Disclaimer: If i owned Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle, at least one Ashura would have gotten a happy ending.

Warnings: Character death, serious burns (not graphic).

Pairings: Yashura forever.

Continuity: Either AU, or a legend that sprung up in the world of Shara, well after the end of the Shura arc. No spoilers.

Prompt: Tsubasa Chronicle Month Day 8 – OTP

This was in the long-ago time, when strange things happened and men could still become gods.

Now, before this time two clans were at war. Their reasons didn't matter; the war had gone on so long neither clan remembered exactly why they were fighting. They fought because that was the way it had always been.

Until the time i speak of, when the ruler of one clan and the ruler of the other fell in love.

They were evenly matched on the battlefield, so if neither wanted to kill the other, it didn't show. Their battles became a kind of dance, set to the music of clashing metal.

Then a day came when one didn't come to the field. He had fallen deathly ill, though his lover-enemy couldn't know that. The lover, whose name was Ashura, did not fight that day.

(That's the name of the god of war.

Yes, child. Now hush.)

Ashura did not fight that day, for who else was worthy of crossing blades with? None of the other clan's warriors dared issue a challenge in their leader's place, so Ashura stood still, alone in the center of their beginningless battle.

Ashura's lover died that sundown.

Ashura knew it immediately, in that way lovers do, without rhyme or reason. Many in Ashura's position would fall into despair, but Ashura was not that kind of person.

Ashura's lover-enemy Yasha had gone to the land of the dead.

(Because–

Shush, child. Let me tell the story.)

Yasha had gone to the land of the dead, and Ashura would bring him back.

There were two ways for a living person to enter the land of the dead. The first, of course, was to die. Ashura was not ready to take this path, and so would have to take the longer, more arduous route.

In those days all knew where it was the dead went; there was no need for the entrance to the land of the dead to be hidden, for before Ashura, no one dared enter who was still alive.

(But wouldn't there be–?

Perhaps, child, but that's not what this tale is about.)

Even so, the way to the land of the dead was not easy, for the living were not meant to go there. The world threw up its own barriers.

Uncrossable rifts opened in Ashura's path. Ocean waves the size of mountains crashed over the coast as Ashura passed. Spiraling windstorms threatened to sweep all hope away.

But still Ashura persevered, because there was no joy in life without Yasha.

Ashura could not exist without Yasha. There was no meaning to it.

(Is that why–?

Yes, child, i am sorry to say.)

And then, finally, Ashura stood at the foot of the mountain of death.

This mountain was tall, and perfectly conical. The top was eternally hidden by an undying cloud of smoke. Some say the smoke comes from an unquenchable fire, burning the inside of the mountain to keep the living and the dead apart. Others say that it's not actually smoke at all, but rather a mass of ghosts, those tortured souls trapped between two worlds.

(What do you think it is?

I think you should stop interrupting me, little one.

Sorry.)

The mountain was the mountain of death, and so it promised death to all who came to it. Ashura knew this, but surely even Ashura had to quell a shudder of fear at the sight of it.

But even so, Ashura began to climb the mountain. There would be a cavern, somewhere on the mountain, and that cavern would lead to what Ashura sought.

Fissures ran through the mountainside, but these were not the entrance for which Ashura searched. They were only shallow cracks, and some of them had been smoothed over and filled in by stone flowing down the mountain. Ashura passed them by.

Skeletons of spindly trees grew from the cracks. They must have been alive at some point, or perhaps were merely dormant now, because dead brown leaves caught among the stones and crunched under Ashura's bare feet. They had no scent left.

Ashura climbed higher up the mountain. The thin trees were left behind, and the scent of death filled the air. Ashura knew it was close.

Before long, a chasm opened up in the mountainside. It was far bigger than the cracks the trees grew from, tall enough for a large man to enter and three times as wide. Deep within, Ashura could see a steady orange light like fire.

We do not know if Ashura felt a twinge of fear, but it is known that Ashura walked into the chasm without hesitation. For what is fire in the face of love?

It was not a true fire that waited within, but a sea of stone heated so hot it had melted, and even the air above it burned.

But Ashura was born of fire, too, and was not afraid of this.

Being unafraid is not always enough, and so it was with the molten stone of the mountain of death. Ashura was born of fire, yes, but the stone still burned the flesh of Ashura's bare feet. Even the air inside the mountain was hot enough to crisp the skin of Ashura's arms and legs and face. The air was noxious, and it only grew harder to breathe the deeper into the mountain Ashura went.

And still Ashura persevered, because even all of this suffering was nothing compared to life without Yasha.

Eventually the stone burned Ashura's feet to the point that walking was no longer possible, and the journey had to be continued on hands and knees. This was worse than walking, because the skin there was not so tough, and there was more of it touching the ground besides.

Still Ashura continued, coughing from the foul air, hair dragging over the ground until it too burst into flame. Until Ashura was a flame incarnate.

This, too, was a barrier meant to keep the living from the realm of the dead.

When Ashura broke through, everything vanished. The land of the dead is not made of the same stuff as that of the living.

(Can you imagine it, child? To be wrapped in so much sensation – the burning of your flesh, the smell of the gases of the mountain, the light from your own burning hair, the sheer exhaustion Ashura must have felt – all stripped away in an instant?

No . . .)

In time, Ashura came to perceive the land of the dead. There was light, of a sort, given off by the ghostly visages of its inhabitants. Ashura, too, gave off this light now.

(Did Ashura die?

In a sense. You cannot enter the realm of death as a living being, but Ashura went there without dying first. At this point, Ashura was both alive and dead, and neither at the same time.

I don't understand.

Someday you may.)

The realm of the dead was carved from shadowed stone, though it did not strain Ashura's eyes to see. The light from the dead gave off no warmth.

Ashura looked, but did not see Yasha.

(But–

Hush, child.)

Ashura got up slowly – there is no more pain in the land of the dead – and started to search for Yasha.

There are things you know, when living in a time of legends. The thing you are searching for is always the hardest to find. Help too often comes at a price. Lovers are imprisoned, and enemies are kept in the dungeons.

Yasha could be found in the deepest, darkest part of the realm of the dead, and so it was there Ashura went to find him.

Down, down, down Ashura went; it seemed as though it should get darker deep under the mountain, but there were only more and more spirits lighting the halls. And they were halls, child, not tunnels, made from shaped stone and pounded earth. It was truly a home for the dead, a city, a kingdom without a king.

If it was a kingdom, there must be a palace, and it was there Ashura went.

It was there that Yasha waited, seated on a large altar-block of black granite, carved on its four sides with spirits and gods dancing like flames among phosphorescent ghostlights.

There he was, shining with his own light, and he looked up at Ashura's arrival.

Yasha held out his arms, and Ashura ran into them. Ashura had wept before, at Yasha's death, but that was nothing to the tears shed now. Yasha held his lover gently in his strong arms until the storm of Ashura's grief and joy and heartache was spent. Only when Ashura fell quiet did he speak.

"My enemy, my love, you should not be here," Yasha said.

"I came to find you," Ashura told him. "Come back with me."

"I can't," replied Yasha. "My body won't hold me any longer."

"I'll make you a body," promised Ashura. "Somehow. Come back with me."

"I can't," replied Yasha again. "The land of the dead has its laws, and someone must keep them."

"I don't care about the laws," said Ashura. "Come back with me."

"I can't," replied Yasha for the third time. "The land of the dead needs someone to watch over it. I will stay here, and become its king."

Ashura knew there was no point in trying any further to convince Yasha to leave. "Then i'll stay here with you."

"That's impossible too," Yasha said. "You aren't dead, so you won't be able to stay for much longer."

Indeed, Ashura already felt a pull at the spirit, pulling back to the realm of the living. "I'm not alive either! I'd rather destroy the world than live without you!"

"Destroy it if you must," said Yasha, "but i can never return."

"You cannot return," said Ashura slowly, "and i cannot stay. But we can still see each other." Ashura looked up and smiled. "I know what to do."

Ashura let go, and was carried out of the realm of death by the force of causality, stretched to its limit.

Ashura could not keep from returning above to the world of the living, but the journey to the kingdom of the dead had lasting effects. Ashura was no longer alive, and so, Ashura could not die. Even though Ashura threw everything into battle after battle, death would not open its gates in welcome.

There was no way to join the number of the dead, but all hope was not lost. Though Ashura could not die, a door could be opened to allow those who did perish through. At the end of each battle, Ashura could see Yasha again for a brief time, as he welcomed the newly deceased into his domain.

For a few moments, if Ashura was present at a death, it was possible for the two of them to be together again.

And so, Ashura fought. In some ways, the eternal war between the two clans was a boon, because battle had become a way of life. Ashura fought, not caring what the causes were or whether one side was in the right. All that mattered was that war continue, in some shape, in one part of the world or another, so long as Ashura could create openings to Yasha's realm of death. Ashura would chase after Yasha's shadow forever.

(But that's so sad.

It is, child, yes. That is why there has never been an end to war. Even if we are at peace here and now, someone else is fighting far away.

Isn't there any other way for them to be together?

If there is, i don't know it. Perhaps you will be the one who can permanently reunite Yasha and Ashura, so that there no longer needs to be a war?

I'll do it. I'll find a way.

If anyone can do it, child, i believe it may be you.)

A/N: I wanted to try writing something in a legendary style. The inserts from the storyteller and the child listening were influenced by Peter Beagle's first person writing style.