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Author's Notes: Gotta be quick, 'cause it's past one in the morning. I wanted to update now, before I go away for spring break, so here I am. This chapter is… Well, it's special. You'll love it or you'll hate, and while I don't personally think this chapter is good, I hope you'll be on the love it side… Yes, it does go into Garfakcy's past, but don't worry, Kharl is still the one telling it. Don't ask how right now, just read! Anyway, I'm really sorry for the horribly long wait, and I hope you haven't forgotten me yet!

Disclaimer: In my dreams, I can own anyone I want!

Background Music: Simple and Clean (Utada Hikaru)

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Cloaks
By Sarehptar
Chapter Nine-
Saving the Soul

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I wonder if the building is still standing. I wonder if a demon has wandered in there and tried to grasp what went on, or if the heavy scent of blood is still boiling in the darker corners, beneath the bed... I wonder if I could see the faces in the portraits, under the centuries of gathered dust. I'd like to see that place again. That room... Who knew a mortal's blood and building could be the foundations of a demonic-like eternity?

The usual oppressive heat of Kainaldia seems to have fled suddenly, and the blood-sopped toes of my boots feel like cold stone. He's not even dead. He's gone, the castle is in ruins, the red-tiled floor of this room is dotted in thousands of white feathers and ash, and I'm alone at its center, freezing, bleeding... It's not fair, really. One completely selfless act, and it costs me my life. I should have turned a blind eye. I should have locked my doors, ignored them... I should have just forgotten, moved on... But then, I'm a fool, and forgetting is damn near impossible for idiots like me. Three centuries cannot be erased in an eye blink, at least not if you want to keep your brain intact.

Three centuries... It has been that long, hasn't it? A century, honestly, it's a snap of fingers in demon-time. But for you? I think you still haven't been able to grasp the concept that you could live forever. You still tell time in the human's way: days, months, years... I haven't made note of your mortal birthdate in two centuries—after the duration of a normal human lifespan, I simply stopped counting. You'll be... 310 years old on April 4th. Strange how I regret not doing the human things. I wish I'd said "Happy Birthday!" to you last year. I don't want you to think I don't remember.

I remember everything. Memories don't really fade, they hide in waiting for the proper time to be remembered. There are ones I wish had no proper time, but death seems incapable of picking them out, and I'm in no position to argue their removal from my mind. Remembering this all again… It's a distraction, really. I've been given this time to reflect on what I have, what I've lost, what I am leaving behind… But it's a poor distraction. I'm still bleeding, I'm still struggling for another breath, I'm still dying, and the images my mind throws back can do little to crush that realization.

What's that scent? A faint but sharp smell reaches me across the ash and overpowering scent of blood… Salt. Slowly, straining, I turn my head to the side. The puddle of blood in my mouth shifts too, some escaping my barely parted lips to join the crimson streams already snaking their ways down my chin. Salt… The blood that has worked itself way into my eyes blurs the great stone wall, and the shapes that stand near it. You are there: I can still pick out your small form, beside a raven-haired woman. Cesia? Salt…

"Are you crying?" I whisper, try to whisper, sending a fresh tide of vermillion liquid across my lips. Are you crying? I'd asked the same thing that day…

It's funny how quickly things become routine. By the close of our second week, we'd already established a working order: You woke up, woke me up, you made breakfast from what I'd bought or made, went out work in the renewed garden, and I went off to ponder the problem of human strength and ash magic. The days were completely unimportant, uninteresting and not worth remembering in themselves. They were only examples of living; almost normal living. But on the eve of our third week, the perfect practice we'd established was shattered in a fate changing way.

The day had been tiring: I'd finally finished the spell defining ash weaponry. It'd been far harder than I'd expected—getting the dust to solidify into a coherent shape and remain there long enough to memorize the spell took incredible amounts of concentration. I'd missed your calls for lunch and dinner and I almost missed your quiet "Good night!" that barely made its way through my door, but I'd allowed the newly memorized spell to break down into its powdered form and wrapped it in a tiny brown sack just in time to reply with a weary "Good night," of my own.

Feeling incredibly satisfied –after all, one does not perfect an unexploited form of magic every day– I staggered up the stairs, tugged on an extremely baggy night shirt (whose shirt was this anyway?) and collapsed into bed. Youkai may need sleep less than humans do, but we cannot, by any means, live without it. By the time my thick comforter had fallen over my eyes, I was unconscious. Tragically, a decent night of sleep seemed not to be part of my destiny.

I thought it was the wind that woke me at first, because I didn't hear anything when I opened my eyes. The glass pane across the room warped the pale moonlight that drifted in from the West. Peaceful. Then I realized the air outside was still—no wind. Half a second later, a muffled wail sounded from down the hall. It worried me, and shaking off the last vestiges of fatigue, I hurried into the corridor. Despite the lack of light in your room, I could see you clearly, tangled in the bed sheets and shivering. A thin layer of cold sweat rolled across your skin, and you clutched at the pillows like lifelines.

"Mother..." The voice that mumbled it was broken and poignant. "Mother… sorry…" This was meant it to be human—these soft sad sleeping tears falling gently on white silk. And suddenly, I felt as if there was a wall of glass between us. I didn't understand, I couldn't feel any empathy; I could not be of any use. "STOP! I won't!" You shouted and the quiet trembles became frightening clawing and thrashings. And I stood, half way into the room, watching, voiceless and still. I couldn't move, my whole body, heart included, seemed to be crushed under a terrible weight. Never before had I ever felt so helpless. I was a demon, and at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be human so I could do something, anything to stop the shouting, and free the air of the oppressive scent of fear. "Why? It's… not my fault…" That tremulous voice felt like the blade of a knife.

Then the sad whimpering turned into shouting again, and with pain in my sensitive ears, I knew, whatever my reservations about our differences, I couldn't let this continue.

"Garfakcy…" I called quietly, trying hard to shrug off the bottomless feeling of uselessness.

"Please…Please, it's dark!" I thought for a moment you'd woken up, but your eyes were still fluttering beneath closed lids.

"Wake up." I crossed the room a bit hesitantly, "Wake up." My voice was drowned out before it really escaped my mouth. You wouldn't wake up, and somehow, the thought of laying hands on you seemed almost sacrilegious.

What sort of dream, what sort of nightmare could affect you like this? And then, then came the sick sense of curiosity that has always been a part of me. What sort of dream could do this? Even as a portion of me cried out in protest –the part that cared what you thought– a greater part writhed under in-bred youkai nature. It didn't matter that it could be considered manipulation, it didn't matter that it was an invasion of privacy, because I wanted to know. So, against the better sliver of the blood-stained abyss called my soul, I reached out and took control of your mind.

Those aren't the correct words for it, because although I did have complete control of the nerve impulses inside you that built dreams, my purpose was not to affect them, but to watch. What I'm trying explain surmounts to a simple idea: I shut my eyes to the real world, and opened them again inside the world of your subconscious. Inside your dream, my form was the same, albeit intangible—it was, after all, simply a manifestation of impulses from our point of contact. Functional, I turned my attention to the dream I had so rudely intruded upon. Can you possibly imagine what effect it had on me?

It was sunny I realized, and the Plum trees that seemed to grow everywhere were in full bloom. Not much the setting for a nightmare. That's when I found the peaceful orchard wasn't empty.

"Mother! Mother!" A rather small child raced past me, tiny arms full of blossoms. It took me a few moments to realize that this brown-haired, hardly knee-high person was a younger you. "Mother, look what I brought you!" In the once empty corner of the dream –or was this a memory?– orchard, a woman was standing, pale blue eyes watching you race up. "I brought you flowers!" Was that—could you really smile like that, so broad and innocent? You held the blossoms out eagerly, emerald eyes almost shining with adoration for the thin-framed woman. Her reaction, however, was nothing like I expected.

"Stop it!" She hissed and knocked the flowers from your hands. "Stop looking at me!" Instantly, an intense feeling of dislike welled up in me. I expected the already familiar Garfakcy temper to flare up, but you dropped to your child's knees and began scooping up the fallen blooms.

"I'm sorry Mama, I forgot. I promise I won't do it again!" The woman, whose brunette hair matched your own almost identically, said nothing to acknowledge your vow…not to look at her? And then the orchard was gone, and there was only sudden darkness and a cold and disembodied voice.

"On this day, the 13th of the fifth month, this honorable court finds the servant Emaed, guilty of treason and personal slander against our noble Baron. The punishment for both the servant and the child in question is death, to be served by hanging on the 15th of this month." And the voice was drowned out by the terrified wailing of a sentenced woman.

The darkness took coherent shape again, forming itself into almost invisible grey steel bars and walls of brick. Before I could even see the shapes within this prison cell, soft weeping wound its way into my ears. Then you and your mother were there, on opposite sides of the tiny barred room. For a long time, crying was the only sound that pervaded the solemn, descending death sentence. But then, unable to stand the heavy silence any longer, you whimpered something incoherent. That seemed to be what she'd been waiting for, because instantly the crying was replaced with furious shouting.

"Don't look at me! Keep your eyes off me!" You turned your vivid green irises to the floor. "Bastard child! Bastard! This is all your fault! ALL YOUR FAULT!"

"I'm sorry Mother!" Your little plea only irked her further.

"Sorry? I'm going to die because of you! Die for the bastard I never wanted!"

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry!" You couldn't seem to say anything else to the enraged woman.

"I'm sorry you were born! I hate you!" The tears that had been threatening at the corners of your eyes spilled over and ran quickly down your cheeks. "I hate your eyes, just like his! Just like him! Your father—" She threw the word at you like a knife, "He'll become our executioner now! He'll have my body again—only this time I'll be dead! Because you were born, because you could damage his political chances! BECAUSE OF YOU!" And faster than I have ever seen a human move, she reached out and dealt you, tiny you, a merciless blow across the cheek.

"I'm sorry Mama." Dirt from the floor where you'd fallen clung to your wet face, mingling with the flowing dream tears. I though she was finished, because she stood over your limp form, breathing heavily without moving. But whatever hesitation had stilled her movements did not last long. The sickening sound of flesh striking flesh rang out again, again, echoed by stifled whimpers of pain and the repetitive pleading, "I'm sorry Mama… I'm so sorry…"

A cold sort of anger ran rampant through me. Disgusting! That woman disgusted me, who had many times tasted mortal blood. I wanted to see her hung! But that strangely icy anger became outright rage when your pleadings faded first into muffled wails and then into vibrant silence, all peppered by the sudden, sharp scent of fresh flowing blood. And even after you'd been rendered unconscious, she continued to batter you, shrieking obscenities. If this had not been only a horrible nightmare, I would have killed her, not simply because you were my companion, but also because you were her child –her flesh and blood– and she'd harmed you! Did humans not understand the meaning of such bonds?

To youkai, even the many who leave their young to fend for themselves, blood is an enduring tie—you do not harm anyone of your flesh, and if you are there, you don't allow others to harm holders of your blood, your kin. It's a matter of territory almost. And to attack someone you could call family would be almost unspeakable among youkai, despite the common place human rumors that we eat our children. Those mortal rumors paint us as monsters, but even with all the death I have wrought, I have never done anything as monstrous as that small human woman had.

And… when her anger was finally satiated, that repulsive woman went back to crying.

It was not long before a pair of guards wandered into the prison room with the intention of taking you and your mother to be hung. At first glance they seemed as real as everything else, but then I realized they were blurred at the edges—this was not a real memory. Probably you'd heard about the guards and what they'd done from someone else.

The iron barred door swung open and laughing at some comment you'd never invented, the men swaggered into your cell. Surprisingly, the hellish woman offered them no resistance. Even as the first guard forced her to her feet and led her away, she only wept softly into the hands that had beaten you.

"Oi!" The second guard called as he stood over your limp form. "Kid!" He seemed surprised by your lack of reaction and looking at you with greater focus, realized he was standing on blood-stained floor. Immediately, he knelt down and put a hand on your throat. "Damn…" He shook his head, stood up and muttered in disbelief, "That crazy bitch killed him." Not worried at all that a corpse might get up and walk away, he left the cell door open behind him. No doubt so that one of the servants could come by and get rid of the body. But that pretext required a body, and clearly, you weren't dead. The maid who came in to collect your corpse realized this right away and stood over you for a long moment—weighing her options, before gingerly picking you up and running out of the prison.

Then the dungeon-like room was gone too, replaced by a forest in the middle of autumn. It was excruciatingly peaceful compared to the dark place we had just been, and only shuffling footsteps broke the pleasant silence. The owner of said noise struggled into view a moment later—a young girl who would have been your age around that time fumbled through the trees with a huge foul smelling barrel in her arms. Something did not look right—the way her calf length maid's dress lie, the way her typical servant's cap was pulled low...

"Always!" The voice struck me, and I realized instantly that the dress clad figure I had mistaken for a human girl-child was actually you. "Always!" And that voice was very different from the pleading in the prison cell. You seemed to have suddenly reached your destination –a putrid hole in the forest floor– and you dropped the drum. With one hand shielding your human nose, you pulled the lid free and poured the contents down into the fissure. At the sight, I placed the dream-remembered smell. Organs. The barrel, and the hole too, were full of the rotting inner-parts of livestock.

That was right, humans disliked devouring those things. This place in the forest was a dumping ground for the bits left over by slaughter. And suddenly, the forest was gone and flashes of memories replaced them. Memories of jobs designated for the lowest of servants: slaughtering the animals for meals, cleaning out bodily refuse from the maid's quarters… Months of such things. But those mucky flashes were nothing to the swift glance I got of the windowless, tiny room you "lived" in.

The cramped hovel was airless, and when the sunset, you could see nothing inside. There were no candles, no hole through which to see the moon. There was only darkness and the sound of harsh disembodied whispering:

"You're dead. You're buried. Your mother went to her grave thinking she'd murdered you. Your father…" You could almost sense a wicked smile behind that voice, "Your father wanted you gone. What would he do if he knew you were alive, hiding among the servant girls? I could tell him. I could take you to him. Do you want to die? No? Do what I say. Do everything for me. Won't you?" And then your hesitating, aggravated answer:

"Yes."

The flashes became a solid image again, and the voice took a body, a servant headmistress, young but hardly beautiful. She was the one who'd handed out those menial tasks to you. We were in your dark room, and all I could see were the barely visible outlines of the servant headmistress and you. Immediately I noticed something wrong with the woman. She carried herself in a way I had never seen before, the smile and the glint in her eyes did not seem correct for the place.

"I could tell," She murmured, and the off-note in her voice sounded an implacable warning within me. "I could tell, and he would have you put down like an animal. But I can keep you safe. Will you do everything for me?"

"Yes." But you seemed to have noticed something too, because you shifted away from her uncomfortably. Her smile twisted into a frightening mock-grin, and she purred,

"Take off those clothes." The words rang sick on my ears, and the only coherent thing I could think was 'Filthy!' I almost broke the contact between us; I didn't want to see any more. Before I could move to end the dream, she'd caught a hold of your dress and forced her lips over your own. Even in the darkness, I saw you stiffen, and then she leapt back, cursing. "Bastard!" She howled, hands raised to her bleeding lip—you'd bitten her. Furious, the woman ripped at the collar of your dress. "Bastard! I'll tell him! I'll—" But a chilling voice that barely sounded like yours cut her off.

"D-Don't touch me. Don't touch me!" And you both looked surprised at the words coming out of your mouth. "I won't do everything—I won't do anything for you! I…I hate you!" You jerked free of her grip and slammed open the door of the dark room. Moonlight, made soft by night mist was a blessed shock, and without looking back, you escaped into the fog, leaving behind only another livid "I hate you!"

Was this the first time you'd said something like that? It must have been, because the words became an almost reassuring mantra in the darkness as you ran, panting, away from the revolting woman. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" It was as if you were carving the words into your mind: remembering not only the way they sounded but the anger that fueled them.

The dream vision of your running faded, the moon and the wood were gone, and you were alone, clothes tattered, underfed, eyes red from lack of rest—or were they that way from shedding tears? Your thin form was propped up against a brick wall, in the air space between two of the town buildings. Laughing couples passed on the street, a carriage clattered down the road, but you remained oblivious. A man wandered on the sidewalk, right past you, muttering to his newspaper,

"Ah, tha' baron…" He disappeared, but his voice stayed with you, ringing softly, repetitively. That baron…

"Father?" Did the word sound unfamiliar to you? "Father… Mother hated me because of your eyes. Mother wanted me to go away. You wanted me to go away too. Mama… It's not my fault! I didn't do anything! I don't have to do anything! I don't have to! It's not my fault… It's his fault! It's everyone else's! I hate him! I hate them all…" A young girl laughed somewhere on the street. "I hate them all…" You moved to drop your head into the crook of your dirt-blackened arms, but jerked back at the unclean sight. "Dirty…" You mumbled, and I knew you applied the word to more than physical appearance. "Dirty… Everything is dirty! Everyone is dirty… Dirty! Dirty…" Your voice cracked, and I thought for a moment you might start crying. You only threw your head back against the wall, hard, instead, and tried to peer between the high buildings into the sky. "Someone…" Your tone was half plea and half demand, "Someone, please make it clean…"

When I finally opened my eyes to the true world again, I caught myself whispering something you'd said yourself:

"I hate him!" And where my touch and presence had failed, this almost emotional murmur managed to wake you. You sat up a bit, confused and hating the darkness, and then your bleary emerald eyes fell on me. Those vibrant eyes I'd wanted to save, coincidence that those were the eyes that ruined your opportunity at a normal human life? The dream was still haunting you, I could tell by the way you moved, a little slow, a little unsure of reality. The nightmare stayed with me too, making it almost painful to look at you. I didn't understand what I was feeling. I could hardly understand emotions when they came one at a time, and dream had brought them on overwhelmingly. Sympathy, disgust, sadness? Something inside me wanted to make everything better, but I didn't understand. How could I possibly put into words all the things I wanted to say? For the first time, I wanted to comfort someone, and I did not know how. I sat beside your bed, silent, but unwilling to just leave without doing something.

"Lord Kharl? Did I—I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"I'm sorry…" 'I'm sorry Mother…' "I'm sorry…" The words sounded different when they fell awkward and unused, from my lips. Were these the words that could explain what I felt? Somehow, they seemed to fix very little. They had not saved you from her; they had not brought you new eyes or a new bloodline. They had never made the darkness any more light. They had not made her hate you any less. Hatred. The memory of that woman set my fangs on edge. Her own life was so precious that young of her blood meant nothing? But had she even really seen you as her flesh and blood? She was not such an exceptional case—a master taking advantage of a servant was hardly an uncommon event, even among youkai. But… humans care for their children. They do not extract vows that cannot be kept, they do not beat their children… they do not sentence them to death.

What sort of human –what sort of soul– could send their consort and kin to hang on the gallows? Not a human, not a youkai… Only a monster. And quick, sharp hatred coursed through me again. This baron, who took a mate and killed a mate on whim, this man that could send his mortal son to death, this man who spell suffering for an entire village… I hated this man and his brilliant green eyes, so unlike yours in meaning. Did he know, would he care, that his child was alive; that the boy he had sentenced to hang, the boy who'd almost caught death at his mother's hands had slipped away both times, into my hold? Why had he never felt that icy grip of mortality? Had no one ever tried to take his life?

I wanted him to feel it. I wanted quite suddenly to show him the extent of his insignificance. I wanted him to realize how small he was beside me, my kind, and the rest of the world… I wanted to crush him. Hatred, ridiculous emotion really, but undeniable. And why not kill him? I was more suited for life, more determined…

Then the soft, dark inner voices bared their fangs. What right had I interfere in your affairs? Why should I have the pleasure of harming him?

"I'll kill you! I'll kill you all!"

I knew a contemptuous smile had danced its way on to my face. Wouldn't it be ironic? Wouldn't it be perfect? You watched me, confused, obviously curious and concerned that I had been watching you sleep.

"If," my pale eyes met your own, "If I were to give you the means, would you take them? Would you kill him?" I expected some confusion, some hesitation, but there was nothing like that. With the visions of the nightmare almost reflected in your emerald eyes, you said boldly, wide awake,

"Give me a sword, and I'll do it now." The look that passed between us then was one I'll never forget. There was something like unity in it—we both wanted the same thing, hated the same thing; both of us were plotting a murder. For the first time, we were agreed with needing to speak. And that sort of togetherness of intention and purpose has happened so few times between us that I think I could count the instances all on one hand.

I stood, and I knew the day to come would be one of serious thought and magic. You would wield my weapon for the first time. Tomorrow you would not be human Garfakcy, but a tool of destruction.

"Go back to sleep." And the darkness of the room was pierced harshly by moonlight when I passed into the hall.

Dawn brought me not only the sun but a twisting sense of urgency. Tonight, I decided over an absolutely delicious human food called pancakes, Tonight we'll go together into the village. When I came to you after breakfast with the little bag of ash and told you it would give you magical ability, you looked at me as if I was insane.

It took almost an hour for you to reach the point where you could turn the ash into a weapon, maintain it, and break it apart again. By the third hour, you were experimenting with its width and length by altering the thoughts that brought it up from the dust. Surprisingly, you needed little work with actual blade use—being in charge of slaughtering livestock had made you quick and accurate. Of course, you were hardly a master, but for a human child, I was impressed. The day seemed horribly long—I was so eagerly anticipating meeting the man who had almost run me over a few weeks ago that each minute felt like an hour. Another doll target –so quickly put together by you– was cruelly cut down. And another, and another…

The moon rose full and orange on the horizon, and the stars nearest to it seemed to shine brighter. A warm breeze brought scents of the not so distant ocean. A beautiful night, really. The leaves of the wood rustled playfully as we passed almost silently beneath them. You didn't speak at all as we wandered toward the village. Were you lost in imagining the meeting, or did you simply not trust your own voice?

When the village outskirts came into view, you hesitated slightly, not from fear or sudden indecision, but from an unwillingness to return to the place that had been your hell. But I was clear of the wood line and waiting for you on the rutted dirt road. Seeing me there inside the invisible line you had drawn separately wilderness from civilization (youkai from human?), had an effect on you that I can't explain: it was as if my being there had destroyed a part of the spell of sick humanity your memories painted this place to have. The village was silent, the windows dark—this was a people who worked hard to live, and here sleep was desperately needed.

Never have you walked so silently; even my youkai ears barely registered your light but visibly unsteady steps. What was it that was making your knees shake so sharply? I thought it might be nervousness about seeing the man who'd destroyed your chances, but the glint in your brilliant eyes told another story. The corners of your narrowed green depths reflected the moon, staining them a strange shade of orange and making them look all together hungry. So that was what it was: eagerness. I turned away and let the scent –lingering from your dreams of his domain– lead us silently through the town.

His castle wall was high, higher than one might expect for a normal manor. But, this was Arinas, wasn't it? This man offered the villagers no protection, but spared no expense at fortifying his own home. Ridiculous—I could easily slam my hand through the thick stone wall if I had the mind to, and I had never been a physically inclined youkai. But, then again, we were not here to attract the attention of the entire village, so the gate seemed like the best choice.

The padlock was metal. How easy were they going to make this? They ought to have made it out of some hard organic substance like bone—the thicker parts of the skeleton, particularly demon skeletons, are incredibly dense composites of calcium phosphate and complex carbons, bound at the molecular level. That would have been hard to manipulate, but I suppose he wasn't expecting a demon to march right through his gates, much like he wasn't expecting you… A quick pass, a built-in mutter, and the lock's electrons and protons rearranged themselves to form carbon atoms, and then were forced to bond into the correct chains…

The once metal padlock blew away as a dancing spiral of jade leaves. The creak of the gates rusting hinges shattered our perfect silence, but it returned quickly enough: no one moved on the vast lawns sprawled out before us. There was the orchard, still standing, dark and unwelcoming in the night. Why did I expect to see her there? Where were the guards? I stopped to look more sharply at our surroundings and was rewarded by the distant sound of slurred laughter and shouting. So the men were off somewhere enjoying themselves. All the easier for us.

The front steps were thick and marble, ideal for any man of high status, and like every mortal castle, there were far too many of them. By the time we reached the top, you were panting lightly. Of course his main doors could be nothing short of intimidating. They were enormous, even compared to me, and carved of thick red wood. Behind their faces, the doors were held in place by a cross-wise metal bar. In their effort to protect themselves more, the fools had sealed their fate. In the still and silent main hall, the giant iron bar exploded into a flurry of leaves as green as your eyes. You never asked once how I did it; you never even blinked as you stepped through the pile. Were you too occupied to notice, or had you already grown used to magic?

The passageways were dark, devoid of people but filled with all the finery one might expect—imported antique vases, busts, tapestries… nothing important. It was my nose that led us up the stairs, and I have often wondered why you followed so obediently. It was your home, not mine. It seemed as if we climbed the stairwell forever, step after step. But then there we were, and only a wall separated us from his weak life force. I reached out a pale hand and turned the unlocked knob. It was late, I thought he would have been asleep, but there he was, standing and staring at us from across the room, eyes wide in concern. Seeing him was like seeing an older (and self-gratifying) version of you. Locking eyes with him for you must have been like looking in a mirror. No one moved at all for the longest moment, and then he reached out and snatched a letter-opener off the desk. His voice, very different from yours, barked angrily,

"Who are you? I won't take visitors at a time like this!" But he must have sensed something about us: he sounded like a very confidant man who had suddenly been stripped of all his defenses.

"Be assured sir," I almost chuckled, "You will attend to our visit. It does, after all, concern your imminent death."

"W-What?" And he looked taken aback. With a glance to you –to guarantee you would not throw yourself at him in a rage– I crossed the room, quite near to him (Oh, how he tensed!) and sat myself deftly, gently on the edge of his richly swath bed. "What the hell! Who are yo-"

"Father." Your voice was not what I expected it to be: there was no eager tremble there, no anger, only a chilling sort of playfulness. "Father, I've missed you." It was almost too perfect. He glared between your small form and mine, frustrated and aghast at our sudden invasion.

"Guards! Guards!"

"They're far away." I let him interpret my smile on his own. He got as far as spotting the fangs and stopped calling. My, that hiss was his was so articulate.

"Youkai! You're here to assassinate me!" I couldn't help myself anymore, I laughed out loud, and he brandished the blunt weapon as if to defend himself from my voice.

"One of two. Youkai, of course. Assassination? Not by my hands."

"Then what do you-"

"Tsk, you jump ahead. Are you that eager to die? I said 'not by my hands'. The one who will have the pleasure of taking your life is watching us, with an incredible amount of patience, right now." As if following orders, he rounded on you.

"What sort of sick joke-"

"Ah, Father, I'm hurt. You don't remember me?"

"You're crazy! You're both deranged! Guards!"

"Father-"

"I don't have a son!" He shouted, and it rang on silence.

"Don't you?" You pulled back the black strands of your hair. "I guess it's hard to remember someone you never wanted in the first place." His forest green eyes were wide and dilated.

"Impossible…" His tanned skin paled visibly, and the letter-opener in his hand shook. "He's dead… He was buried…"

"The dead, they say, walk more often than the living." He didn't even turn back to look at me as I spoke.

"I should be dead, shouldn't I? It would be better for you, because I could tell the central government, couldn't I? About you and Mother. She hated you! Because of you, she hated me! You took everything from me—a home, love, Mother, and you would have taken my life too. Mother beat me for the only thing you ever gave! You're the one… You're the one who made everything dirty!" And as your voice grew louder, magical ashes escaped the bag and formed the immaculate long knife you were used to using. Yes, why not, slaughter him like swine.

"Boy-"

"Do you even know my name?" The man continued as if he had not just been interrupted:

"Child—you don't understand anything! Politics are best left in the hands of those who can use them."

"You used politics to hang Mother. You used politics to drain the village dry. You used politics to justify murder. Do I understand enough?" You lifted the knife into an attack position.

"You little bastard!" Your father sneered, but I saw a line of sweat snake down the side of his face, and he seemed to have shrunken in his cloak. "This was why I wanted you gone! If you go to the King—you're just like her, loving trouble. You should have died with that whore you call-" It was too much, quite suddenly, for you to bear. Infuriated by his manner as much as his degrading words, you lunged. The room was big, but much of it had been taken up by fancy furniture, and he was weak man really, not physically gifted at all.

Within three minutes, he was dying. What a sight to be witness to! The blood had gone everywhere: across the walls, the mirrors, the expensive rug, you… He gasped for breath, and you stood over him silently, hands at your side, head bowed to look down at his quickly clouding eyes.

"Soul…" He panted, "Sold your soul…to the Devil…" But wasn't it the other way around? He was human, the chosen race of God, but he was the one who had consigned you to hell. I was the Devil, true, but was it not me who had come to make things better? Was this the selling or the saving of a soul?

Just so simply, a mortal life was extinguished, and the ring of steel and cries of pain faded into quiet. I could think of nothing to say: what words are there to fill the air after the murder of one's father? You stared down into his open eyes, those eyes, and I realized you were trembling. The soft scent of salt lanced through the room. The scent of human tears…

"Garfakcy, are you crying?" My voice was distant, not disapproving. You turned your bloody cheeks and emerald depths to me, and there were indeed tears there, but there was also a shaking smile.

"I'm happy." You promised, and I didn't understand. Outside, the moon finally broke over the wall, and showered the blood-stained room with cold silver-orange light. The bloodied edge of the long knife glittered for a moment, and then it turned into fluttering ashes again. There was stillness—was this mortality, counting the breaths, being in this bloody dirtiness? I wanted to be rid of it immediately.

"Garfakcy," I murmured, and the idea that I had been turning over in my mind chose its time to escape. "I can give you anything—I can give you eternity." Do you want to leave these mortal confines behind? "Would you like to live forever with me?" The tears were drying on your cheeks.

"I would like to live forever." It was a trivial thing of me to ask—how could you possibly turn it down? But it was the asking –the offer of an escape from human weakness in weakness' finest example– that made all the difference.

In one night you dealt with the man behind your pain, soiled your hands with human blood for the first time, and escaped the last chain that bound you to the hell of human mortality. Into what new hell I had brought you was yet to be seen… There was silence again, but it was almost pleasant this time, until you spotted your stained clothes.

"Look at me," You growled, "I'm filthy!" And I knew the word didn't have the double meaning any longer.

I stood and left the room, and the invisible leash between us brought you with me, into the warm darkness and away from the hungry orange moonlight that seemed to be lapping the blood off the floor.

It felt like only minutes had pasted before we were at our castle doors, and only another few minutes before you'd run off to the baths and I'd gone into the library to find the music box. Even holding a miniaturized eternity in the palm of my hand didn't slow down time, and I soon I was following your night-robed form down the hall into your room.

I waited, as had become our custom, for your "Goodnight," and then handed one of the dark pills to you.

"Eat it." I could see the fatigue blurring your deep eyes. "I'll explain tomorrow." Swiftly, you swallowed a hundred years of life. "Goodnight Garfakcy." I went into the hall again and shut the door behind myself. Using another human euphemism, I said softly, "Have sweeter dreams tonight."

And at that moment, having given away eternity and sweet dreams, it felt very much like the saving of a soul.

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Author's Notes: Um... (Is hiding!) Please don't hate me. But… what did you think? There were some parts that I hated sooo much I just wanted to toss this whole chapter out. Please, tell me what you think! Also, some people will happy to know that I received the hand-written version of chapter four of Where We Are (if you haven't read it, do that now!), and will be beta-reading it on my long drive to Las Vegas. Ah, spring break is a wonderful thing. Anyway, I have to go, like now, cause it's almost one in the morning… Dammit, I HATE not being able to indent my paragraphs... Doesn't anyone know how!

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Review Responses:

Kitsusama: Oh yes, please do draw that scene for me (Is rolling at the thought). I'd love to see it. I'm sorry that this chapter was Garfakcy past, but it was still just Kharl telling it… You aren't mad at me, are you? Please, I hope you liked this!
Kharl Fanatic: First words: your name kicks ass. Second words: I'm sorry, and thank you so much! I'm sooo flattered that you would actually check! I really, really hope you liked this chapter... It's a little… umm… Yeah.
Aquajogger: Gil, oh Gil… You see, I was confused because they didn't say the Dragon Knights killed it, they said it was "offed by a bugger named Rath", which made me think that not only was Rath's name not widely known, but that he had been alone, meaning it was more likely that he'd not been offed, but turned into… I also thought the "rampaging demon" was Rath because the only time a demon has ever been referred to as the "demon who rampaged through Dusis" they always mean Rath… It doesn't matter, I'm going with your idea anyway, 'cause it's just so much easier. Thanks so much for helping, and for liking my last chapter. I hope you like this one just as much, or more?
Kage Ohkami: Aiiee… (Bursting from too many compliments!) Umm… thank you very much. I REALLY hope you like this chapter… It's sorta hit or miss. You like it or you hate it. I'm on the "hate it" side…

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