Chapter 2
There are no beginnings in the comfort of a seraphic forest; in the warmth of a summer with sunlight caressing his cheeks and grasses beneath his feet; in the scent of wind carrying morning dews; in grassland birds taking flight and finding freedom in a vast sky.
Kurapika's eyes snap open. The sudden flood of awareness is just as overwhelming as the pain searing throughout his body. He's sprawled over the arid ground, aching down to his bones, and he can't distinguish where one pain starts and another ends.
There's no water in his lungs—everything is so dry when he takes his first full breath—and his throat hurts as if he had swallowed a handful of thorns. The air speaks of drought, but life still persists around him. When he lets out a cough, the black birds pecking at his soles rustle their wings and retreat to the sky. It's impossible to tell where he is from their cries and calls alone.
Another breath, and it's easier now. Kurapika doesn't know how long he's been lying here, his back on dead leaves and jagged rocks, his face upturned to the darkening sky. Perhaps a moment, perhaps an eternity. Time has vanished from the forefront of his mind despite how much it meant to him, when he always measured the passage of it.
The remnants of a dream follow him into wakefulness. There's a litany of voices in his ears, people he can't discern, fragmented images flowing through his mind. Kurapika slides a hand through his hair and—remembers a phantom warmth, a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead. Remembers looking into the eyes of a young woman, only a few years older than him, but when he measured time in years, she looked the same as when he last saw her.
The memory comes with a stark, aching clarity.
It's not your time yet.
Breathe.
It hits him so hard that his heart stutters. His chest suddenly feels too tight.
He can't possibly—
Breathe.
Kurapika chokes on his next breath, a strangled gasp, and his hands fist into his hair. He wants to sob the way he hasn't been able to in years, too caught up in the throes of grief and vengeance without release. He can't cry, not now.
Catching his breath seems impossible, but he manages to take slow, deliberate breaths, until the panic begins to slide away.
Stay safe. I'll be waiting for you.
A shudder wracks through his body, and he doesn't know if it's because of relief or regret or something else altogether. He presses a hand against the ground, feeling the imprint, the depth, and forces himself upright. He can hear his joints crackling in protest. The weight of return settles on his mind, reminding him what exactly happened before he closed his eyes for what he assumed to be the last time.
Letting go of his life was much easier than expected, when the exhaustion of his abilities only left Kurapika connected to life by a thin thread, before it severed altogether. He simply didn't expect to wake up in an unfamiliar place when he should be buried thousands of feet beneath the water.
When there's no water to be found, Kurapika can't be anywhere close to the Black Whale—not even a distant island. A breeze scatters dead leaves onto his lap and he picks one up between his fingers. It crumbles with the slightest pressure, leaving nothing in his hand but a stem and veins. Kurapika gazes towards the direction of the wind. Beyond the mounds of rubbish and filth, a city rises in the distance.
If this is supposed to be Hell, then he's seen far worse than Hell. Slowly and carefully, he gets his feet under himself and rises, dusting the dirt from his clothes. A wetness seeps through his suit jacket and he gingerly presses his hand over it, expecting the worse.
Blood stains his hand.
Not his blood, but Kuroro's own.
It takes a moment for his thoughts to realign. When he closes his eyes, he sees a pale face marked by weariness, a body worn thin and deprived of blood, a phantom lingering on the fine line between life and death. When Kuroro lost his world, Kurapika's could not be salvaged, and they accompanied each other until death.
But his heart beats on and on, and the steady rhythm sounds nothing like the heartbeat of someone who is dying—shouldn't even belong to someone who is supposed to be dead. Breathing like this feels no less different than his life before. He doesn't believe in second chances, but doesn't know what else this could be.
Kurapika's not willing to sit around doing nothing, so he keeps his eyes open. He needs answers and perhaps, he will find them in the city.
The city takes half an hour to reach by foot, and he steps past too many broken glass bottles, foil candy wrappers, and scraps of newspapers throttled by the wind. Sheets of newsprint get caught at his feet, and he reaches down to retrieve them. His eyes flick to the front of the page, the ink smudged from being thumbed through, and everything stills.
METEOR CITY MAN WRONGFULLY CONVICTED FOR MURDER EXONERATED AFTER THREE YEARS.
62 KILLED IN MASS MURDER-SUICIDE.
An ill feeling rises high in Kurapika's throat. The images blur before his eyes, the names of the deceased swim on the crinkled page, and he finds himself gripping the paper too tightly. He knows this incident well—the tramp incident from a decade ago, where the 31 individuals who condemned an innocent man were murdered by another 31 individuals from Meteor City in a fierce act of retribution.
That's exactly what makes Kurapika feel faint.
The date on the newsprint is indicative of ten years ago.
Kurapika doesn't know what to do with this information, because it becomes strikingly clear that he's in Meteor City. A miasma staining the air announces his arrival, and he has to hold his breath to walk along the dusty streets. He folds the article and tucks it away in his suit pocket. When he passes by old apartment buildings and sleeping bodies in dark alleyways, his presence does not go unnoticed. The people lingering in the streets stop what they're doing on sight, regard his dress intently, and turn to whisper too loudly to their companions.
Kurapika's black suit is a sharp contrast to the torn clothes hanging from their thin frames. As much as he tries to drag his feet forward, the sight of a particularly young child in the periphery of his vision grounds him. The boy curls in on himself, his arms to his chest, as a group of older children strike him with their feet and fists in effort to snatch the pouch clutched to his chest.
The boy doesn't make a sound throughout the beating, until one of the larger boys lands a kick on his stomach, forcing a sharp gasp from him. Kurapika frowns. In one swift motion, he seizes two of the boys by their collars and lifts them from the ground.
"What the—?"
"Let me go!"
Both of them flail in protest, and Kurapika releases them none too gently. Stepping over them, he demands, "Leave."
They scurry back in a cluster, securing their escape through the alleyway, but one of them dares to look back at Kurapika. "Don't tell us what to do, outsider."
The boy isn't necessarily wrong, but Kurapika shrugs his words off, turning his attention to the child at his feet instead. Behind a mess of silver hair, his owlish eyes are beseeching, and Kurapika can't help but feel like he's seen them before. He kneels down and offers an outstretched hand.
"Are you alright?" Kurapika asks softly, receiving a nod in response. He doesn't take Kurapika's hand, though. "Is that something important to you?"
The boy looks down at the pouch and shifts it in his hands. The gentle clinking of coins could be heard. "I'm starving." In the shadows of the alleyway, faint scuffling noises come from small creatures searching for their meals. Teeth and nails scrape against metal, and then there's the sound of an empty can rolling across the ground. "Do you have—?"
Kurapika pats down his jacket and pants and remembers that his wallet is in his back pocket. He doesn't know how he was able to keep this out of all things. He opens up his black wallet, and at the sight of paper notes, the boy comes closer. Too close, and then—
His wallet is no longer in his hands. It takes half a heartbeat before the boy takes off, and another before Kurapika follows, racing through the streets before he can get any farther. God, the first time in a while that he tries to be helpful to a stranger, he pays for it. Kurapika nearly loses the boy when he runs past a vegetable cart, and Kurapika almost slams into it, spilling old produce over the ground and rolling about on the streets.
The merchants curse at him, but Kurapika pays them no mind as the boy turns into the bend of a street. It appears to be a dead end, which works well enough for him. Against the worn brick wall, there is not one boy, but someone else waiting for him as well.
The sight is an incongruity, because it's like Kurapika is looking at a ghost. A pale face, dark eyes, and black hair parted evenly over a cross tattoo. His mind can't catch up to what he sees, because all he can think is—Kuroro's dead, Kuroro's alive. But there's no blood on him, no tears in his clothing, no wounds on his skin. This isn't the Kuroro he knows. He looks so much younger, so much cleaner, almost as if he could be the same age as Kurapika.
The boy clings to Kuroro's legs, shaking. Kuroro fondly pats him on the head and says, "You shouldn't get caught if you steal, Kortopi. Especially if they're as nice as this stranger here."
Oh, Kurapika thinks, because this has to be some kind of construct of the past. Horror settles within him, something that feels like a heavy blow to his heart. It's one thing to lend a hand to a child, but another thing entirely to a Spider. He tries to suppress the horrible feeling in his throat, because Kortopi's a child too, but it doesn't make much difference.
Kuroro takes the wallet from Kortopi and throws it in Kurapika's direction. It falls into his hands with ease.
"This is no place for tourists," Kuroro says, regarding him as if he's some kind of wealthy businessman or missionary. "Go home."
Kurapika feels too lightheaded. Kuroro brushes past him as he walks by, and he doesn't know what he should do. Should he reach out to him, call out his name? Surely that would be a dangerous move, when Kuroro doesn't seem to recognize him at all.
Kurapika swallows thickly, ignoring the inexplicable ache stinging at his chest. All he says is, "Thank you for returning this."
A wave in acknowledgment, before Kuroro disappears with his young companion in the street. He feels as if he's making a grave mistake for letting Kuroro leave like this, but he quickly checks his wallet again. Tucked away in the pockets are bills left untouched, receipts from old purchases, and recent train tickets. All of them are dated from his time, but he doesn't know if he should ask someone for the date of today.
Everything in his wallet seems to be there, but his Hunter license—
It's gone.
Notes:
Another quick chapter, so please bear with me. Poor Kurapika was robbed twice.
I'm taking liberties with pre-canon aspects of this fic, so the Silva and Kuroro fight might be happening very soon..
Please leave a comment—I would love to know what you think. You can also reach out to me on Tumblr at seiyuna.