A/N
I understand you have missed this bastard? =P
I do not own or profit from any of what Kazue Kato has created.
Refs to ch: 2, 101, 133
You never tire of humans. That the same species that landed on the moon can fail to correctly staple a mission report is nothing short of fascinating; the diversity of mankind is nothing short of fascinating. Hardy like mahogany, frail like autumn leaves, and proud beyond words. Worms as they are they still think bigger, dream bolder, fancying themselves caterpillars that will one day transcend and gain wings.
Some delude themselves that they create stories. It is an easy mistake to make, in their defence. They move the pen, yes: they grind the ink and shape the words, but they do not create the story. They are merely gardeners, given a seed to plant and mulch and water – and prune.
A story is a living thing, growing and branching of its own accord. An author is only there to edit, to make the choices that steer the story towards a final form: which branches are explored, which ones are cut; what kind of flower will bloom, in the end, on those outmost twigs remaining…
Samael reaches for the bowl on his office desk, and a golden caramel slides pensively over his tongue – the wrapper he tosses aside, not bothering to look where the waste basket currently is. What flowers would bloom, indeed – and how many times would he have to prune that particular branch before new shoots stopped sprouting?
"You!" What an uncute way for a girl to speak – and to slam open his office doors. "Ya stinkin' mudcreepin' garbage ape!"
Honda Kasumi was a charming woman when she wasn't tearing through his office in a hurricane of profanity. Then again, it is amusing to see someone so tiny be so angry.
"Miss Honda! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"That would be yer own goddamn scheming, wouldn't it?!"
She slammed the objects in her hand onto his desk with jarring force – goodness, even on oak that might leave a mark. A rumpled letter, with Shiro's unmistakeable handwriting, and the key Samael had given her when it had been clear that Shiro wasn't going to cut those ties properly on his own.
Then there was Miss Honda herself, looming over the desk in a not too shabby attempt to set him on fire with her eyes. An unpleasant tingle in his teeth told him she was wearing, oh, more than one very potent anti-demon charm for the occasion. She might be carrying other weapons as well, holy water and blessed silver – objects easy to conceal and to use. Wary of an assault, perhaps? Or did she fancy herself exorcist enough to be the assailant? Well, either way~
"My, you seem tense. Caramel?"
The bowl flew several metres before it hit the floor, sending a clattering spray of Werther's Echte candies over his pot plant and floor lamp.
"Let him go." The snarl was etched in every feature of her petite form.
"Let who go?" He donned a face of mild confusion not so much to fool as to conduct a little experiment: would Miss Honda, a human, be as physical about her demands as Miss Sakura, a half-demon, had been?
"Don't play dumb with me! Ya sent him ta Rome ta do yer shady dirty work and fer all I know ta die doing yer shady dirty work! Now, ye can release 'im from that contract", on the desk, the knuckles on her balled fists had gone white, "or I can tell the Grigori their presumed pet demon has been stealin' souls through unsanctioned contracts."
Haah, this is what happens when humans let emotion obscure their thinking. They rush in with some half-baked plan, stumble in one of its holes, and fall flat on their noses.
"With all due respect for your guts, Miss Honda, I don't feel threatened in the slightest. A contract has two contrahents. To prove that a contract exists you would have to expose both: Shiro will then become unable to fulfil his part of the agreement, and by default his soul will be mine."
"Ye're not even denying it." It's not a question, not with that stiff look on her face.
"What would be the point? He left you a letter of explanation, did he not? And an appeal not to intervene." He smiles his most amicable smile. "Shiro went to great lengths to see you unharmed, Miss Honda. It would be ungrateful to let his efforts go to waste."
It's a beautiful display, that moment of disbelief before the meaning of his words sink in – stab, right to the core where dread nests in every human heart.
"…Ye're a monster." Her fear washes over him, a surge of nausea and frostbite that makes his senses shudder in delight. The girl is taut with fear – taut with rage, and a tantalizing edge flickers amidst her vulnerability.
A prey to hunt; a cornered animal prepared to fight.
She clenches her teeth around a shiver, weighs her next words carefully before she gathers air to speak.
"How much? Ta buy him free of 'is contract: how much would that cost?"
Ahhh, affection: demons' greatest partner in business! How many foolish choices aren't made for a loved one marked for misfortune? How many stories aren't ended by the bane that is the human bond?
"So adorable!" Like a fairy tale, like a proper manga! He smiles, he squeals; he presses his curled fists to his cheeks and wiggles in his chair, oh this is too wonderful! The princess come to save the prince, what a lovely inversion of tropes! "You humans are too cute!"
She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't understand his reaction, or the mind behind it.
"But should you really be doing that, Miss Honda?" Samael's bubbly mood is gone as abruptly as it came. His eyes aren't slits of joy but hooded wells of poison, scanning her with an intelligence that peels her skin like orange rind. "'Sign a contract for each friend that gets hurt? Fight demons by day and bargain with them at night, until you've got nothing left to sell?'" It rings familiar to her ears, yes. Shock paints jagged lines across her features as she recalls but cannot fathom how he knows words he shouldn't know. Words that were between her and her lost lion boy. "Could you really expect him to heed your advice when even you don't practise what you preach~?"
This. This surge of rapture, this sweet, sweet high of euphoric delight as waves of human shock and horror crash through him…!
"Surely a storyteller like yourself knows that not every fairy tale ends in happily ever after?" he purrs, resting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. "Not every battle is won, not every charming prince is saved – and wouldn't it be a terribly tragic ending, if the efforts of the princess wound up causing his death instead?" He smiles, lips lined with sadism and honey. "If you truly care about him–"
"Shut up!" A violent sweep, and the rest of the items on his desk clatter to the floor. "The hell's wrong with you?! This ain't no goddamn fairy tale, this is his LIFE ye're toying with! And ye're going ta STOP!"
To Samael it all happens in slow motion. His anime figurines – including the Majokko Megu-chan with broomstick that he bought just days ago – bounce over the floor and roll away among the Werther caramels.
He will deal with that. Later. And they had better not be damaged.
Always the human life: spoken as if sun and moon revolved around it. Proud creatures indeed. They don't seem to realise how insignificant a human life is, in the grand scheme of things: how very few that actually use the potential they have been given. An empty cup, a blank page – woven into countless idioms rests the notion that life is a vessel waiting to be filled with meaning.
"Human lives are stories", he insists; a velvet hum that reverberates through bone, "written not on paper but in dreams, desire, and regret. And in between the lines there are the ghostwriters, like me." It's not a ghostwriter she sees when she looks at him. Whatever she sees is making her chest heave and clench around each breath. "I have no interest in writing droll stories."
"Are ya insane?! Do ya hear yeself?! Ye can't ruin people's lives just 'cause it's more interesting ta you that way!"
Ruin? Affront skims his features before the mask smoothes in place again. Ruin such an unusual game piece? The mere idea…!
"I am giving him opportunities he would never have had, to become more than he had ever dreamt: that's hardly to ruin someone's life."
"Yeah?! And did ya ever ask 'im if he wanted yer meddlin'?!"
"I laid out an invitation; he answered it." Tsk, all this shouting was taking a toll on his ears… "I fear this argument has come to a standstill, Miss Honda. I'm not releasing Shiro, and you have no means to make me." The items swept off his desk return to their positions with a snap of his fingers. Everything is just as it was before she arrived, as if time hadn't passed at all. Her visit has changed absolutely nothing. "Was there anything else…?"
There are a thousand emotions and replies swirling in her heart, but none that will change anything. She knows that, too.
"He trusted ya. He liked ya." She hurls the words at him like rocks, as hard and sharp as her eyes. "Ya never understood that, did ya?"
…And people call him melodramatic. He smiles, watching Miss Honda turn on her heel – a woman like that will give rise to her own interesting stories, no doubt. Given different circumstances he might–
A heavy thump: the office windows shudder, the wards that envelope True Cross Academy crackle with insult.
Samael turns in his chair to see what demon is bothering his office. A shahrok flounders to regain its balance in the air after the barrier's jolt. It could have broken it, if it had wanted to. But that wasn't the plan, was it?
"Clever girl." His left hand snakes up, catching Miss Honda's wrist mid-strike. The dagger in her hand looks tampered with, and he is not about to find out what it does to demons – her ward tattoos are nuisance enough. The tingling buzz shoots through his teeth and to his bones, a sensation like a billion nibbling insect mandibles trying to gnaw his essence from the host tissues. A faint burning sensation wafts over his palm. Tch, they aren't even making skin contact and there's still smoke rising through the fabric of his glove!
Miss Honda whimpers, squirms: dagger dropped and forgotten, the only thought in her mind is to break free of his grip. Her wards are coming undone. They are meant for lesser demons, not Kings of Gehenna. The ink is forced out of her skin, boiling, a grotesque display painting creeks of blood and black pigment down her arm.
No more hospitable headmaster. No more gentlemanly mien. This conversation is over.
Corner shadows come to life and hiss, eating the room as it begins to warp around them, twist and writhe like the veins that bulge on Samael's face. In the sticky darkness his eyes are glowing coals, will-o'-wisp beacons that promise hell for anybody foolish enough to wage pursuit. He pulls her closer and she nearly collapses over the desk, face drawn tight with pain.
"Do you know what happens when a character has played out its role, Miss Honda? It gets written out of the story – one way or another."
Nothing moves that silence. No sound dares intrude, not a single breath or heartbeat. Inkblood drips slowly on the distorting desk, counting every second that passes between their eyes. Then he lets her go. She grasps her wrist, gaze flicking about a room that's back to normal, questioning it: was it an illusion? Was it real? The face that showed beneath his human mask, was that real?
Samael offers no answers. His eyes no longer glow, the air no longer warps around him, his smile is no longer lined with venom.
"Caramel?"
That does it.
"Fuck you", she hisses, and that is the last thing she says before she storms out the door, right arm cradled against her body.
The smell of anger fades with the sound of her footsteps, and soon the air is still and undiluted once more. The office resumes its daily pace and daily sounds, ticking clocks and humming air condition – until a fit of snickers fills the room. Samael can't contain himself anymore: laughter racks his wiry frame, pealing rivulets of hearty, jarring tittering. What an exit! The conversation had its ups and downs but the exit offers little more to wish for. A good finale for a good character.
"Oh don't act like you're appalled." A glance, a hooded look: a smile that knows all and sees all. "This is what you're here for, you darling hypocrites. You want to see him go through fire and water and whatever else I fancy throwing in his path: not enact some dime a dozen tale of a boy who found a girl and lived happily ever after." This calls for another caramel – couldn't enjoy the last one properly for all that arguing. "That's why pruning is essentia– Eww!"
That icky molten ward substance got on his glove! Ew ew ew – he tugs it loose gingerly, fingertip by fingertip, and tosses it to the panda. On second thought he disposes of the other glove as well. And the mission report on his desk. That nasty-looking knife demands examination before he decides what to do with it, but first–
…Thank goodness. Nothing has dripped on his anime figurines. Oh no. Is… Is he imagining it or is the paint on Megu-chan's hair chipped? Oh if that woman damaged it she's got another thing coming, if there is so much as a dent on– Haah, no. All is well. Megu-chan is safe. All of them are safe.
Samael sinks back in his chair with a relieved sigh. Really, so much fuss over something so fickle. Does Miss Honda truly think her feelings for him will last, or his feelings for her? Like human life itself, emotion is a passing thing. Fleeting and intoxicating, frail and powerful, it makes them do the silliest things – like attempting blackmail in his own mansion.
His hands are pale, paler even than the sleeves of his white tailcoat. The skin is soft as on a youth but harbours the translucence of old age: veins, sinews, bones, all on obscene display without the gloves. His claws seem almost black by contrast but shimmer an iridiscent purple as he angles his hand back and forth for examination; the burn from the wards has healed without a trace. The only mark on the transparent skin is a thin, pearly scar on the wrist a few centimetres from his hand.
"…Do you know why demons strive to counter attachments such as love?"
Ask a demon and most of them won't know. They act on gut feeling and what they have been told, caring only to know the rule, not the reason.
Samael is not that kind of demon. His hands fold, his eyes fall closed, and the taste of the caramel gets free rein to envelope his senses.
"When humans bond together there is nothing they can't accomplish. Friendship, love, brotherhood: fickle as they are, frail as they may seem, human emotions can overcome anything."
It's mesmerising. And bothersome.
"They share their emotions instead of curbing them; they seek help from each other instead of us. As the bonds between humans grow, our power over them wanes." Green eyes open once again, but the gaze is distant – lingering a moment more wherever his thoughts had travelled. "Friendship can't be sold. Love can't be forged, nor brotherhood bought or stolen." A gleam flickers in his eyes, of something old and keen and vicious. "Thus they must be destroyed."
A pair of gloves materialise, freshly pressed, with a snap of Samael's fingers. He lays them on the desk, side by side. This is a ritual, part of the façade he dons to hide his true nature and not something to be hurried. The feel of silk against his skin is a discreet reminder: be careful, hold back, or else the fragile things of Assiah will break and all his efforts go to waste.
"Why I tell you this? Isn't that obvious?" It would be nonchalant, the way he slides the first glove on, if not for how meticulously he ascertains that all the seams run straight, that the fabric lies flush against the valleys between his fingers. "I know what you hope for. I know the wishes of the human heart and how to pluck its strings." The other glove embraces like a second skin, smooth lavender and lethal secrets. "I'm telling you so that you will understand how foolish those hopes are." The smile is ancient, knowing. One could almost take it for one of pity. "There is no attachment between a demon and a human; delude yourself there is and that fairy tale of yours will end in blood."
A/N
(If I were a demon, this would be me. Totally.)
Werther's Echte are known since 1990 as Werther's Original. "Echte" means "authentic, real".
Bloody Fairy Tale is the title of the short story Kato wrote about Shiro and Mephisto. It just happened to fit nicely with this chapter as well. (How many fairy tales have ended in blood because of Mephisto's meddling…?) The description of Mephisto's hands is inspired by the descriptions of him in that story. He's supposedly pale to the point of looking sickly, the kind where you can see the veins under his skin.
Demons strive to counteract human attachment to romanticised illusions such as love. – Mephisto, ch 44
I can't stop thinking about this sentence, evidently. I guess this chapter is my two pennies about the hows and whys of demons' relation to human attachment?