Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Laura Marling's "Alas, I Cannot Swim", her song "My Manic and I" from said album, nor Eyeshield 21.
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If Juumonji was sure he could breathe at all in this form, he'd be hyperventilating right now. Somewhere above him—well, he thought about it as above him, though to be quite honest, he couldn't be quite sure where he was at all—his precious clay Sena was laying on a park bench with a kneeling Juumonji clutching his cold, hard hand (was he, though? Or was he down in this cold wasteland seeking Sena?). Some inner troublemaking part of him, which couldn't quite be quashed like he should be able to as a responsible adult, was gleefully contemplating what sorts of reactions he would be getting from the unfortunate strangers who could potentially be stumbling upon a ring of lit candles circling a college athlete clinging to and incredibly life-like clay statue on a bench in the center of an impeccably manicured lawn.
A bigger part of Juumonji was stumbling in the dimly lit realm of death, desperately seeking the soul of his lost love. The Old Man was furious that he had managed to craft Sena without doubt and with unremitting love, let alone cast the old, old, old, powerful spell to let Juumonji attempt to find the lost soul that was once housed in a similar casing.
Worse though than the angry Old Man was the voice. The Old Man had been charged with a duty, a duty that he felt he was violating and hated every second of, Juumonji could feel once he slipped his mortal skin to enter death, but the voice… Juumonji couldn't feel the voice, not even in the almost limit-less expansion of his soul that chaffed at him as he brushed past the lost souls of death that were lingering and occasionally watching Juumonji's bright soul with longing. The voice wasn't happy, though, he didn't think. But not in the same way the Old Man wasn't happy. In a colder way.
Juumonji let out a little sound of distress. The souls—so many souls—he couldn't see around them, he couldn't find his smaller lover. Their souls, their emotions, hurt, bewildered, and distracted him. He was terrified; he had to find Sena, and he had a deadline. He must have Sena, and he must have himself and Sena out of death before dawn. How long was that? Intellectually, Juumonji knew he had about seven hours of darkness from the time he completed the ritual, but who knew how the slippery and careless time passed in death. That was the usual state of things, wasn't it? That the supernatural had a hold on the night, but in this instance, the sun wouldn't save him. The morning is mocking me.
Desperate and scared, Juumonji turned to the river the sea the waters of death. He walked and walked and walked and sought and sought.
What was the use of magic and gods if he couldn't do this on his own? If he couldn't even find his Sena? His heart cried.
What do I do now? His mind asked, I can't find Sena. Do I flee? There were darker spells in the Tome. Do I really need Sena's soul when I can have his body?
Juumonji's heart sneered in disgust. Most of Juumonji's mind sneered in disgust. Juumonji's soul wished he could split itself and throw the slimy, disgusting part of him that seriously considered that question into the sea the river the water of death to be washed away from him.
And in that moment of unconditional love and unconditional disgust, Juumonji found Sena.
You guys, it's Monday! For once in my life, I'm enjoying Mondays; Mondays are the days that I get to post more Clay!