Rogue's one of those people that are difficult to read, especially for me.
"Yukino!" Rufus calls from inside the guild. "Are you almost done sweeping the porch? I need the broom for the kitchen!"
"Coming!" I call back.
Growing up, my parents warned Sorano and me about slayers—dragon-slayer, in particular. "They are cautious predators," my father said. "They are beastly spirits trapped in a human's body. They can plead, charm, and persuade, and you won't even see it coming."
Being a curious, perhaps naïve child, I asked him, "Can we see one? Where are they now?"
My mother gave me a sharp look, but my father softened his scowl and answered after kissing my hair, "They do still remain on this planet, my sweet." He placed me on his lap and I nestled against his stubbly chin. "They are scarce in numbers, powerful beyond belief, but man has become smarter than them. There is one in this land. El espíritu de la Muerte." I gasped. "But it is kept behind bars, in chains, as it should be." But in time, this espíritu de la Muerte escaped those binds. My town took up arms the literal second word got out—the night was filled with horrified screams, panicking tears, and barking orders beneath implosions of gunpowder. My parents locked my sister and me inside the house while they guarded with the others. The noise only elevated as the moon reigned, a monstrous roar resembling a beast more than a phantom caused the windows to quiver, threatening to shatter amongst themselves. Sorano cried the whole night, and when the roaring seemed to get closer and closer to our house, I did, too. In the morning, I heard the adults remark how close Death roamed to our garden in the back. Some mentioned that it flew over our house, close enough to touch the shingles. Two days passed, and the family crops all died.
It was not until years later that I saw the dragon-slayer, the source of my father's caveat. The dragon-slayer or spirit, though he had the appearance of a human, was free to roam the land, eating the same fish we caught, drinking the same water we lugged along in buckets, and breathing the same air we dried our clothes with. And it enraged my father. The dragon was the forest spirit the townspeople spoke of, labeled as Death himself, who placed hexes on my neighbors, The reason people screamed when the moon was high, the cause of the three long slashes in the protective walls, and whose…kindness guided me to a more catholic opinion of his kind.
Allow me to explain.
Since I was able to comprehend speech and danger, I'd been told stories of my grand-uncle going missing in the forest, along with many others. Those usually armed with firearms, fire, and chains. Their final shouts of despair could be heard, it seemed, when there was a blood moon. They rushed into the forest the night Death escaped bondage. The elders proclaimed this to be Death's warning to us. He—or as everyone called him, It—emerged from the forest at night around the dead-man's hour to wander around in search of food. But he never stole from anyone. He came near my cottage once again when I was six, right outside my window, staring up at the moon. "Are you hungry?" I asked, in the quietest voice I can manage. He did not move, not acknowledging me. So, mustering as much courage my body could handle, I reached out and tugged at the sleeve of his long, brown cloak that reeked of dirt and lake water.
Almost startled, he ripped away and stared at me, I'm sure, from under the hood that concealed his entire face. His eyes, however, glowed like ruby in a darkened cave.
"Everyone says you're Death, but I don't think you're that scary," I whispered. "You walk like a human."
He did not move, standing there as the wind blew at his clothes. I reached under the windowpane and took out the two apples I picked earlier with my sister, and offered them to him.
"You're a Dragon, right? That what Daddy says. But even Dragons get hungry, too. Just like humans. Here."
The corners of his mouth tightened like he was at conflict with himself or perhaps disgusted that the child of those who feared him was giving him food. He reached out and took the apples, stashing them in his cloak where there must have been a breast pocket. His arms, I noticed, were toned and tanned, decorated with scars…but human.
"Take them, please."
In a careful, hushed voice, he said, "Thank you." I smiled, and he sniffed the air quickly. Footsteps could be heard storming down the hall, complemented with the stench of gunpowder. My parents. I turned quickly to the door and the moment I turned back to Death. I found myself engrossed in two eyes the color of blood—the blood of my grand-uncle and many others, as the others said—and I shuddered a little. The footsteps drew nearer and Death rushed towards me until I collapsed under his weight. As I forced my eyes to meet his, he said, "Scream. Hurry —"
"What—"
" —before they see what you've done."
Darkness spread from his body, lifting his hood from his head, mingling through his unruly black hair. His lethal eyes glowed through the black. I froze, and he placed a hand on my temple. Before I could comprehend what he was doing, terror ripped at my core, violating my soul, and I bashed the bases of my palms into my eyes. I'm unsure of what I was so afraid of, but I screamed and cried uncontrollably while he touched me.
Sorano threw herself up and gasped. "Yuki!" She tore off the blankets right when the door opened.
My father's voice: "Yukino!" I peeked through my fingers to see Death de-materialize into a gaseous, shadowy mist and shoot out the window as the gun was fired. My mother rushed to me and pulled me into her arms, my sister kneeling down and hugging us both. "Death has tried to take our daughter, just like the rest," my father said, breathlessly joining us on the floor. I clutched to his shirt, reduced to sniffles, and prayed that those eyes never came near me again.
As I grew older, another part of me wished they would and I came to realize he was not the monster everyone thought he was. His actions were not out of malice, but kindness. I could not imagine what my parents would have done to me if they knew I'd fed the entity they blamed for every death that occurred in the area, not the famine or crime or natural causes. He knew that, I'm sure. He terrified me, yes—but…those eyes, those venomous eyes, rendered me helpless, the warden to my imprisoned mind, never fleeting. My parents kept me inside as much as possible until the day they died, and my sister was taken. The town's priest cleansed me every day to rid me of Death's grip, of those eyes. For years, I had nightmares about them.
Today, I still do only to then eat breakfast with them in the morning.
It was not until I matured and joined Sabertooth that I saw those eyes once more. But the person they complemented was different, yet oddly similar. He was well-groomed, a little more tanned in complexion, and a tad diffident in the absence of the only person he could be seen with, the White Dragon. I doubted the possibility that I would come to be in his company again. Out of the billions of people on the planet, what was the chance of coming into contact with someone from your past, I wondered. So, I steered that thought from my mind. His features must have been common in some other land. There are other people with red irises around the world, and I was at peace with that statement for a long time.
Rogue Cheney and I came face-to-face only once before I was excommunicated; in the halls of the stadium during the Grand Magic Games, right after my loss to Kagura. His sometimes-on-sometimes-off girlfriend. I remained in bed at the farthest corner of the infirmary. I could not stop crying. I was so afraid of what was to come once the day was over. He walked in and stopped immediately when I looked at him. "Sorry," he said, casting his eyes to the window. "I was looking for…Lector."
"I…" I sniffled and turned back around. "I haven't seen him."
I expected him to leave, but he didn't.
I waited and waited.
But he did not move.
"Try the locker room or our section. He's bound to be with Sting or Frosch." He walked towards, one step at a time. I winced, burying my face in the pillow. "Please, go away."
But instead he placed something on the white counter table. An apple the color of autumn, shining and a little dented where his fingers were. Then, he turned his back to me and said in a frigid, almost terse voice, "It is better this way, Yukino. Sabertooth was never home for you." I saw those eyes I feared when he peered over his shoulder at me. They were coarse and penetrating, but almost disheartened as if his words hurt him, too. But I highly doubted that. He sighed and straightened his posture before stalking out the door.
My heart sunk down to my feet; I could almost feel it under my weight. How dare he, I thought. What kind of man would say that to a woman in her weakest state? In my darkest, most regretful bitterness toward him in that moment, I nearly hated him. I hated his honeyed words about comradery. I hated his inflated ego. I wanted karma to come around and knock him off balance for good. I didn't care, and I'd never care again. I wiped my face and waited until his steps vanished to even look at the apple. I yearned to throw it at the wall, but instead, I simply held it in my hands. Remembering the once-kind spirit I gave food to only made me cry harder. How could someone change so quickly? When I gazed at the apple, my stomach only churned in disappointment, in betrayal.
It was no longer a symbol of comfort. It meant we were even, that his indebted kindness had come to an end. I owed him nothing, and he owed me nothing.
I suspected my parents were right, and that slayers were proficient in superficial things like charm and tampering with what should not be tampered with. And lying. I vowed I'd never trust another slayer again.
Until the Grand Ball and the events after. I had been so consumed by own emotions and confusion that I had not noticed that Rogue—the spirit of Death—had not aged even a day. Or so he appeared. Nowadays whenever I ask him how old he is, he answers with a sigh, "Too damn old. Right, T?"
Sting usually scoffs and agrees with a short shake of his head. "So damn old, Ro." They honestly sound as if they're in their golden years, but they can't be past their forties—but twenties, physically-speaking. Right?
But that was the past. We're all family now. I call him Spirit from time to time. Our little joke.
Rogue says it's been almost two months since he last spoke to Gajeel. Even though we all go to the same university, he rarely sees his brother. On the way back from his literature class and my ethnical psychology class, I promised him Gajeel would come by Sabertooth or drop a call soon enough. But then I realized I'd promised Rogue something out of my control for comfort's sake. He probably knew this already. I made sure to give him as much space as he needed afterwards. I didn't want to crowd, you know?
I rub my eyes and shut the textbook, flipping my notebook over. It must have already been three hours since I first sat down. My bed's call triumphs above any other sound in the guild, even my own thoughts. But that is when I hear music downstairs. A piano. I hear it echoing through the marble halls. Taking a blanket to fight the chill of the night, I take a step towards it, descending the stairs so quietly as to not interrupt the melody. The closer I come to it, he bright I can see the flickering of a candle casting orange light through the door.
As if he knew he'd been on my mind lately, there Rogue sits at the grand piano, fingers stroking the keys. I lean on the threshold, watching, enjoying the rare sight, even rarer sound of him humming some song I'd never heard. His voice transitions smoothly up and down each octave. Each note more serene than the last, as if his voice and the piano are fighting for dominance. Either way, it's a blessing to hear this. The guild's been so grim lately.
Before I can comprehend it, he sniffs and stares at me as if I'm about to scold him. "Hi." His slide from the keys to his lap.
We stare at each other awkwardly in silence until I smile. "That was nice," I say. "New song?"
"No." His red eyes curve around me and to the side. His face is pinched with pink, and I catch two distinct twitches in his left eye. "Uh… I think I'm going to bed now—"
Usually I'd give him as much distance as he needs. But right now, I sit by his side on the bench, so close that our legs touch. "Can I hear more?" It's not fair to him if I let him linger on alone again. Finn's death has been particularly hard on him.
He hesitates, but hovers his shaking hands over the keys. I sink in my blanket as my eyes watch his fingers dance across the piano. The twiddling of high-pitched keys makes me smile, and the sighs of the bass make my eyes well up. I watch his face, contorted of such unreadable, complex emotions. I await his voice, but the only sound he creates is from the piano. It's almost as if a seal has been set on his vocal cords, restraining the voice I know he possesses.
He frowns, then closes his eyes. Gnashes his teeth, then flares his nostrils. His eyes pierce when he opens them again, then soften when he sighs gently. I stare at his arm, more so the bandage coiled around his muscles. "Hm?" he asks, glancing from the side at me. A tint of pink reaches his ears that hold back locks of wet, wavy hair. He shoves more hair behind his ear and keeps playing. I shake my head. "So…did I wake you up?"
"No, not at all. I was up anyway." I remember how that gaze used to strike crippling fear through my heart when I first came to Sabertooth. How I rationalized him as this black-hearted anomaly who fed on my weakness. Someone who would not hesitate to kill at any given moment. And here I am, leaning against his shoulder, listening to him play. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. Grigia can be so cruel."
"Coming from you, Yuki," Rogue says, chuckling, "that's funny." The light never reaches his eyes, though, and the smile drops too easily. "But thanks. I needed to hear that, even if it's not entirely true. I think I needed that." I stifle a flinch when he winces from his elbow, but then I realize the burst of rhythm coming from the keys followed by a patter. "Justice served." He scoffs, cynically. "Right."
"Justice isn't about getting even," I blurt out. His eyes trail up from his fingers to the gilded letters above middle C. Not a word is exchanged between us for a moment. It's a type of silence that calms and secures the mind and deepens the music of the piano. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Rogue replies in a voice of hushed wind. "It's never even." When I turn to his face, his lips part again, and he takes a breath. Almost ready to speak more—or sing, maybe. But he doesn't. Instead, he just sighs and focuses on the melancholic piano riff again.
The hush of his sigh brings about a lethargic, hollowness to my core, like there is no beating heart present. Stones, it seems, sink into my stomach, dragging me down. But why? I glance at the side of Rogue's face, into the white of his eye. Is it him, but why then would he be feeling this way? Did something happen while I was taken? I don't know. So, without looking at the keys, I bang my hands down on the first white tabs in front of me.
Rogue nearly leaps from the bench, fingers hovering over the keys as if they are made of fire. As the bombarding noise fades, we stare at each other—him in surprise, me in amusement. He cocks an eyebrow. I copy him. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. "Yukino—"
"Rogue." He rolls his eyes, and I burst out laughing.
"You sure are bold today," he says, looking back at the keys.
"I try." I smile when I see a curl in the corner of his mouth. But the same softness never reaches his eyes. The irises remain…dull. He seems to pick up on my observation, and turns his face from me, staring out the window. I grab his arm. "It's okay."
He stops when I hug him from behind, my arms wrapping around his toned core. I place my ear to his back—his heartbeat races. I squeeze tighter. "It's okay."
His back muscles relax, and he sighs again. "Yeah." The bass of his voice vibrates my neck. "It is okay."
I close my eyes when he brings a hand to my arm. Warmth radiates from him to me. "What're you thinking about?" I ask, without thinking, myself.
"How my girlfriend would kill me if she saw this."
"Oh!" I let go and scoot a great distance from him. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
He chuckles. "Don't apologize. It's fine." He turns, so I can see the side of his face again. "We're guildmates. We live together. So, she can't get hellbent over a single hug."
It goes without saying—this is Kagura, after all. Everyone at Sabertooth knows about the two of them, more or less. But Sting, Lady Minerva, and I—and Rogue, himself—know for sure the relationship isn't exactly healthy. I look up at him from my hands. "Rogue?" His eye slides over to me. "Where…is Kagura?"
His slight smile vanishes in seconds, stealing the subtle light from his warm honey skin. Just as I part my lips to speak, to change the subject, he speaks in a hoarse voice, "She left me." The crease in his brow deepens. I can only guess why now, of all times. And why her, to be the first to leave?
I place a hand on his arm and wait for him. "I'm sorry." He clears his expression and shrugs, placing a hand on the piano again. But he doesn't play. As miserable as he was with her, they must have loved each other. They'd been together for almost three years. I'd never been in a relationship that long. Rogue finally looks at me in full when I take his hand and start pulling him to his feet. "Come on." He blinks at me, wide-eyed. "Let's get some rest. It's almost midnight."
"We have something to do tomorrow?" His brow draws down in confusion as he stretches his injured arm.
"Not particularly," I say. "But the next day, we have a mission together."
He crosses his arms over his chest. The muscles pop from the thin sleeves of his shirt, his chest glistening from a hot shower. "That so?" The mess of wet waves of hair sticking to his neck, trimmed along the curve of his jaw in this dim light.
I snap my mouth shut. "It makes sense you don't remember. It was assigned a while ago."
"That's right," he mutters, pushing the bench under the chin of the piano. "Sorry I forgot." With that, he walks past me. I sigh in relief. It's apparent, though, how down he is—the usual Rogue wouldn't walk so quickly from someone while talking. I watch the back of his head as he stalks toward the stairs.
The next night, Rogue didn't show up for dinner. He didn't leave the Twin room until long after everyone had already finished and gone elsewhere. I came down to get tea before bed, and found him fast asleep in his textbook for physiology, a half plate of food beside him. And a cup of brandy. His thick-framed glasses were slanted across his nose and a pen was arched in his limp, ink-stained hand. A sight owed to Kagura's quick exit from his life. Even when I was the newcomer, I still heard strange sounds coming from his bedroom when she was over. Bumps, winces, yelping, screaming. Silence.
But I shouldn't have been eavesdropping…
Cold bean sauce stained his cheek when I woke him up and told him to go to bed. It was only around 9, but the sagging of his eyes told me he was exhausted beyond recognition. Right as he passed me to head for the stairs, I caught sight of two raised, red bruises. One on his neck, one peeking out from under his shirt, right on his collarbone. They looked like they had been reopened and bleeding. It's not that Kagura is abusive to him—no, their relationship is more volcanic. Every problem of their gets sorted out behind closed doors, and it can go on for hours. An entire day, one time earlier this year. Rogue limped for days; Kagura for about a week. She's a sadist in their privacy, and he lets her have her way.
But why?
I'd never been scared for a man in a relationship like theirs before—I would have to say Rogue is the first. There's no evidence in his voice or in the gaze of his eyes. Just his spirit, beneath the barricade of his unshakably calm presence. His ruby eyes that can twinkle with an underglow of garnet in the night, like moonlight.
