A/N:
Refs to ch: 73, 91, 122
I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.
"So~ about your very important homework assignment…?"
"Jacopo", he replied curtly over the red cover of the catechism in his hands.
Shiro had made a habit of arriving at the tower room before Samael did. It gave a sense of control to be there first, to claim it as his before the demon could. Subtle things like that hadn't mattered before – he hadn't even noticed such things before. Cynicism is funny that way. Makes you start seeing details. Makes you read the fine print of how people act – makes you read people. There's little things that betray unease and doubt, or reveal confidence behind a mask of hesitation. Little things that say a lot, if your eye is sharp and your reading skills good.
Cynicism, or just learning from a very talented teacher?
Samael sat in his chair as if it were a throne, idly confident that everything in its vicinity was his to lord over: as he always sat. He had waited, head cocked to the side and fingers steepled in his lap, for an elaboration beyond a mere name – had expected that elaboration. Shiro knew, but that didn't mean he would comply. Not unless explicitly asked.
"Jacob." There was no special intonation as Samael spoke it, no fine print to interpret. "Why?"
"It exists in Italian, and I can say it", he responded. No longer reading, but neither did he look up from his catechism.
People should be able to understand when he introduced himself, and not butcher his name when they used it: those were the two simple, functional criteria that needed to be met. If they were, all was good.
"Your degree of pragmatism is simply stunning." And functional was not a word Samael would ever be associated with. "Have you paid any attention at all to the etymology and phonetics of the name you intend for yourself? The name you will be called by every single day in Rome?"
Oh, Shiro paid attention. The attention a hawk pays to the movements of the field mouse. Samael had shaped him that way, hammered and embossed him with words and schemes until he had become as shrewd as the demon was, and as the holy scriptures say: a man reaps what he sows. So when Shiro closed the book and retorted, he made sure to huff irritably as he did.
"It's just a charade: you know that as well as I do."
"Indeed: and in order to convince, a charade must be played with full devotion. At least try to put some muscle into it, Shiro: you don't look like a Jacob", he whined, his gestures impatient. Like a kid that didn't get the sweets he wanted.
"What do I look like, then?" he said testily, following the social dance they had initiated.
There was no swift, witty reply to that. Nor was there any cheeky smirk or mischievous glint of absinthe green. No, Samael just… looked at him.
Midori had done that, once – looked at him as if reading the story of his life woven into is skin. Keratin runes. Organic tapestry. Only, this time was different. Samael could see it, he was sure: time. See how it flowed and bent around his limbs, engraved his skin with the crinkled calligraphy of life and dug out a designated path before his feet.
Vertigo. It's like vertigo, to be scrutinised like that. To be stripped of every thread of flesh, unwound down to the last particle that sheltered his heart and mind, and left naked to the touch of that green scalpel gaze. A gaze that dissected to determine the cause of death before it occurred. Soft, hypnotising: gentle, like a blind man reading facial features through his fingertips. It touched his desires, his wishes; tasted his fears and sampled his secrets. Intimate. Dangerous. The kind of soil addiction thrives in.
moth unto flame
And in the back of Shiro's mind, a suspicion that refused to die. A maggot carving the thought over and over into the walls of his skull: that the moth was slave to its own nature. That it wasn't fallacy of reason that drew it towards death, but reason bested by instinct. Instinct that wasn't his. Touch that wasn't physical. Touch of something alien and powerful that reached out to feel, taste, kindle the fires of destruction…
"Holy father, if you exist at all: don't let him notice."
…straight through his mental shields.
Names are powerful things. Most had far more elaborate stories behind their names than Shiro did, with kanji carefully arranged according to seimei handan and other superstitious practices. Names could bring good fortune or bad, tradition had it. Could decide one's personality and destiny. Even demons, it seemed, considered names important.
And some more than others.
Shiro returned the scrutiny. Silently. An apprentice imitating the master. Know your enemy. Know his weapons. Adapt. That was what he would have to do to best that conniving bastard. Fine clothes, beard impeccably trimmed, gloves custom fitted like second skin – every aspect of Samael's appearance was meticulously groomed, like the anglerfish evolved to lure its prey close. An archetype devil straight out of the books, charming and smooth-tongued, and rotten to the core. A model son for the god of demons.
So why the cursed name? When names were of such importance in the demon world, why would Satan pick something like that for his firstborn so-
"Alexander."
Shiro hadn't heard the silence above the noise of his thoughts, but when Samael finally spoke his mind stilled. There was no doubt that Samael had once been Hermes, the god of eloquence. Wreaths of honeyed poetry flowed from his mouth when he so wished: and when he so wished, a single word could leave his lips and carry stories lifetimes long.
"Alexander." Shiro tasted the name, trying to recapture the flavour it had had when Samael spoke it. Against his own wishes, it did feel… right. "Of course it does. He took a good look before he made up his mind." Focus. Play the game. "Is there an Italian version?"
"That would be Alessandro."
"Alessandu… Alessandro." The name settled on his tongue, and Shiro shifted imperceptibly in his chair. Let's see, then, if he could play this game and win… "Why's that better than Jacopo?" he asked with defensive curtness.
In the opposite chair Samael blinked, as if he couldn't understand why that wasn't obvious.
"Alexander suits you: Jacob does not."
"Is that because you couldn't defeat him?"
Some smiles are daggers; some questions are, too.
Shiro's response had been just a tad too sharp, just a tad too quick. Around them the tower room fell quiet, missed a beat as its Renaissance interior stiffened at the breach of conversational form. He had overstepped the lines, yes. He had initiated an offensive move, and the game was on.
"My my, someone has been studying most industriously for his adoption amongst the Lord's children. Going beyond the required literature, even~" Pleased. Pleased to see that his apprentice was picking up on lessons other than Italian.
Sometimes, daggers miss.
"Alexander suits you, because it's a name standing high on the shoulders of history." Samael's voice was soft with satisfaction, like a cat curling its tail around itself to nap. "Kings, popes, conquerors – Alexander is the name of men who possess power both spiritual and martial: men who rise above their peers as leaders and defenders of mankind."
"That's an impressive load of bullshit, even for you." Play it cool. Don't listen to a demon's words. "When Jacob had sent away his people, an angel wrestled all night with him, to no avail: and when dawn came, the angel begged him to be released", he said matter-of-factly.
Oh yes, there was a barely visible twitch in Samael's hair curl: beg was another word he would never want to associate with. The embers of victory flared in Shiro's chest for a moment, but he subdued them. He hadn't won this game yet, and believing even for a moment that he had could spell failure.
"Angels didn't really have any reason to suddenly pick a fight with a shepherd, or wish to flee before dawn", he continued, then paused. Time to see what measure of truth legends were fashioned from. "But Jacob was on bad terms with his brother, and that brother had a guardian angel: named Samael."
"Hardly damning evidence."
The demon didn't even blink. Kept the middle ground between disappointment and biding one's time to see if there was more to come. Well. There was.
"Jacob asked the angel to speak its name, and the angel led the conversation off without answering. Kinda strange behaviour, for a messenger from god." Keep it casual. Don't let him suspect where this was going. "Kinda like you, when I asked if you didn't like the name Jacob because of that story."
"Ihihihahaaa you're wonderful, Shiro! Absolutely wonderful!" He tossed his head back and clapped, cheering him on. The sharp sound echoed awkwardly alone against the tower walls, out of synch with the hearty guffaws. Samael didn't mind. Didn't mind at all, because his toy had tried a new, amusing trick.
Good. Focus on the dagger and you might not notice the arrow aimed at your back. Shiro sat through it, unmoving, assessing the progress of the game carefully. After all, it's not what you say, but how you say it.
"A fearsome exorcist will grow out of you, no doubt about it~" Samael wore the look of one who had been promised a very pleasant Christmas gift and could hardly wait to rip it open. "You'd do well to watch that lovely mouth of yours around Father Igarashi, little lion. Weaving words like a demon is hardly a sign of having been touched by the Holy Spirit; neither is thirsting for revenge."
Thirsting – good word. Good word for the gush of heated replies that sizzled in Shiro's throat.
"But~ diligence should not go unrewarded", he continued, making a show of his magnanimous state of mind. "It's true as you say, that I held my hand over Esau, and wrestled with his brother Jacob to test his resolve. I posed as god for the Greeks and prophet for the Muslims." He flashed his smuggest, toothy grin: the kind of grin you wear, when you've successfully played mankind for fools across three religions. "Why wouldn't I pose as angel for Christians?"
It made perfect sense, of course: the very reason all exorcists were taught never to listen to a demon's words. Lies that sound like truth twist your head, so don't listen. That's the simple way.
Shiro knew demons better than that. Shielding yourself from their words is one thing, redirecting the attack is another. Demons used humanity's weaknesses against them: why not employ the same tactics? Let their prized silver tongues whisper. Then make them choke on them.
Never listen to a demon's words: and listen closely for the words it avoids to speak.
"That would be most appropriate for someone named Poison of God." Casual, flippant: the apprentice imitating the master. "No wonder other demons consider you cursed, your highness."
Yes.
The tower shivered, stiffened, held its breath. Ripples on the surface, a small, small quake in the demon's control; cracks in the flawless façade.
Yes.
"Diligent, but rash." Yes. The Samael behind the whimsical, eccentric persona Mephisto Pheles. "Mark well that Knowledge is useless when incomplete - detrimental, even, if employed in that state."
So soft, that voice; so smooth you'd almost think his tongue was really made of silver. It was a voice that trailed goose bumps over Shiro's skin, slithered slowly up his spine, tingled every quivering nerve end on its way to tenderly crush the breath out of his throat.
"I am the Poison of God; that is true. However, I am also the Potion of God." Shiro blinked. Po...tion…? "Life saver, death dealer: mine is a double-edged name, cursed by men and demons since ancient times for its treacherous design. For while a Serpent's venom can bestow salvation", he smiled, a lazy but lethal fire flickering in the green eyes, "it can also mean fatality."
That smile. A smooth crescent of a reaper's blade, standing by to cut: and when Samael vanished from the chair, Shiro had to employ all composure he had not to flinch. His breath caught in his throat, hid there to escape whatever retailation Samael had in mind.
"As you are well aware, with your tutoring for Doctor", silken breath touched his ear, tugged his hairs on end; "the sole difference between potion and poison is Knowledge of how the substance works."
Still. A moth camouflaged against tree bark. Sit very still, or that smooth voice would become an edge that traced crimson kisses over his throat. Swift. Soft. Intimately lethal.
No more words came. No other presence accompanied his own. Samael was gone, and the tower room slowly resumed breathing, slowly nudged its rattled bricks and windowpanes back in place.
"Flashy bastard…" he muttered, rising and stretching to get his own tense body back in order. For all that idiotic drama, he really could make one's skin crawl when he wanted to. Or when Shiro wanted to.
There were still choices. Small, insignificant ones, but hell: even bound dogs can bite.
Samael enjoyed defiance, Shiro knew that. Enjoyed the challenge and enjoyed the satisfaction of grinding his opponent's face into the dirt beneath his boot. It was a childish mind-set, one where every rule could be bent in order to win. A mind-set where defeat equalled insult, and sealed his opponent's fate with the crest of utter destruction.
There was a high probability that Samael enjoyed dogs that bit, for the prospect of taming them.
Screw what he enjoyed. Shiro was not tame, was not his pet, and would use whatever means he had to show he wasn't going to cooperate beyond the minimum the contract required. The moment he stopped being defiant… then Samael would have won. And he would be nothing but a dog that obediently wore its collar.
Poison and potion?
"Always answering a question by creating new ones."
Shiro put a cigarette to his lips. Flicked the lighter a couple times. Drew a hot, tangy breath, soothing lungs that trembled with delighted aftershocks from his stunt. The smoke meandered upwards, slowly, vanishing beneath the painted stars. Bellum Fatum Vita Mori, death and life, war and fate, plastered all the way around the tower room like a warding circle. Death dealer…
…life saver?
Tch, Samael was right. His knowledge about the name had been nowhere near complete. He could've made better use of it if he'd known more, rather than this blind stab…
Potion and poison?
"And knowledge is the only way of telling which is which. 'S that an invitation to keep digging, Sammy…?" he asked the empty room.
No need for an answer: curiosity always kills the cat. A lion is just a bigger cat - harder to kill. Turning each and every aspect of human nature against humanity, that was the expertise of demons. And in order to turn that nature against them:
"Pfft, Knowledge…" he snorted through a crooked smile, tapped ashes off on the table and drew another stabilising breath of smoke. "That's serpent venom too, isn't it? Right dosage and you live, wrong and you die. Just like that old tale of…"
The smoke trail swept away in the wake of his silent chuckles. It was a funny association – although, as he rolled the cigarette absentmindedly between his fingers, that unpleasant feeling of premonition crept up his spine. That feeling of big, dark shadows – old shadows – moving beneath the surface of still waters.
"…Adam and Eve." The trail of smoke danced to his breath; writhed like a certain reptile famed for its smooth speech. "Serpent venom and silver tongue. And humans that don't have the Knowledge to realise their mistake before it's too late." He sucked a breath on the cigarette; fed nicotine and tar to the healthier of his addictions. "There's a measure of truth in legends alright."
A/N:
Seimei handan – the practice of telling fortune based on a person's full name and the number of strokes it contains.
I don't know if it's something Kato missed during her research on Catholicism, or if she just didn't mention it, but for Shiro to become a Catholic priest he must first, obviously, convert to Catholicism. (Alternatively have been born into it, but I doubt that: only an approximate 0.5% of the Japanese population are Catholic.) Such a conversion includes baptism, where you must be baptised with a Christian name – so I suppose my Shiro now gets an unofficial middle name. ^_^
The "sama-" part of the Hebrew name Samael can be read as either poison or potion, which I think is an excellent way of summing up Mephisto's nature. Now, as some of you may already know, there's more than two ways of reading "sama": and don't worry. We'll get there. ;) I just wish to say that I love you, Kato, for picking Samael as Mephisto's true identity, with the schmexy cocktail of linguistic material that comes with that name. QwQ
Jacob wrestling with an angel is one of the more well-known Biblical stories (even I knew of it, heathen as I am), but what caught my eye when I read it through more carefully were the strange details of the angel's behaviour. "Let me go, for the day is breaking"? Is there any direct reason an angel would worry about daybreak? (If you know, please feel free to tell me, for to me it just looks peculiar.) And when Jacob entreats "Please tell me your name", the angel merely replies "Why is it that you ask my name?" and then blesses him and leaves. Now, if we look at this story from the perspective of AnE-verse, and the perspective of a certain someone who has a habit of not using his real name, I would very much suspect that angel wasn't really an angel…
"Demon, angel, acala… They're all just names humans decided to give us." – Ucchusma, Kyoto arc.
I doubt the fight itself was of physical nature; evidently, all the angel has to do to immobilize Jacob is lightly touch his hip and pop goes the caput femoris; and to be fair, I don't think any human would stand a chance against a demon/angel in a physical fight. (Why would an angel want to test somebody's physical strength anyway? God is only interested in spiritual strength.) I think it was a fight between minds, to test Jacob's "inner strength" – which apparently was more than Samael could handle. ;P