Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ Can Ever Dissever: A Grim Fairy Tale ❯ One-Shot

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: The cast of "Rurouni Kenshin" belongs to Watsuki Nobuhiro. I am making absolutely no profit from this, so please don't sue.

Notes: The title was taken from a line of Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee" -- rather apropos, I thought. This story started out as a fusion of Rurouni Kenshin and Greek mythology, with Saitou cast in the role of Orpheus. Yes, I know. I can't see him playing a lyre either. However, seeing as how it was inspired by an interpretation of Orpheus in Plato's "The Symposium", the story's taken on a life of its own. God, it was exhausting to write.

Warning: Angst. Death. I've been writing a lot of that lately, haven't I? Being sick doesn't exactly make me feel joyous.

"But Orpheus the son of Oeagrus they sent away from Hades disappointed of the wife he had come to fetch -- what they showed him was a mere ghost and they did not surrender her real person -- because he seemed to lack spirit....he had not the courage to die for love like Alcestis, but contrived to enter Hades alive."
The Symposium, Plato

Once upon a time there lived a man, a warrior. He had eyes of amber, like resin frozen in ice. There was more than a suggestion of coldness about him, in the way his gaze would fall on a person in judgement and found them wanting. He spoke in sneers or statements, one or the other, always with a cool disdain that passed as a warrior's courtesy. More terrible was his smile, an iron mask to be pulled away later to reveal--

--nothing. There is no redemption for the damned.

They called him the Wolf. His sword howled as he drew it, glinting like sharp fangs in moonlight, howled when the blade feasted on human blood and fat and skin and bone. It howled long after he walked away, leaving behind another corpse to quickly rot under the rising sun.

Aku. Soku. Zan.

He cared not which master he served, knowing that his supreme loyalty lay in his sword and the man he was. He was a warrior. He killed not for riches and glory, but for the codes thrumming in his being as he stalked in the shadows and smiled.

One day he fell in love. Unexpectedly. Fiercely.

The boy was barely a man, dressed in the white of a virgin or a mourner. A long piece of crimson cloth held messy dark hair away from a face that seemed rarely touched by sadness. The Wolf walked the streets as if he owned them -- the boy walked the streets as if he belonged to them. When the warrior looked into the boy's brown eyes he could see fire, blazing hot in defiance.

The Wolf pursued the boy as wolves do, passion and bloodlust igniting into a violent hunt. He chased until the boy was weakened, amber eyes gleaming. But the Wolf was a man, intelligent and cunning, a hunter who knew his prey. Just as he nipped a sweaty neck, poised over the boy's trembling body, he left and waited for the younger man to come to him.

He had only to wait for a night and a day.

They became lovers for the first time under a new moon, their joining fast and rough. The boy cried sweetly when the warrior took him, fingernails digging into grass and soft earth, even as the Wolf's howls echoed his lupine brothers.

He kissed his lover's hand in apology later, when they lay together whispering promises. The slender fingers felt calloused and strong against his palm, and tasted of crushed grass. The boy had entwined his arms around the warrior's shoulders, his voice unusually soft. In the darkness, the Wolf finally saw the sorrow beneath his smiling bravado.

When the dawn illuminated their naked bodies, the warrior opened his eyes, a strange feeling in his chest. He watched his still-sleeping lover, memorizing every line of the face he knew he would still think beautiful even when ravaged by age. When his lover awakened, the Wolf found himself staring at twin reflections of his own eyes in the dark orbs.

He felt... vulnerable. Exposed. He had a wife once, but he had never seen his soul in her eyes. Then he thought, this must be what love is.

The moon waxed and waned, and the riotous colours of the seasons passed by with pomp. Four years they had together, marked by fiery arguments -- for the warrior was a harsh man, and the boy slow to forgive -- but also by overwhelming love. Their love spilled into the cracks within them, slowly healing the damage done before they met.

The warrior broke anew on a balmy summer evening, as he stared at the ashes of what had been a palatial home. His lover had caught the eye of a powerful and ambitious swordsman, who lured the boy into his lair. But the boy was a warrior in his own right, and the smouldering ruins were proof of his tenacity.

Not good enough. There was not even a body left to bury.

The Wolf fell to his knees, his sword clattering on the ground beside him. Tears pooled in his eyes, but none slid down his cheeks. Throwing back his head, he howled his rage and grief to the moon. Faintly, he could hear his brothers' voices, speaking to him of revenge and bloodshed. And he went mad.

The swordsman's loyal band fell to his blade, one by one. A courtesan. A sword thief. A merchant. A fallen monk. A giant. A woman-man. A flying assassin. A blind killer. An ever-smiling warrior. His sword's song rose in anger, almost laughing in bitter joy as he executed his vengeance.

Aku. Soku. Zan.

Weary and bloodied, he finally limped back to the home he had shared with his lover. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, and the bed was too cold to sleep in alone. He took to wandering around the house during the hours of the night, sleeping only when his body demanded it. Even then he was plagued by dreams of the boy. They were sweet, these dreams, transmuting into an ache so deep it sent him reeling.

One morning, he looked into a mirror and saw a ghost -- himself, golden eyes burning in a too-pale face. His mouth tightened, hardening his features. Deliberately, ceremoniously, he smashed the mirror with his fist. He sank slowly to the floor, unheeding of the glass, and wept for a long time.

The Wolf awoke the next morning dry-eyed and resolute. He was no ordinary man; he was a warrior. It was too late for regrets... he would make the gods revoke their decree and return his lover to him, by any means necessary. Smiling his terrible smile, he bathed and dressed his wounds. Garbed in the traditional attire of a warrior -- for one does not face the gods in rags -- he set out on his journey.

Life was simple enough to find in an age where the gods walked among mortals, and no god liked it more than she. He found her in the bazaar of a bustling town, dressed in a flowing robe of indigo silk. Her hair was tied back high on her head, the long tresses falling like black water. Her page and handmaidens trailed after her, disappearing at her command when he strode up to them. She seemed neither surprised nor pleased to see him.

When he challenged her, the displeasure on her youthful face soured into fury. Powerful winds whipped sakura blossoms like a hurricane around them, and the indigo of her robe fading into white. Life's wooden sword appeared in her hands, and he knew not to underestimate the seemingly more fragile weapon. This he knew, and did not care.

He told her the aged wood was the same colour as his dead lover's eyes.

Life's expression seemed to crumple then, her dark eyes misting over. White petals settled about them like snowflakes. She lowered her sword and gazed at him for some time, as if searching for a secret. Finally she sighed heavily, bangs falling over her face, before intoning a warning.

What you seek will only lead to ruin.

His amber gaze remained implacable, screaming to her without words that he would do what he will or die trying. Life shook her head and reached inside her robe, pulling out a copper coin. She pressed it into his hand and wished him luck. He would need it, she said, and sometimes -- only sometimes -- Luck may claim victory over Destiny.

The Wolf journeyed for many days, stopping only to sleep and eat. Three horses had collapsed before he reached his destination, a cave at the edge of the world. Here he would take the first step to the kingdom of Death, he who had been Life's consort before bitterness shattered their vows. Now they could only meet in the in-between moments, for his shadows were an anathema to Life as her light was to him.

The warrior lit a torch and descended into darkness, his footsteps echoing in the damp stairwell. For how long he walked he did not know, but hours -- days -- weeks -- later he discerned the faint sound of rushing water and a dim light beckoning him. The Wolf could sense the gossamer souls brushing against his skin, the remembrance of whispers in his ears, all bound for their last journey.

The roar of four waterfalls, converging into the River of Sorrow, was almost deafening in the huge cavern. A small jetty jutted out over the fast-running river, and tied to it was a bamboo raft. At his approach a small figure looked up, wide eyes staring at him from a girlish face. The guide looked disapproving, even angry, but accepted the token with bad grace and gestured towards the raft. Life still held sway here, and she would not risk angering a god.

And so they sailed down the treacherous water of Sorrow, the guide's long braid swinging as the raft bobbed and swerved. Once or twice she looked back at him, as if she wished she could knock him into the river with her pole. He smirked at her, making her flush indignantly.

He was near, so near to his love. In his heart he thought he could feel the faint tugs of his lover's soul, waiting for his rescue. The Wolf leaned back, dreamed, and a smile crossed his face like a knife's slash.

The gates to Death were hewn from grey-white jade, with the image of a snake biting its tail graven onto their center. He barely heard the guide's departure, muttering curses under her breath. There were no warriors standing guard, which surprised him. But why should it? He did not know anyone who returned alive from Death's kingdom.

At least, until now.

Placing his palms against the cold surface of the gates, he shoved with all his might. They swung open soundlessly, laying bare--

Faces. Bone-white faces jostled at him, black pools where their eyes used to be. Their mouths gaped open, exposing tongue and teeth gone dry, wailing of dreams left far too late. They cried and whimpered and he gritted his teeth and ignored faces he thought he knew to push through the crowd, fighting his way to the throne of Death.

On a dais of lost hopes, in a chair built of sacrifices, sat Death. Golden eyes, so much like the warrior's own, studied him from under crimson bangs. A criss-crossed scar marred Death's left cheek, a reminder of his acrimonious parting with Life. His long hair was tied high into a ponytail, and he wore black armour over a smoke-grey robe.

Sleep stood to his left, a beautiful woman with long black hair and lips painted red. Her diaphanous dress showed off rather than hid the curves of her body, a temptation for any mortal. Her fox ears twitched when she caught sight of the Wolf, and a smile bowed her seductive mouth.

To Death's right stood black-clad War, his champion and lover, swords hefted in both hands. War's green eyes were almost as cold as Death's, and the set of his imposing shoulders left little doubt as to the advisability of challenging a deity who personified bloodshed.

The Wolf was past caring about common sense a long time ago. He stalked towards the dais, shaking off thin hands grabbing at his clothes. Snarling, he looked up into the eyes of Death and demanded the one person who had ever thought him worth loving.

Laughter rang through the Underworld, before stopping abruptly as Death leaned forward in his throne. Dark mirth danced in his eyes, making them sparkle under the floating lights of innocent souls.

Entertain me, little mortal.

The ground under the Wolf cracked, forcing him to step back. The crack widened into a chasm, and from the tear in the earth scores of warriors sprang forth. Armed with swords and armoured with iron, they regarded him as a pack of scavengers would drool over meat.

He met their charge with a smirk, mind and will immovable. His sword was a quicksilver killer in his hands, blessing the floor beneath him with a benediction of blood. He parried deftly, catching a quick glimpse of the triumvirate on the dais, before thrusting his blade deep into the heart of a warrior.

Aku. Soku. Zan.

The Wolf whirled and kicked, slashing an exposed throat. Blood stained his face, mixing with rivulets of sweat, painting a grotesque mask. On and on he fought, until he alone stood in the midst of corpses.

War looked mildly impressed. Panting, the Wolf glared at Death. He forced himself into an arrow-straight stance, still keeping his gaze on the god.

Death smiled, an enigmatic little twist of his lips. He would give the Wolf just one chance, he said. Just one chance. When the warrior walked back to the living world, his lover would follow. But the Wolf must never look back, or the boy would be lost to him forever.

More than a little suspicious, but seeing no other choice, the Wolf agreed. He turned to leave, accompanied by the sound of Death's quiet chuckles. The sounds still reverberated in his ears when he passed through the gates again, to meet the distinctly unhappy guide.

Before, time seemed to pass in the Underworld like silk. Now, as he ascended the stairs, every second grated in his thoughts. He thought he could sense the presence of his lover behind him, a faint thrum in his heart -- but he could not be sure. Doubts preyed on his mind, murmuring that it had been far too easy. Surely Death extracted far greater payment than a few dead warriors?

At the threshold to the living world, he hesitated.

Death does not lie.

But gods are masters at the art of obfuscation, and while they may tell the truth they are not entirely honest.

Amber eyes narrowed into slits. There was so much at stake here, and he had only one chance. Just one chance. His gaze fell on the sword held in his hand, its scabbard lost during the battle. Quickly, he polished the blade with his sleeve and held it to light, making a mirror of the gleaming steel.

What he saw made him smile.

He walked out into the afternoon sunlight, letting its golden warmth chase away the lingering chill in his body. It was now or never. Eyes closed, he turned, hearing the call of a familiar voice. And when he opened them again it was to an adoring smile and the weight of his lover's arms. Silently he enfolded the boy in a fierce embrace, kissing the messy mop of brown hair. And he was happy.

Mostly.

In the weeks and months to come, the Wolf began to notice that his lover had grown quieter, sometimes withdrawing into himself when he once would let loose with a barrage of fists. He forgot things the lovers did before he died -- little things, but all the more obvious because of it. Sadness clung to every sweep of his hands over the Wolf's body, lovemaking gone bittersweet. When they lay together in the night, sometimes the warrior would wake up to find droplets of salt water on his chest.

Worst of all, the Wolf could no longer see himself in the dark mirrors of his lover's eyes.

Questions gnawed at his mind as he began trailing his lover from a distance, spying on each movement like a hunter. Eventually he no longer made love to the boy, and when they held each other he wondered why the flesh he once hungered for felt just a little colder. The more he deliberated, the more convinced he became that he knew the reason behind his lover's odd behaviour.

The boy watched the solitary wolf -- who was once his lover -- with more than a little bewilderment on his expressive face, trying everything he knew to entice the warrior back to their bed. When it did work he ended up sore and bruised, curled into a protective ball on rumpled sheets, and the Wolf never stayed the night. He stopped trying. Soon he learned to listen to the familiar tread with fear, rather than anticipation.

But a courageous fire burned within the boy, refusing to submit to abuse he knew he did not deserve -- and once thought he was finally safe from. One day, while snow fell in droves from a darkened sky, he came to the Wolf and demanded: this must stop.

The Wolf smirked and grasped his chin and spoke: only if you give me the one I love.

Betrayal vibrated in the silence, louder than a scream, pushing the boy to the floor. His eyes took on a watery sheen, and his hands trembled as they clutched his knees.

I am he.

You are a ghost.

Don't you love me?

I will never love Death's lie.

The high-pitched wail of the wind masked the sound of a sword drawn from its scabbard, but there was no mistaking the gleam of steel. Amber eyes hard, the Wolf drove his blade through the boy's shoulder, pinning the younger man to the wall. Distantly, he could hear wolves howling.

Aku. Soku. Zan.

His sword made wet noises as he pulled it out of the boy's shoulder, and he watched without mercy as his former lover slumped to the floor. Blood pooled into a lake under the young man's body, soaking his clothes. All this the Wolf saw, and did not care.

Give him back to me.

I can't.

Then you leave me no choice.

The Wolf raised his sword, and plunged it with all his might into the center of the boy's chest. Crimson splattered his face, stinging his eyes, as steel parted flesh and shattered bones.

Aku. Soku. Zan.

Tears escaped their confines, but the boy did not scream. He gasped, almost soundlessly. For a moment it seemed as if all the pain in the world found a canvas in his face, rendering it into tragedy.

Just one chance, he gurgled. I was afraid... how long will we have -- this time? Guess... now I know...

Umber met amber for the last time, and it was the Wolf who screamed when he saw the reflection in the boy's dying eyes.

In the frozen forest, a lone wolf answered.

-owari-

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