+ Fallacy, a 100themes Challenge +
Sarehptar

Theme: 19, Grey
Characters: Kharl
Pairing: None
Warnings: None
Need to Know Info: None?
Title Provider: Crystal Ball (Keane)

Who is the Man I See, Where I'm Supposed to Be?

It is not something he would normally have noticed, even at his most observant—but today is not just any day, and today he sees everything. He is afraid of what will happen if he does not. It was this day, more than a decade ago, that Ruin died, that blindness cost him everything. Today, he makes sure to open his eyes and see.

The mirror that cannot lie stretches out in front of him, all cold glass and dark circles. His hair is more tussled than normal: one side is flat and crushed down from where he'd burrowed into the pillow. There are purple streaks beneath his eyes that he attributes to the date, and the sleepless nights that lead up to it each year. He has been grinding his teeth again in the night; the inside of his lip bears fresh cuts from his fangs. But this is not what catches and holds his attention—because among each uniform lilac hair in his bedraggled bangs, something glints off-colored and nearly invisible.

With a deft hand and crossed eyes he separates it from the other strands and inspects it. Though the light in the washroom is poor, he knows it is anything but purple. It is a solid, unyielding gray. For a moment, he can only stare as if it is some living creature, something not attached to his head at all. Foreign and unwelcome, he plucks it free, and shakes the offending hair disparagingly. It shines mockingly in the broken morning light.

He knows it is not from age—by all means, he is a very young demon; he knows youkai who still consider him a child. Garfakcy would undoubtedly tell him it is from stress, from taking on too many projects at once and working for days on end. Perhaps that's all there is to it, and it is only his own overenthusiasm working against him. But he can't imagine that being the truth, really. His mind is never in the projects he does, the magic is mechanical, the long hours weigh less than a feather would. It is not from overwork, he is sure, but he does not know what else it could be.

It could not have anything do with Rath, the Alchemist wants to believe. It surely has nothing to do with striving every day to find his place in the world and the war and liking neither side. It has nothing to do with remembering every sin he has committed and every thing he has lost. Inside his mind, each tragedy has its perfect place, every murder and every lie is neatly filed and silent. They are not pressing on him. They are not threatening to overflow. He winds the single gray hair around his finger. One time, two times, three lies, four times.

The tension strength of hair is stunning, he thinks, because he wants to drown the other thoughts. The strand cuts painfully into his skin, and he tightens it again, further, waiting to see if it will draw blood or cut clean through to bone. The pain is like a burn, burning he has come to love so much—because what can't be erased by flame? What scars can't be melted away, what tears can't be boiled off? What loyalty or love can walk unscathed through the fire? He'd promised himself that there was nothing left inside: ash and nothing more, but maybe that was a lie too. There might still be something left inside him alive enough to burn with hope…

The strand snaps finally, falling off in pieces and leaving his flesh red and raw. Blood rushes back to his blue fingertip and his hand pounds sharply. He watches the shattered hair for a moment and worries. Maybe, just like that, he is stretching too far, tightening too much, increasing the pressure without letting anything go. Maybe one day he'll snap just like that silvery white thread—and all that will remain will be the raw severed shards of a man and a mind.

His sigh echoes softly in the half-lit washroom, and the dark circles under his eyes seem darker than before. It's only overwork, he lies, and the ghost of the smile that tugs at his face seems wry and hollow.

Briefly, he wonders if a brain can be old inside a young skull. The thought makes him laugh, and even though the sound is quiet, it strikes him like a physical blow. Garfakcy is right, he insists, I should take a vacation.

Suddenly, being out of this dim castle and this young body and this tragic life seems like it would be a great relief.

Next up, Theme 20: Vacation

"I am! I r-really am! I was all like 't-touch my f-flowers and I'll k-kill you!'"
"Did you stutter like that when you said it?"