A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend Gecko: you're the opium that gets my muse high and happy, and the magic drops that give my brain creative diarrhoea. xD It's never easy to write Mephisto... so pardon if I miss the mark a bit here. x/
Refs to: 73, 79, 91, 107.
I do not own or profit from anything Kazue Kato has created.
I don't own anything Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote either.
No, I have no claims on Dogma for that matter – or Zeitdieb's flirt with it (it seems impossible for me not to make references to you all the time x'D).
I don't own anything Ryohgo Narita has made.
And lastly, I don't own anything created by the marvellous Neil Gaiman or Sir Terry Pratchett.
Lust…
The siren song in every human heart, sworn enemy of Love, that would blind with pleasure bliss its host to reason and restraint.
Greed…
Daughter of Hunger and sister of Yearning, whose busy hands would nurture selfish want in the carcass of Compassion, and feed the flame of craving till its host is naught but gleaming coals.
Knowledge…?
The cleverest of the three, disguised as Virtue and held in reverence supreme. It claimed such epithets as Power, as Freedom, as Treasure – truly, Knowledge was king amongst deceivers. Lack it, and ignorance would chain you like a mule to others' whims and wants; hoard it, and awareness would consume your mind with empty Hope and crippled Faith.
Indeed, was not mankind's hunger for Knowledge her first and greatest Sin…?
Greed and Lust the Order drilled its followers to deny, but Knowledge…? Knowledge they encouraged, the darling little exorcists, and Knowledge he provided; a gourmand's selection of the finest pieces, of course. After all, it is the amount of a serpent's venom that determines whether it will be potion or poison, boon or bane.
Knowledge is a useful tool, in capable hands – hands now holding a glass of sparkling pink champagne in the office.
Ah, nights in Assiah; what a miracle they were. Infinity seemed so near, bridged by light from distant worlds – so near it shrouded itself shyly in pristine gauze of clouds to escape earth's prying eyes.
Gehenna was no more than a dream half forgotten, those nights. Noxious gales of ash and bone-dust hissing at a sky locked in perpetual, crimson dusk… No stars. No moon. No sun.
A worthless place to call home.
Alas, experience is always useful, if only to establish by comparison that one thing is preferable to another. Blissfully short of such, humans had no idea how blessed they were to have such a sky. They would complain that the city lights were too bright; that the stars paled and drowned in the electric hum that draped pearl necklaces over busy streets. Why, they were right. And it brought a vicious smile to his lips. Such a perfect metaphor, unbeknownst to its creators: humans, so bold, so shameless in their ambitions – outshining heaven herself!
So bold, so easily manipulated in their over-confidence.
To humans, then! He raised the glass bowl on its slender stalk: a toast to the evening sky, to humans, and to the spectacular performance they had put on this opening night. Every scene he'd watched from a front-row seat, breath baited and tongue held, as pathos and logos clashed ferociously on stage. Each line of his ad lib script had leapt flawlessly from the actors' lips, each word a contributing fugue in his symphony of destruction; stringent chords of betrayal torn from love and trust in the pilgrim poet's heart; the curdling lied of irony coaxed from a crusader led astray by good intentions; and the deafening crescendo vested in the silence of a glance that says it all – ah~ What a show, what a show.
And the lead actor himself…?
"Superb", he purred, letting the sparkly tingle of alcohol pleasure his taste buds.
'Tis ever the curse of the refined, to find entertainment worthy of one's attention. Tempting mortals into damnation was hardly what one could call sport; it was a chore, and one that had only become drearier as eternity wore on. But humans were so creative… and after many centuries, he'd begun to test just how creative they were. Rather than lead them straight into Perdition, he led them on merry detours with games and wagers of his choosing. Oh, the rewards had been bountiful~ The sophistication of his schemes evolved with his increasing knowledge of human nature and its mechanisms, evolved to span generations, societies, nations – centuries.
Truly, Knowledge was a useful tool.
Demons' appetite knows no sating, the saying goes. Like the flames of Hell made sentient, they seek out pleasure wherever they can find it, licking the bones of Assiah until there is nothing left to devour. Quite the striking allegory, that – sadly, the poet in question had turned out to be rather bland in taste when his time on earth was past.
Indeed, he'd found his appetite for scheming to be insatiable once whet: a discovery that was neither surprising nor particularly bothering. Come now – what sin is there in gluttony, when Assiah's fruits grow endlessly abundant? No, he'd gorged himself on them, royally; had made gambles with himself, seeing how many puppets he could control at a given time, how complex plays he could make them enact – in all likelihood, 'twas the sole addiction of his that could rival that of sugar.
And then… the Order of the True Cross: his Mona Lisa, his Angkor Wat, his pièce de résistance. Secret nooks behind the scenes had been his dwelling for millennia, and all the while he'd felt the spotlight yearn for him to take the stage. He'd waited, plotted, planned… and once he made his entrance, it had been glorious. The foundations of Assiah shook that day, when the unthinkable turned undeniable, and a son of Satan was knighted before St. Peter's grave. What a show, what a show – and the thrill…! To be surrounded by exorcists that would have his head – they wished! – if his schemes were revealed; bowing before Pope after Pope, giddy with the knowledge that if his intentions and identity were known…
The greater the challenge, the sweeter the taste of success.
He had not hesitated to take on the greatest challenge of them all, when dear Chance presented him the opportunity. Deceiving his father had raised the stakes to the starry sky and beyond: one move wrong, and Lord Satan would grow suspicious. One move wrong…
The curse of the refined: to find entertainment worthy of one's attention.
Shiro was the same. The hunt for higher peaks, greater challenges, stronger thrills: that boy had all the qualities of one who paves himself a path to an early grave. Not without assistance, of course. For an unrepentant addict whose taste buds had made the purest opiate acquaintance, nothing else would suffice: and he was more than willing to supply. All of Assiah's forbidden fruits were his to dispose. All the kicks a young soul could ever wish for. All the skill of millennia for pulling the strings of Greed and Lust and need for Knowledge.
And when the snare had tightened around the young lion's neck…
"Superb~"
Humans like to ascribe themselves a certain degree of uniqueness; some defining particularity that would set their individual apart from the rest of their kin. Discrepancies he wouldn't deny, but at the core – at the heart – the essentials were the same. Man and woman, high and low: there is no difference between them, once they are broken and ready to sell the one possession they truly own.
Some would sign in wordless defeat, others in unarticulated rage. Some would weep regret; some would heave up the cackle of a shattered mind. Helplessness, they all had in common. Helplessness as only granted by the Knowledge that all doors were closed, and the sole possibility of escape was to bow down and beg for a key.
It takes a certain kind of man, to don the iron collar of submission and make it look like an act of defiance. To wear the mark of thraldom as though it were a crown, and take his leave with back straight and head high. Unyielding. Unbending.
"How long, I wonder?" The first blow must be hardest, to shatter resistance: the rest is detail work, to hammer down and tear a man to pieces before rebuilding him anew. "How long before you beg me to stop, little lion of mine~?"
That delicious mix of rage and sharp betrayal on his face, and so masterfully contained by cold intelligence – truly, a show that merited a toast.
…so why did satisfaction fail to seduce his senses? Why didn't the sweet ambrosia of success intoxicate his wine? Why wasn't he giggling, bouncing, laughing…?
Soundlessly, the glass returned to the table; a towering titan beside the chessboard and its squabbling population.
Knowledge was a useful tool, yes. But not to forget, Knowledge was the greatest amongst deceivers.
He was hardly a stranger to deception: and like one craftsman unto another, one used to pulling its supple strings will know when they are pulled on him. The truly aggravating thing in being deceived by Knowledge, however, is that you are deceived by yourself. By your own mind, and what it knows or doesn't know – or believes that it knows.
"I trapped you." His pensive gaze addressed the black pawn that stood one step ahead of its kinsmen. "Flawlessly." Green eyes narrowed at the silent ebony piece. "And yet this irksome feeling that you aren't entirely mine…?"
Shiro
Countless men throughout history had been named after lions, with hopes of gaining their fearlessness and strength; laughable fancies, steeped in superstition and echoes of arcane knowledge. Human names held no such power to decide a bearer's nature. Human names were arbitrary things, no more meaningful than the buzz of a mosquito. Still…
Shiro
White. Lion son.
Normally, he would shrug it off as coincidence… but Shiro was capable of things beyond human limitations.
Shiro was born perfectly healthy to a couple that seemed unable to produce healthy offspring.
Shiro was unique.
Coincidence…? Coincidence was a human word, shaped by human minds that lacked the faculties to perceive coherence in chaos; lacked the ability to see how Choice spread ripples across the river of time, and the complex patterns of interference it gave rise to.
For millennia, he'd seen time unfold, seen paths and possibilities birth, fork, twist, and end: seen how one thing connected to another, miles and ages apart. There was no such thing as Fate. There was no such thing as Coincidence. Not for one who saw the causal strings that wove the history of Creation, and played on them with Paganinian expertise.
There were only two others, beside him, who possessed that kind of perception. Two other pairs of hands at work behind the curtain, with the skill to coax their music of choice from those strings.
Equilibrium. The frail fulcrum supporting Creation. It was a common misconception, ludicrous as it was, that equilibrium necessitated homeostasis. Not so – the opposite, in fact. The essence of Creation was change, in a carefully controlled succession of destruction and recreation. Like little whirlpools in the river of time, countless small cycles repeated that carried Creation onwards: spring followed winter, day followed night, death followed birth. Unbroken cycles of constant change, each a part of the complex equilibrium that kept the world afloat. For each and every thing, a counterpart to balance on the opposite side of the scales.
For life, there must be death.
For light, there must be darkness.
For Devil, there must be…
He closed his eyes, called upon his powers to stretch his consciousness past the borders of materia and ether, and reached for the fulcrum. The centre of Creation.
What lies at the centre of Creation itself…? Why, the cradle of eternity, hovering above the dome of the sky, where all that is and will be has become the seeding soil of dreams and memories unborn. Like the nave in a revolving wheel, the centre of Creation is still. The flow of time is different there: a difference so unfathomably great that it had, long ago, resulted in the nave being so out of phase with the rest that it had become a separate dimension.
It filled him with a rather disoriented feeling, going there. It was the future, he knew that with every particle of his essence: and yet it was the past. And simultaneously, it was further teasing his perception by feeling as though this place were not so much in the river of time as sitting on the banks beside it, fishing. It was a place where the basis for his powers was dislocated, unrecognisable – it was, he assumed, the closest that he with his regenerative abilities would come to the sensation of missing a limb.
He didn't go to the exact centre – the thought had its appeal, certainly, but that fragrant garden hid behind a most unpleasant guardian with an even more unpleasant sword. Immortality in all its glory; he was not about to test its limits against a blade of smokeless fire.
…but devils will be devils.
"Greetings, my good sir~" He presented the guard his most sincere bow; offering his bared neck in doing so. "I assume I am expected?"
His smile met with… why, nothing, really. The tall guard didn't move a muscle; didn't even deign him a glance.
"What a way to greet a visitor." He heaved an animated sigh before measuring the sentry – Uriel, was it? – head to toe with his eyes. Guards were suitably picked to look imposing, and this one in particular was the archetype – quite literally – of all guards. Huge. Rigid. Grave.
He knew how to deal with that kind.
"Your predecessor was more of the conversational type", he struck up in glib, chatty tone. "Never did meet him in person, but, you know – word goes around. He didn't seem to consider demons all that bad", he smiled amiably, making sure that it was wide enough for his fangs to show. "Ever thought of installing a door bell? Or a knocker, at least – I know you're not too keen on modern stuff. Just thinking, since we seem to have encountered some difficulty in communication and I really do need to get in touch with your boss. The sooner the better – I'm a busy man, you know?" Oh, was that a twitch of annoyance in his left eye~? "The name is Samael – you may have heard of me?" he continued cordially, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat.
"We are aware who you are."
Unmistakable voice, unmistakable-
"A suit… over a hoodie… and it's brown…" It is no secret that fashion was invented in Hell, but was that really reason enough for angels to show such utter disregard for it? "Often heard, seldom seen – a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Metatron." Just focus on his face, nothing else – good lord, and he was meant to represent God before mankind dressed like that? "I admire your zeal, I do: relating over and over a message that each time fails to leave a lasting impression on human perception must require patience beyond belief. That said", he smiled politely at the dark-haired newcomer on the other side of the gates, "I would like a word with the Lord in person, if you would be so kind and tell her holiness I'm here?"
"The Lord is too busy with Creation to grant an audience", answered Metatron in his deep, resonant voice; the kind of voice that didn't need him to spell out to a demon for it to echo in the tight-lipped silence that followed.
"Too busy to grant an audience, but never too busy to see an old friend", he ensured congenially. "Be a dear and ask her, will you? Time is no problem for either of us, I'm sure."
The dark-haired angel seemed about to reply that he was no "dear" to the likes of him, but was cut short when the gold gates of Eden swung inwards and very nearly knocked him down.
"Samael!"
Ah, the true voice: like sunbeams riding on a warm breeze, washing over his face. All light seemed to billow for an instant, heaving itself up in rejoice like a mellifluous flower bursting into bloom with all the fragrances of Paradise.
…verdammte Allergien. Discreetly, he produced a handkerchief from his sleeve and muted a sneeze in it. Meanwhile, Uriel responded by falling down on one knee, flaming sword-tip in the soil and hands clasped around the hilt. Bowing his head in reverence, like a good dog, the gate guard murmured the Name of the Ancient One as she strode out through the gates.
"Your presence honours me, your holiness." Handkerchief magically gone, he removed his hat with a flourish and bowed, scraping his right boot as in days of yore.
"Yes, yes, never mind that: look what I've made!"
Several rather well known literary works have made an effort to depict God as a being of great majesty; an omnipotent and omniscient entity that should be approached with a suitable amount of awe.
The authors of these books have never met God, nor have they had her stick her latest clay sculpture quite literally in their faces.
"Charming, your holiness." He reared himself back up, looming high over the beaming happy woman who sported mud stains on her face and overalls, and dark, braided hair that refused to stay braided. Indeed, the authors of humanity's great scriptures have never met God. "Another splicing experiment, like the mantis prawn?"
"No, I'm done with splicing: I was just thinking of the introduced species problem in New Zealand. The kiwi isn't equipped for land predators – but! If it evolves like this, with feathers forming into spines like the echidnas', it would have all the protection it needs! No, wait: there's more~ It could go like this, too. Here, hold this for a moment", Uriel almost dropped his sword as he juggled to free one hand and hold the clay bird without compromising the delicate quills, "and look: the feathers are already two-branched, so if they evolve to fuse and thicken, they could use the same solution as the pangolin! Isn't that just wonderful?" she chirped, holding forth a clay design reminiscent of a gigantic spruce cone with beak and legs.
Ah, yes: there is a reason it was decided that Metatron would handle communication with mankind.
"Most wonderful, your holiness", he agreed. "Your ingenuity in these matters never fails to astound me – speaking of which, I came to inquire about a certain specimen in its current position in time."
"The Mongolian death worm? It does exist, you know." God pointed the spruce cone kiwi at him, with her other muddy hand resting affirmatively on her hip. "It just won't be discovered until mankind finds a way to mimic electrolocation in sand – but when they do find it, it will be a huge leap forward in medical technology, since its bile has properties that can trigger new formation of neurons in the mammalian brain."
"My Lord", Metatron calmly spoke up, in an attempt to do his job, "Samael came to demand an audience."
"Demand? Such forceful phrasing: the King of Time is but a loyal servant, your holiness." He bowed anew, right hand over his heart. "'Tis courteous, in so great a lord, to speak so kindly with a devil – and speak I wish, if your holiness does not mind? Can I offer you some tea?"
A table for two materialised as his mind imagined it: and in the same manner, the clay-stained overalls of her holiness were replaced with perceptions more pleasant to the eye.
It's a special place, the dimension where time has been suspended in the future since the dawn of Creation. It's a place where whispers of Names forgotten still linger, like motes of dust saturating air, earth, water, and every being living therein. It's a place where Creation is still malleable, to those who speak its mother tongue.
"Loyalty may not be one of your hallmarks, Samael, but let it never be said that you aren't a gentleman", she tittered. "I can take a tea break. Fufufu and I see what your mind has been busy with." Familiar amusement tinged her voice as she examined the satin evening gloves his mind had clad her in, and the halter neck dress that framed her curves in flattering red.
Indeed, the kind of woman he would be very 'busy' with, had she had physical form: the kind of woman apparently neither Metatron nor Uriel could even look at. Really, angels – too prudish to appreciate the splendor of their Lord.
"My mind was busy, of a fashion. And while on the subject, it seems to me your holiness has been spying on my dealings with a certain young exorcist student?" he inquired pleasantly, pulling the chair out for her and willing into existence cups, saucers, doilies, and a charming little floral-patterned English teapot. Some biscuits, too, of course, and fresh, warm scones with cream cheese and five kinds of jam.
"Spying is what you do, dear: I observe." She sent a smile past her shoulder as she seated herself. "It's great entertainment, though, that odd connection of yours; I think I enjoy your bantering nearly as much as you do. Or did."
It never changed, that smile, despite what form his mind or hers wove around it.
God has no shape, of course. God is the ethereal eidolon of hope in every human heart: 'twas factual long before Nietzsche spoke it, that Truth takes on a different shape in every pair of eyes.
"By past tense, I assume you are implying that he won't want to banter with me after our last chat?" he inquired effortlessly, seating himself across from her. Rococo chairs – furniture simply wasn't made that way anymore. Made with the love and skill accumulated by generations of carpenters, and stylish to boot.
"You were very cruel to him", she observed, calmly cutting scones for both of them.
"Carrot and stick to break the stallion, your holiness. Or should I say 'break the lion'?" he led on casually as he draped one leg over the other, tugging his gloves off to make his scone.
"Hmm, and here I thought it was Satan's second youngest who enjoyed breaking his toys?"
"'Breaking' allows for a wide range of interpretation, your holiness." Hmm, strawberry jam, or cloudberry…? "Not to worry, I won't break him beyond repair: I'm aware it's precious goods I'm handling. He has unique potential, that young man; uncharted, but unique. For that reason I aim to add him to my stable, before the same idea puts down roots in someone else's mind." She would pick up on the hint, he was sure. After all, they had been exchanging jibes and blows for a very, very long time.
"Oh my, who would dare to compete with the King of Time …?"
Yes, she knew – and it delighted her that he knew as well. Yet another thing the Vatican would never see the humour in: god and devil think alike, although they use their wits for different ends.
"A white lion", he said with feathery pleasantness, coming clear with his intentions. "And a descendant of the exiles." A quick glance, to see her knowing smile mirror his own, as he laid the knife to the side and reached for the cream cheese. "Not very subtle, your holiness."
"Talking big, are we?" She winked, taking a bite out of her strawberry jam scone. "It must have been subtle enough if it took you over a year to grow suspicious, Samael", she spoke through the food, eliciting a reflexive impulse in him to admonish her for poor table manners.
Truly – six younger brothers and all that does to you…
"For the longest time I held Lady Chance accountable, but the coincidence was simply too striking not to have been engineered; likely by someone with a penchant for symbolism."
"Symbols are the language of eternity", she said serenely. As if it had always been there, a tiny jar of minced onion had joined the set of jam bowls. "Mmh, I would love to taste this for real some day…" she munched out with a blissful sigh. "Y'know, when humans first started taming the elements, I could never have guessed how well they would make use of them. Cooking is just an amazing thing."
God is an artist, and one who enjoys experimenting. Strawberry jam and onion on scones was one of the less spectacular ventures into the possibilities Assiah offered; the Great Flood was one of the more… drastic. To be fair, it had been that or total erasure, and he was not one to complain about her choice in that matter.
…fine, he had complained. A lot. That had been the first time he heard God laugh, now that he thought back on it: and learnt the other reason Metatron was charged with speaking on behalf of God. The event had left him partially deaf for a decade to follow – but she had, on the other hand, never thrown another cataclysm. Nor was she likely to do so. Like his father, God was deeply enamoured with Assiah; like his father, she was incapable of interacting with it directly.
Of course, for a divine being of infinite power, such restrictions were minor details. If even that. Satan had found ways to carry out his will in Assiah, through slaves that could possess matter without complications: and God…
"The language of eternity comes part and parcel with eternal interpretations, your holiness", he stated whilst wiping off the jam knife on the edge of his own scone. "And though my reading skills are first-rate, I fail to see what need there would be for someone like him in this time and place."
Ah, plum jam. The English may lack every trait of civilization in regards to cuisine, but their afternoon tea was… a piece of art. Even Japan, with all her lovely customs, couldn't quite match the ambience of floral-patterned bone china, and biscuits stacked high on those adorable tiered cake stands.
"Ineffable plans, you know?" God smiled and licked jam from her finger. "Although I wouldn't say there was one at all for him. He is… another wild card", she said with an emphasis that indicated he ought to understand the joke. He didn't, but that was no reason to put his bemusement on display. "His mother prayed every day of her pregnancy for that child to live, so…" She ate the last bite, and dusted crumbs off her hands. "I let him live. I'm sure he will prove to be important somehow."
"I'm sure he will." There were plans. Ineffable – perhaps even embryonic – but he had discerned strings attached to Shiro that weren't his. And certainly not his father's. And God…
God enjoyed experimenting.
"Are you going to tell me to keep my hands off your game piece, your holiness?" he asked politely, carefully avoiding getting crumbs in his beard when he dined.
"I will tell you neither: you have your plots and schemes, I have mine~" Oh, there were plans. And she took great delight in not sharing them. "Fujimoto Shiro isn't subject to monopoly of any kind, so go ahead and play. The question is", she teased, index finger raised to poke the question in mid-air, "will your devious machinations now include me~?"
"Such words, your holiness: how could a mere demon ever connive to play Thee?"
"A mere demon wouldn't even speak to me, let alone picture me in this form." She leaned forward, slowly, and slipped the pink handkerchief out of his chest pocket with an impish smile. "And yet you claim that's all you are, Samael. Tsk tsk~"
There was absolutely no need for her to wipe her lips with his handkerchief in that manner, except to make him regret that he chose to imagine her in that damnably attractive dress.
"I think that form rather suits your deportment towards a demon of my standing, your holiness", he returned pleasantly.
"Fufufufu always my favourite scamp among spirits…!" she tittered; and there was something about God tittering that never failed to pull his own lips into a smile. Hmm, yes, and Metatron quietly talking sense into a frothing Uriel made quite a nice addition to the picture, too. "A waggish knave, wasn't that what I called you? Still applies", she smiled. "But, as for the young lion in question…" The look she sported was one that ecclesiastics worldwide would be greatly surprised to find on their Lord's face. Indeed, god and devil think alike. "What do you say we bet on whose game piece he will be, as we did before?"
A bet…?
A bait, more like.
"Your holiness' charming mien betrays a hint of mockery, I believe…? Just so that it's said; there is nothing to bet on if the outcome is already known."
"Known?" she laughed; not loud, no, but enough to make the china clatter as though an earthquake had reached them all the way from the physical realm. "Oh you! We're both apt at making maps and paving paths, but the only thing we know is that time and ineffable plans are no match for the capriciousness of a human heart. I was merely wondering", she smiled, adding some freshly created pickled herring to her cloudberry jam scone, "if you were willing to take the risk and gamble with me again?"
"Risk? Your holiness, I shouldn't need remind you: our last bet I won fair and square", he pointed out, dabbing crumbs from his lips with a white linen napkin.
"And yet I wonder if you didn't lose more than you won?" she said with a gleam in her eye, as if once again pulling a joke that passed him completely by; now, however, she was aware that he didn't follow.
"Lose?" he snorted. Losing was not a habit of his, and he had most certainly not lost that bet. "My victory was complete: my prize a soul expertly seasoned, and a body to call my own."
…and the statement only made her lips stretch in the manner Shiro had so accurately termed "smugging" someone.
"How is your research into artificial life creation going~?"
God was an omniscient being, yes. Were he to name any flaw in her, it would be precisely that.
"With all due respect to our discrepancies: is it really prim and proper for your holiness to take such delight in others' failures?"
"Failure? Dear Samael, I regard that as your greatest achievement yet! It's rare, for a mere demon, to make such… efforts… for a human being~"
…her omniscience, and her infuriating way of using him to practice marksmanship with the knowledge it granted.
"Do refrain from such insinuations, your holiness; they spoil my appetite. 'tis only natural, to wish to keep one's favourite toys in play a while longer."
"M-hm: if you say so, Sammy~" Who ever said that God is just? God is a gloating elder sibling – with terrible table manners and no sense of proper dress – who yanks one's tail because she can. "I shouldn't need remind you", she echoed his words with a detestable smile, "time brings change, even to you." She bopped his nose lovingly, as if he were but a little child that had yet to grow his horns. "Especially to you. If I bet that you can't corrupt Fujimoto Shiro's soul: will you bet against me~?"
The irony. The humiliation. The masterful, infuriating humiliation…!
"So, I baited him, and he was the bait I swallowed without even thinking." Disgraceful – to be so utterly played for a fool…! "What's your plan, then?" he growled inwardly, trying to read the pleased poker face before him. "What would be your gain if I sought to further snare Fujimoto Shiro?" Tch, no use. With all of Creation for game board, it's a fool's pastime to guess what the purpose of one pawn is.
Of course, he let none of his irritation show. He was no uncouth lout who let impulse obstruct reason. He was a prince, a king, and a master schemer: no God or Devil would ever play him if he could have a say in the matter.
"It pains me to say it, but I am far too busy with my own plots and schemes to add another game to my agenda", he excused with impeccable courtesy. "Even ones as pleasant as those we share from time to time, your holiness."
"Always 'busy', hm~?"
"Always", he returned with a flirtatious smirk as he rose from his seat.
"It's been a pleasure speaking with you, Samael", she smiled, offering him the handkerchief back.
He accepted the pink cloth, and her fingers with it – and touched his lips gently to the back of her hand.
"Pleasuring your holiness in every way I can~"
"Fufufufu you'd better leave now, or Uriel will have your head on the highest spike of the Pearly Gates."
So, that's how it was…
He opened his eyes, finding that his body wore the same grin he'd worn when his astral form bade Uriel and Metatron farewell. It lasted a regrettably short time, however. Knowledge is a useful tool… but can shift hands all too suddenly.
"I can almost hear you laughing, you know", he told the pawn reproachfully. "You'd say it serves me right, no? That I deserve to know what it's like to be a pawn in another's game?"
The silence only served to make it easier for his mind to fill in what Shiro would have retorted. The little hotspur…
"Snrrkukukuku… Indeed, who are we to poke fun of mortals and their desires, hm~?" He nudged the pawn with a claw, gently, so as not to move it out of position. "We, who are so shamelessly addicted to the virtues and vices at play in your hearts?" Seeing as the pawn didn't interrupt, he continued in conversational tone: "Eternity is dreadfully boring, you know – 'tis no wonder we resort to bets and games to pass the time. Immortals have always found it nigh impossible not to tamper with the flick'ring candle flames of human life."
Oh, but even those games needed some extra spice from time to time~ Without taking his eyes from the chessboard, he snapped his fingers and summoned a shogi tile to his assistance.
"But it's when immortal plays immortal that truly wondrous games unfold; games that shift earth and sky and paradigm."
With a decisive click, he placed the tile marked with ōshō on the chessboard, flanking the deviant black pawn. New set-up, new rules; oh, what a session this would be~
"You may find there's more vicious players than I in this three-man game of chess, Shiro: ones famed for bold moves and sacrificed pawns. You might even prefer to be played by me, once Knowledge has informed you of the layout…?"
Smooth and cool, the board surface clung to the heat as he dragged his naked fingertips across it; and turned his back to it, striding slowly towards the high windows and the greedy city lights that ate the stars. The pulse of life beat slowly in the air, the pulse of all the billions of humans living under that sky: clueless, creative little pawns to those who possessed Knowledge of the grand games that took place on Assiah's soil…
"Who are you calling cruel, your holiness?" he murmured, seeing the dim, green glow of his eyes swim amongst the lights on the other side of the glass. "Who was it that speared his soul on a hook and dragged it through Acheron's waters, so I could be reeled into your plans?"
He could feel it, like myriads of ants crawling over his skin: paths of the future changing, branching, replacing old possibilities with new and strewing his chosen lane with minefields of uncertainty.
"A pawn we both use that neither monopolises, you say...?" His eyes fell on the panorama at his feet, at the chess board and its thousands of pawns. Most of them he would never utilise. Some he would. Some were weapons, some were decoys, some were keys to other pawns. His focus shifted then; the view through the window faded, allowing his reflection to come into view once more. "A wild card..."
Schemes with no margin for error are worthless. The future is flexible, with all the intricate patterns of interference that determine its course: obstacles and possibilities spawn incessantly, and are consumed just as quick by the eternal continuum of Change.
Schemes had to be flexible. Like water shaping its course over stick and stone, they had to change and evolve with circumstance: and so, his plans were never so rigid that a twist of fate could not be absorbed without breaking them. Never so narrowly cut that he could not enjoy a sojourn from Chance and Serendipity – twin mistresses whose courtship he very much appreciated. After all, it was the element of unpredictability that made playing this game so interesting. So fun.
So challenging.
He broke into laughter, then: roiling, cackling laughter, while the city lights below – his city, his starlit stage! – bathed his thin form in eerie shadows.
"'Collateral damage', hm~?" he grinned, eyes agleam with a lunatic's excitement. "I wonder what kind of collateral damage will be left in the wake of this ineffable game? What battles will be won, what sacrifices made; how high the tally of loss must reach, to let the victor scale the pile of corpses to the sky? Will you hear their wailing then, your holiness? The pitiful chorale of mortals wondering what higher purpose their misery is funding, and if the recompense is truly worth the cost? Between divine and diabolic; who can tell the two apart, as motives differ while the methods are deceptively alike?"
Swam in the net and swallowed the bait - and couldn't wait, couldn't wait to see what lay around the next road-bend! Who would lead and who would follow, in this twisted tango whirling on the precipice of Perdition? Black and white and turncoat grey, all drawn like moths to flame by this flickering Possibility to shape the course of history – oh, this game just got wahnsinnig gut!
"And you wish me to drag a poor human into this pandemonium of clashing chords and twisted strings? Well well…" His arms spread outward as he spoke - a slow, graceful unfolding of a fleur du mal - and he grinned, eyes gleaming, as he addressed the starry dome outside the glass. "Thy Will be done~"
A/N: You might notice that I'm mixing elements from Goethe's Faust with the outcome of the traditional folk tale… and maybe you could just let that slide in favour of a good story…? x')
Just so that I don't go spreading misinformation, I'm gonna point out that I'm tweaking things a bit. There's a difference in pronunciation of shiro (white) and Shirō (usually transcribed Shirou). So the two aren't homophonous, and this is to be regarded as more of a pun thing – say, if you pronounced Shiro's name a bit sloppily, you'd get "white". (Like "Harry" and "hairy": a pun that is the basis for a well-known Swedish abridged series of Harry Potter.) Kato probably intended something to that effect, since she based the dynamic between Shura and Shiro on a kabuki play called Renjishi, in which a white lion parent teaches a red lion cub about life in a very hands-on manner (i.e. throws it from a cliff and tells it to use its own strength to climb up again).
That I'm writing his name as plain "Shiro" is because… it looks better. Typographically. I mean, look at the balance. Odd number of letters always looks better. Catchier. Especially disyllabic names with one closed syllable coupled with one open syllable. It's a perfect inclination in letter height, too: it forms a much more natural, balanced entity for the eye to rest on than "Shirou".
(Yep, I'm aware that I sound ridiculous when I start this kind of monologue, but it doesn't make it any less true that I pay insane attention to this kind of stuff. x'D)
In case you were wondering what will happen to my plot, now that Lucifer has made his entrance as Satan's Son No. 1, suffice to say that I have a solution for it. Like Mephisto, I try to keep my plotting flexible and resilient should Lady Chance conduct some unexpected somersault. =)
Glossary and other stuff!
Opening night is the premiere performance.
Pathos stems from Greek, meaning suffering or experience. Not suffering per se, but the rhetorical art of invoking emotion (the spectrum of grief in particular, but not necessarily) in one's audience to bias it towards making a certain judgement: a judgement not based on reason, but on emotion.
Logos is, again, Greek, and means many things: speech is the rhetorical meaning. It's the power of the word itself, and its capacity to convey a message to listeners.
Ad lib is short for ad libitum, meaning at liberty. In music, this means you have the liberty to improvise – in a fashion complying with fundamental aspects of the music such as prescribed chords – the melody or tempo in which you play. It's about the same meaning in theatre.
Fugue is another musical word. It's the term for a composition that uses several individual melodies (or the same melody at different pitches) that interweave to form a harmony. I really like the theory of creating intertwining layers and weaving them into something bigger, so I tend to mimic that (or try to) when I write.
Niccólo Paganini was an Italian virtuoso violinist, rumoured to have attained his skill through a pact with the Devil. He's said to have had extremely long fingers, which would explain why he could do things on a violin that few others could (or can).
Uriel is the guardian of the gates of Eden. He's also known to be as fierce and unforgiving as any demon, so… no climbing that fence if you want to keep your head.
Aziraphale is the name of the first holder of the flaming sword, according to the gentlemen Gaiman and Pratchett. Good Omens is simply awesome, so do read it if you haven't already. =)
Metatron is the Voice of God. This particular version of him, with hoodie and suit, is from the lovely film Dogma, where he's played (of course) by the Voice himself: Alan Rickman.
ōshō is the shogi tile denoting the king.
Acheron is one of the five rivers of the Underworld in Greek mythology: more precisely, it is the river of pain. In the Inferno part of Divina Comedia, Acheron constitutes the border to Hell.
Wahnsinnig gut - insanely good. (German)
Fleur du mal - flower of evil. (French, from Baudelaire's collection of poems titled Les Fleurs du Mal.)
I wouldn't say I'm a fan of Megadeth, but when writing my brain burped up Symphony of Destruction as the obvious natural choice when Mephisto was reviewing his work, and my subconscious tends to have better ideas than my waking mind anyway. =w='
Just like the Pied Piper
Led rats through the streets
We dance like marionettes,
Swaying to the Symphony...
Of Destruction