A/N: The song Moon by Bjork goes really well with this. Just thought I'd tell ya'
Lord Death was not at all discouraged by his son's tendencies in the same way many others were. He knew that perhaps, yes, it was not particularly good for him to be so young and so deeply obsessed with organization. And, yes, he knew that his fits were becoming more and more frequent. He was also quite aware that they were putting a strain on his already unfortunately stressful life, something he regretted deeply and had never wished to impose on the boy, but it could be worse. It could always be worse.
When he'd been born, there had been so many possibilities, so much potential, so many risks. There was no telling just how a young, untrained, reaper would be able to handle his own mind and body. That had been one of the reasons why the lines of sanzu were to be left at half their circumference until he was able to handle the powers that came wrapped up with his unusual pedigree. There were just so many directions he could branch off in, so many things could go right and wrong.
He'd been worried for a very long time how his instincts would manifest themselves. He'd been terrified for much of his earliest days, when he was still innocent and pudgy and very nearly helpless, that he would grow up to impulsively feel that killing was the best way to solve problems. He'd been stressed that he would have to completely lock him away from society, that he wouldn't be able to function correctly without extensive training.
He'd been quite scared that Death the Kid would be stuck up in that musty manor house with no one to speak to but himself and the walls and his mind as void and black as the deepest, darkest, grave, because he was unable exist alongside the living. He could have no emotions, no feelings, nothing but nothing inside his raven-feather head, half caged by those three beautifully pure white lines. And he, as his father, would have no way of fixing him, would never be able to help him, and would have to watch him grow up alone and disturbed.
His soul would have barely more sanity than a kishin's, but it would be many times more powerful. And eventually, one day, he would have to dispose of him in the same way he would the original Kishin, only with far more heartache in that it would be his own son, a piece of his own soul, that he would be brutally restraining.
Yes, things could always be worse, and therefore, no, Lord Death was not at all discouraged by his son's tendencies. He was perfectly and wonderfully happy with having a son who was a little bit obsessive compulsive and would gladly take his tantrums over an anti-social child with no pleasant thoughts in his head.
Those worries that had for so long plagued his mind had long since crumbled to stagnant dust, though, just settling in layer he barely even noticed anymore. However, that dust could still be kicked up into a thick black cloud that left him choking with stinging eyes.
This is why his son, now six-years-and-three-months-and-eight-days old as he had told him twice today, sat before him, legs crossed neatly as he sat on the soft maroon pillow opposite him, a teacup held delicately in his tiny pale hands. The little porcelain cup was nearly the same color as his skin, with the softness of his flesh the only factor differentiating the two fragile things. It was as though he were made of plush eggshells...
But he knew he was stronger than that, that he could take this discussion, that this was necessary. He knew it, he did, he really did. So why did he have to keep reminding himself?
"Kiddo," he started softly, sensitively. The boy looked up from his task of methodically stirring his tea, which had yet to touch his lips. Enormous amber eyes set in the face of a white plastic cherub peered up at him, filled with the utmost of fear and sickening guilt.
This was important, it really was. He needed to do this. He couldn't spoil him forever.
"Are you okay?" he asked tentatively. How was he supposed to go about this? He'd never had to before, had never before been told that his son had done anything wrong. That was not to say that he'd never done anything wrong, of course, but it had never seemed to be such a problem.
"Yes," he said quietly.
He knew how to deal with misbehaved students. He knew how to deal with older children that weren't his own. How did he continue with this?
He should just be straightforward. That was probably the best option. Just bring it up, don't bother with anything else.
"Kiddo, those fish were a present from a very close friend of mine," he started.
"I know," he said. That wasn't really the problem, though. He should just say it, just say it.
"Kiddo, is there a reason you decided to kill almost half of them?" he forced himself to ask.
The boy stared at him with those honey-golden eyes, practically gold coins set in marble. His tiny lips pursed and his eyebrows came together.
"To make it even," he stated as though it were obvious.
"Ah." He was afraid of that. He didn't have to ask him to explain further, as he quite suddenly blurted everything out in a stream of discomfort.
"There were too many guppies with red tails in comparison to the number of guppies with yellow-and-black tails, and then there was just that one unnecessary one with the blue tail," he said. "It was entropic!"
Entropic. Yes. How old was he again? Six years, three months, and eight days. Entropic...
"There were exactly fourteen red-tailed ones and ten yellow-and-black-tailed ones," he continued to explain. "So I took out some of the red-tailed ones so that there would be ten of each, as well as the blue-tailed one because that one was just useless."
"I didn't really mean for them to die," he insisted, though the truth in this was unlikely in that they'd all ended up in the garbage. Pink was bleeding into his sclera and his eyebrows were scrunching tighter and tighter together. "They were upsetting the balance."
Upsetting the balance. He'd ripped those words right from his own mouth, from their lessons. They were misunderstood words, taken far too literally by a child who, despite his vocabulary, could not comprehend everything just yet. Were he to take over as reaper now, his rule would be excessively draconian, forcing such tight and constricting order that the world may very well be crushed.
"I see," Lord Death said, doing his best to ignore those reddening eyes. "And what about the rest of them?"
Kid was quiet for a moment, looking down into his teacup. He did not press him further, and simply waited for him to speak, as he undoubtedly would.
"I made it so that there was eight of each of them, because eight is a more logical number than ten," he stated. He then hastily corrected his own grammar. "Sorry, so that there were eight."
He already knew about his infatuation with the number eight, so that needed no explanation. It was perfectly symmetrical in two ways, apparently an important trait for numerical values to have, and could be divided in a way he considered to be most efficient. There was also something he'd said about a figure eight being an unbreakable cycle, which he apparently found comfort in through it's predictability. Six years, three months, and eight days old. He sighed.
"Kiddo, you still killed nine fish," he told him disappointedly. "Couldn't you have just asked Ellen to move them into another tank for you?" Ellen was his current caretaker, and had only been looking after him for a few weeks. Perhaps he was still uncomfortable with her.
"Then there'd be entropy in that tank," he said.
"Kiddo..."
"They're just fish, Father," he said pleadingly.
"Fish are still living things, Kid, and they still have souls," he said carefully, sternly.
"But if something is upsetting the balance, you're supposed to fix it, right? That's what you said," he said. And now he was starting to cry, because he was a child who did not understand.
"This is not the type of balance I was talking about," he said bleakly.
"B-but, but you said- you said-" he choked through shaking breaths.
Lord Death sighed. This was necessary. This was absolutely necessary.
"Kiddo," he began hesitantly. "The fish were not upsetting the balance of the world. That is the balance I was talking about."
He was shaking, and his skin was turning pink as tears streaked his cheeks. He wouldn't look at him either. "But... But... But you said..."
He stretched out an arm and, with the enormous blocky tips of his fingers, gripped the back of his son's shirt. The boy didn't even react as he was lifted into the air by his collar.
Lord Death swiftly shoved his tea toward the middle of the table with his free hand as he placed the boy directly in front of him. He still did not look up at him.
"Kiddo, I'm not mad at you," he said. How was he to explain something like this to him?
The boy stared down at his hands, which were neatly folded in his lap.
"All I need is for you to understand that what you've done is wrong."
"But, I..." He swallowed. "I didn't mean..."
The Death God tilted his head to the side. Six years, three months, and eight days...
"I think it's time for another lesson," he said as calmly and reassuringly as possible. He picked the younger reaper up by his collar again and placed him in the palm of his hand. The boy still wasn't looking at him.
Lord Death straightened himself into a standing position and sent the table and tea away in a soft puff of clouds. He carried the boy over to the enormous mirror stretching toward what could possibly be considered the ceiling. He placed him down before him.
"Kiddo, a reaper's responsibility is to keep the world in order so that everything works right," he said. "We're here to keep everything healthy, almost like a sort of immune system."
The boy stared at the ground still. He wasn't even sure if he was listening. Regardless, he continued.
"It's important for us to recognize what is hurting the order and what isn't," he explained. "Otherwise, the world would get sick."
"The most important thing to worry about is how the soul looks, not how the thing itself looks," he said. "I know you didn't mean to hurt anything, Kiddo, but you have to understand."
Kid was silent, eyes pinned tightly to his shoes, and seemingly as immovable as as if he were made of plastic. His hands were folded neatly in front of him and his posture was straight and practiced. His soul, though, was not as refined as his demeanor.
He needed to understand this while he was still young and moldable. He needed to learn this before it was too later, before he was too set in his ways, before he denied his teachings, and before the time when he would no longer be around to teach him. He absolutely had to see his error.
At the same time, he did not want to hurt his son. He did not want to upset him. It was already hard enough making the boy cry. He often wished he didn't have to teach him these things, wished he could preserve his happiness and innocence for as long as he could. He didn't need to know everything just yet, after all.
He waited for confirmation that he understood this, though, for this was the most incredibly vital lesson he'd learn in his life. There was no room for error, no room for doubt, though he was positive that the child was infinitely confused. He kept trying new things and testing out new ways to keep order, all of which were close but still missing the point as they almost always danced around an idealistic physical aesthetic based on symmetry rather than genuine balance. Lord Death was becoming worried he'd never understand.
He was still young, though. He was only six years, three months, and eight days old. He'd learn eventually. He had to.
"I..." the boy spoke. "I'm sorry..." he choked out. "I... I didn't mean... I didn't know... I'm sorry... I won't do it again, I promise, Father, I swear."
Lord Death sighed. He supposed that was a start. But he was still crying, because he was still just a child who did not understand.
A/N: I was hoping this'd be longer, but I guess this works. I'm going to be working on this collection a bit more I think.
Reviews are appreciated.