the minutes of the day were golden

BWAHAHAHAHA!

2009-09-09T02:23:18Z

Yes. This is what I have been waiting for my. whole. life.

http://community.livejournal.com/trueblood_sues/

Fire in the Sky

2009-09-08T01:58:25Z

Title: Fire in the Sky
Fandom: Southern Vampire Novels
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own True Blood or Sookie Stackhouse or Eric Northman. I own very little besides what's in my head, in fact.
Summary: Denial isn't just for humans anymore. Warning for angst.
Pairing: Sookie/Eric

Beta-read by kitty_vicious . A thousand thank yous!

There is an empty ache in his mind. It pulses as he sits, staring off into space. Absently, he wonders if he looks brooding and mysterious, instead of lost, which is how he feels. He has existed for a thousand years alone and apart from humanity, the only company he kept the company that he choose to create. Picking his children over the years, keeping them by his side for decades before they finally leave.

As she has left him. Sookie is gone, and he wonders that he is still here, undead instead of ashes and dust, scattered in some alley. He's sitting in Fangtasia, surrounded by patrons eager to experience the vampire mystique. Eager to be noticed, appreciated, and devoured. He closes his eyes in an unguarded moment, overwhelmed that he is here, and alive.

In that instant, he is in a glade, surrounded by woods. There is water trickling by, icy cold even at the height of summer, chilled by its long journey down the mountains. Sookie is standing in the water, naked, her skin gleaming in the moonlight. Eric wonders why she isn't shivering, why she's so pale. He realizes then: at the last possible moment he turned her. She is alive, and his forever, for as long as they want forever to last. He looks around and recognizes the mountains and the trees; they are in Norway, and everything is just as he left it. He is home, and she is with him.

He fucks her in the cool wet grass, and her cries are loud and desperate. They come together, and they are kissing the entire time; neither of them needs to stop to breathe. She is beautiful and pale, and she shall never see the sun again. No matter; the moon worships her, like some goddess. She is Hnoss, a treasure to be cherished, and Eric shall guard her forever. She shall be his succor when everything changes, as it always does.

“Sir, um, please, could you maybe sign this?”

He opens his eyes, and a pretty young brunette smiles at him coyly. The glade is gone, and he is surrounded by people; the moonlight is replaced by electricity. She is holding out the Fangtasia calendar, opened up to his picture. He keeps his expression blank, reaching out and signing it with the large black marker she offers up in the other hand. He entertains a brief thought of taking her to the back rooms, drinking from her until she comes. But he does not; he knows that he has but to reach out and food would offer itself up, but he is not hungry.

Pam looks over at him from across the room. He has known her for centuries, but he cannot read the expression in her eyes at this moment. Holding eye contact, she walks over. Her hand falls to his shoulder and squeezes, slightly. She bends over and kisses him on the cheek. She walks away just as casually as she came.

Sam calls the club two nights later. Felicia, the latest bartender, hands Eric the phone and pretends not to notice that he has been staring off into space again. Eric wonders, absently, how it was that Felicia, out of all the Fangtasia bartenders, survived Sookie. He shall have to keep her around; he needs minions who know how to endure.

Eric's voice is smooth and collected. “Sam.” Eric does not care enough to use any pleasantries. He does not feel pleasant, currently.

“Eric. Hi. I just wanted to let you know, the funeral is exactly a week from now. In honor of the fact that so many of her friends and... associates were vampires, the funeral is being held at dusk. So just show up as soon as you can, and you shouldn't miss much.” Sam sounds tired. Of course, Sookie was one of his most reliable waitresses; it will be difficult to replace her, Eric is sure.

“I am not entirely sure I shall attend,” Eric said after a moment. “It is a very busy time for me.” Eric almost offers up some further reason, further excuse, but stops himself with a will. He has perfectly legitimate reasons not to be there, besides which, he does not need to justify himself to Sam.

“Well.” Sam does not sound happy, but it is not Eric's responsibility to make Sam happy. “You know she'd want you to be there.” Eric sees no need to respond to that, and the silence stretches. “Fine,” Sam continues, “just let anyone you think would be interested know the details. The cemetery by the house. Dusk. Next Sunday.”

Eric hangs up, and hesitates a moment before picking up the phone and calling New Orleans.

For a week, he occupies himself with running the territory. He wonders if he's really content with so small a chunk of Louisiana. Why Louisiana at all, actually. One of the northern states might suit his tastes better; longer nights, colder nights. He misses snow. He's never been to Canada, and finds himself filling out paperwork and imagining orange streetlamps illuminating snowy Quebec streets.

Towards the end of every night, Pam comes up to him and kisses him softly on the cheek, a question in her eyes. Each night he smiles, thankful for her presence. Things have always been so good between them; they have a harmonious relationship, and their bodies fit together well. But each night he shakes his head. He wants to bury himself in a body, yes, but he finds that not even Pam can be what he needs.

On Sunday his eyes snap open; he has awakened a little before dark has fully stretched across the sky. Eric sits up quickly, unsure like a rabbit that does not know which way to bolt. He revises that in his mind: he is a wolf on the prowl, uncertain where prey can be found. It sounds better, even if the first image is, he acknowledges, more accurate. Eric does not know what he wants, what he needs.

He longs to simply get up and start walking, heading north until dawn. Away from here. He thinks back to the death of his wife, and wonders if he had felt this way then. He does not know; his memories of her have faded with time, and he cannot even recall if he had loved her, if he had loved his children. He can still remember the rush of battle, the joy of killing.

In a thousand years, perhaps none of this shall matter. Eric is surprised to find that he is not comforted by this thought. He does not want to forget.

He dresses with care and deliberation, a formal suit in all black; he looks in the mirror, and knows he looks good. Handsome. Eric meets his own eyes in the silvered glass, and notes that nothing looks different. He is the same as he ever was.

Nothing has changed, he acknowledges. He moves across the darkened land, the sun invisible below the horizon, dying light streaking across the sky.

When he arrives at the graveyard, he spots the ceremony easily. This is a small town with a long history, gravestones stretching across acres, but the Stackhouses' have a centrally placed plot and it is easy to spot. They have been here a long time, and many of their bodies have been buried under the moist swampy earth. He makes his way over to a surprisingly large crowd; despite her reputation as a town oddity, Sookie had lived there her whole life, and everyone in town not involved with the Fellowship of the Sun had attended, despite the odd time. In addition, Eric observed, the entire Shreveport were pack was there. Cataliades and Diantha are standing off to one side, and Eric nods to them briefly.

Eric notices, with a clench to his jaw, that Bill is already there. He looks like shit. Bill is standing close to the coffin, as though he has a right to be there. Eric fights the urge to muscle his way through the surrounding crowd listening to the service. He has every right to be there, though, every right to be close, so he steps forward. People melt back as he advances, so he looks cool and collected instead of aggressive. Or desperate. Or bereft.

The priest drones on through the service as Eric stands there. Pam has appeared at his side as if by magic, and Eric is startled to realize that he has not been paying attention. He has let his guard down here, lost in thought. Or rather, lost in an absence of thought. He has been staring at her coffin, thinking of nothing. Eric closes his eyes and for a moment he sees her, pale in the moonlight, fangs dripping blood.

Then the priest is gone, the crowd has dispersed, and only those closest to her are left by the grave. Tomorrow dirt will be piled over the coffin, and she will vanish forever. Bill is standing there, looking at him, a bitter twist to his mouth. Their eyes meet, and Bill finds him lacking, Eric is sure. Bill says, “She died too quickly for me to get there. Otherwise, I'm not sure I could have stopped myself. You though, you could have done it at any instant. You had certainly forced enough of your blood on her to accomplish the change with only a thought.”

Eric looks at him. Bill should seem pitiful in this moment, but he is, as ever, solid and strong. Eric does not know how Bill can love, and still be so easy to respect. “You know as well as I she would never have-”

“I know! Of course I know. But I...” Bill cuts off there, and Eric knows there are some things that cannot be said between rivals. Bill looks at the gravestone and shuts his eyes for an instant. He then nods goodbye to everyone gathered, and vanishes into the night. Eric suspects he has gone to her house, and will spend the rest of the night and the next day there, moping. Eric knows what he was going to say though, before Bill cut himself off, because it is the same thing that is in his heart. She would never have consented to the change. But.

He leaves the graveyard, walking as a human would, leaving everything behind. When he closes his eyes, he sees again the glade. Her legs are blue in the water, feet delicate against the stones of the creek bed. A cold wind is blowing and her hair whips in the wind, her body silhouetted against the night. Stars glitter where her skin touches sky.

When she reaches out her hand, Eric takes it eagerly, pressing it to his face, kissing the palm. She pulls him to her, and they stand in the water together, feet and calves washed by the mountain snowmelt. His skin is cold, but he is being immolated from the inside. He buries his face in her wind-tangled hair and his heart is burning, the back of his throat aches, and he wonders if he is dying. Everything is on fire, and when he opens his eyes he wishes he had just kept them shut. Red tears cover her shoulder, are seeping down over her body, marking wounds out on the surface of her flesh. She is bleeding, and he can hear her heart beat.

She puts her fingers under his chin and tilts his face up. Her eyes are wide and smiling, and she leans in and whispers, “Thank you.” He wants to beg and plead and sob. To beat her and to fuck her and to make love to her until they both disintegrate into dust. He wants to tell her of the dark and bitter places in him. But the moon has already sunk below the horizon, and the sun is rising in the east.

They turn as one to look into the dawn. Blood from her wounds is spilling down her body into the mountain water, which carries it away, to a place he cannot find. The sun rises. Eric opens his eyes, and finds himself in Louisiana again, on the road that leads to her home from town. It is the same road, he realizes, that she found him on when he had been cursed, not even knowing his own name.

The forest is suddenly illuminated as a car approaches. He stares, caught in the headlights like a wild animal. It drives by without stopping. He stands for a moment. He closes his eyes, but he is still in Louisiana, and Sookie is still dead. He starts walking again; there are empty places where she used to be. Surrounded by black forest that brackets the road, he can see in his mind's eye a pyre, burning, a being of sun and moonlight lifting, racing up into the sky.

Naruto Ch 4!!!

2008-11-11T00:22:24Z

Hi all! Sooo happy. I have actually completed yet another part, this time part 1 of a three part mystery. I'm kind of confused as to what to call this - on ff.net, it's all in one document, partially because they're all part of the same storyline, and partially (honestly) to get more readers, since people tend to read longer stuff more frequently. On the other hand, I don't know if I could really post each of these separately, since there's a later chap with my kickass OFC, and people would be like 'who the hell is Olutotsi? this is no one-shot!' So, yeah. Anyway, newest installment in Ghosts, first part of a three-parter. Also, a mystery!

Naruto dreams. Sakura is fluttering in and out of his sight, like a butterfly rocked by the wind, or a hummingbird. Something beautiful, because she will always be beautiful to him, her arms rising upward and her voice low. Her back arches and she is a dolphin and then gone. A dark shadow shifts in the background, rising up.

He wakes at predawn. He hears a wailing and expects it to stop once he registers the sound, thinks that it must be him. But it doesn't stop; it only intensifies and he slips off the blanket and gets to his feet, graceful as he is only when no one's there to see. He treads lightly to the window, looking at the snow starting to fall, blanketing the inn. The entire world is dark and light at the same time, stained sickly yellow by the guttering oil lamp outside, no other light from the already-set moon or the soon-to-rise sun.

Naruto shifts restlessly. The wailing has not stopped, and he knows it is just the wind. The dreamlike quality of the night shatters when Jiraiya's thick drunken snore hits, droning on and on. Just as Naruto is called to reality, he sees a shadow slip in the corner of his eye, outside on the snow. It is a familiar shape, a familiar motion, and he is frozen, breath held in and eyes wide. It is, it cannot be anyone else, but the longer he stares the more it becomes nothing at all, eyes open so long everything turns black, and with his blink all phantoms real or imagined are gone. The sun is rising.

Naruto goes back to bed, prepared to stay there until noon. When he sleeps he dreams of shadows, always approaching but never arriving.

He wakes to find the light muted, though he thought it would be late. Jiraiya's snore is laboured now, breath puffing out from his nose, visible in the cold. A stream of drool is visible on his chin, slick and muted in the dimness. Gross.

Naruto slips on his undershirt and black pants, unusually subdued by the atmosphere. Not to mention that his orange clothes are all in the wash. The wash water is probably frozen, and Naruto wonders how long it will be until he can actually get them back. It doesn't matter much though. Jiraiya will want to stay for a few more days, and Naruto can't find it in himself to object.

The inn, more fairly a brothel, is large and clean, several sleek wooden floors. Most of its guests are fat and wealthy, and Naruto still can't figure out how they got rooms. Jiraiya, he knows, can actually be charming when he puts his mind to it, but Naruto doesn't want to think about it in any closer detail than that. Though, he muses, pushing back a screen to reveal a short passage blocked off by a very subtle entryway, it could just be professional courtesy. After all, Jiraiya does write those crap books. Naruto pushes open the screen, discrete as the screen itself – secret passage, Naruto thinks – to enter the main balcony, wrapped around the central area of the inn itself. Four floors tall, it is the highest place Naruto has ever been, with the exception of the Hokage's headquarters. He stands quietly in the shadows of the fourth floor, overlooking the tiered balconies and the central hot springs. The entire inn is built around the hot springs, with both men and women already soaking up heat. The sections aren't separated by gender, and Naruto watches with only vague interest as a man his companion fuck with enthusiasm.

Standing there hidden by his own uncharacteristic stillness, Naruto smells something so familiar and elusive it winds into his brain and burrows down. There is nothing for him in that moment but finding and recovering the sensation of some point in his past, when he was a boy in truth instead of the half-man half-boy hybrid he is now, when his breath never caught in his chest, snagged on old wounds buried there. He doesn't move, but instead feels the world turn over. He collapses onto the ground, one leg buckling and then the other, like dominoes. In his head he can almost hear the voice, Did you just faint when you smelled me, idiot?

And then the world stops spinning and he gets up, leaning on the railing unsteadily. Naruto looks down to the hot springs, only to see a different man and a different woman, but still fucking. He envisions himself down there, but he's young, he's hot stuff. He could do better than that old fat-ass. Then Naruto feels ashamed of himself; he's not mean usually.

He moves down silently, jumping down to the third floor, the floors tiered and easy to jump from. The world tilts again but not all the way, and he prowls forward, ready to strike at anything that moves. The corridor is empty, but behind discrete closed doors ineffectually blocking the sounds of moans and snores and the occasional grunt there are people, sleeping or otherwise occupied in bed.

He listens closely but does not hear the only voice he cares to hear, right now. Instead, he can almost feel Kyuubi's rumbling in the depths of his body. But not really. Naruto shakes himself sharply, trying to shake himself out of whatever funk he's in. Too late he notices, subtle but pervasive, the odor of incense on the air, herbs and opium.

A door slams open and a girl bursts out, flowery pink kimono gaping open to reveal a prepubescent body. Naruto is repulsed to see a older man follow, laughing like it's all fun an games. Naruto knows it's not, because he had a chance to see her face; he follows after them silently, moving from rafter to rafter. The man is drunk, or something else, but Naruto can't tell. His sandals clop along the floor loudly, wooden heels just ready and waiting to wedge into some convenient gap in the floorboards... like the one that Naruto pries open with his claws, hiding himself as much as possible in the poorly-lit corridor.

The man falls flat on his face, and the girl stops to watch, startled by his “whump!” of distress. Naruto finishes him off with a solid blow to the head and drags him quickly back to the room the girl ran out of in the first place. He does his best to act nonchalant, but no one really cares in the first place, and nobody from the hot springs even looks up in their direction. Drugged out of their minds, Naruto guesses, though he doesn't know for sure.

The girl – and she's older than he first guessed, though not by much – she reminds him of Sakura, way back before they had even graduated. They regard each other silently for a second, Naruto really unsure of the etiquette in this situation. How do you leave someone after having knocked out their employer/harasser? Apparently she knows though, because she steps forward and then gets on her knees, leaning forward. Naruto jerks back, repulsed. “Eh? No! What?!? No. Nonononono. Get up. Seriously. Not cool.”

She looks up at him with a puzzled expression, like she's never had anyone reject a blowjob (from a early-teen-something girl!). He almost feels bad, like he kicked a puppy or something, because she looks a little rejected and scared too. “Ah, hey, come on, it's fine. Um, so, hey, where can a guy get something to eat around here?”

And she nods her head down and to the side, over to the hot springs, where the just-finished-fucking couple are now downing kebabs and tepid sake, lounging on the warm rocks. “No, like, real food.”

She looks at him in surprise, again, and it's an expression he's beginning to suspect she just wears perpetually, like a little rabbit or a squirrel. But she nods, smiling briefly, and then runs off towards a nearby stairwell, recessed and narrow. When she stops and motions him forward, he doesn't see why he shouldn't follow. It's not like some little girl is going to ambush him, right?

Except she runs off in front of him and darts to the side just as he puts his foot on the floor. He suspects its coming, but even then barely has time to register the frying pan hurtling towards his face. He had already started ducking though, and stumbles off the stairs into a crouch, hands raised to deflect further cutlery, thrown, hurled, or whatever. That appears to be it, though, and she looks at him with a chagrined expression.

Naruto holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, look, don't worry about it. I just want some food, you know?”

She stares at him.

Well. “My name is Naruto, and me and my teacher are staying here for a couple of days. It's gonna be a real bad stay if I can't get some food, know what I mean? I promise, I don't eat little kids.” He grins disarmingly, or tries to. He's started to get little fangs sometimes what with the fox and all, and suspects that his grins aren't as wholesome as they used to be.

She stares at him some more. Can she even talk? Has she been brain damaged? But then she shifts forward a little, hefting the frying pan in her hand. “Are you a monster?”

What? “Um... no.”

“You have claws,” she observes. “And whiskers. I think you're a demon.”

“Wha? Or well, yeah, they are claws, but these things, they're just ridges. It's cause I made a nasty face one day, and my face got stuck like this.” She giggles, and makes a face, tongue sticking out and eyes crossed.

“Augh, noooo! How horrible!” Naruto huddles and covers his face, wide eyes peeking out behind his fingers. See, he can do kids. Not so bad.

She smiles and nods decisively. “Okay. Even if you are, monsters aren't so bad.” And she drops the frying pan with a clatter, running forward again and beckoning him onward. She doesn't look scared anymore, which Naruto takes as a hopeful sign, and he follows her into the gloom of the hallway.

The next room they come to is brightly lit, and free of the drugged fumes that were so pervasive outside. In it about a dozen people are sitting, bustling about with produce and cooking or grouped around a large central table. Most of them are women, but there are several men, one of whom is examining bowls of dough clustered around the fireplace. It's a homey scene, one that takes Naruto back to Leaf for an instant, and Iruka's small apartment smelling of cooking vegetables and ramen.

The atmosphere slams to a halt when they all notice him, en masse. He grins weakly, thrown off by the weight of their stare, but his little companion – who has still not given him a name – gestures him forward and sits him down at the table. One woman in particular gives him the evil eye, like he was a bug or something that had tagged along on someone's shoe.

The girl steps forward, body language much more confident here, in a place she knows and he hopes has people who care about her. “This is Naruto. He's a monster, but he's nice.” And with that she sits down next to him and pulls over a bowl of peas to start shelling them. He looks around, seeing that people aren't much happier with that pronouncement. He's not surprised.

“Ah. Hi. I just, uh, ran into this girl in the hall and asked where some food was, you know.” He shifts, not sure what else to say.

Finally a large burly woman at the stove says, “Suki doesn't take kindly to strangers. And this isn't a place for guests.”

“He hit Hisao on the head,” Suki pipes in, not looking up from her peas, a task she seems really intent on. “And he didn't want to eat down there with all the adults.” And suddenly everyone relaxes, as if this statement really explains something, or maybe it's just that he's a “kid” instead of a guest, and in that context Naruto guess it makes sense. Plus Naruto has always looked younger than he really is, a fact that used to bug him. It seems lucky here though, because with a smile a bowl of rice is put in front of him, along with a buttered roll. Naruto has had both, before, but never at the same time. He's not complaining though, and tries not to inhale them, listening absently as conversation starts up again around him.

There is a peace to the large kitchen, a community of bustle and toil, and more and more people filter in as the morning ages, so that by the time much of the staff is in for breakfast, Naruto has already eaten his fill of firsts, seconds, and thirds, and is just sitting there watching, uncharacteristically silent. Maybe just matching the silence of his companion, Suki. She's done too, and they shell peas together. Cooks and maids bustle about, gathering up breakfast foods of all kinds, some that Naruto has never seen before, and some infinitely familiar (home, their scents say as they waft up and then dissipate).

The room suddenly gathers itself up, and Naruto can smell the tinge of fear in the air. A small side door, opulent and beautiful – Naruto had assumed it was decorative only – is pulled open by one of the kitchen boys and a woman strides through, grand and proud. Her bearing is that of a king in his kingdom, and Naruto thinks her face is too harsh, as though it were carved out of granite rather than more malleable flesh. Her long kimono swishes in the relative silence, as everyone stops talking, though not everyone stops working; rice boils for as long as it boils and bread bakes as it will without regard to big entrances and dramatic pauses.

Her eyes survey the room, black and bold against her heavy white facepaint, and though they pause briefly on Naruto, she doesn't deign to comment, and instead goes up to the woman who had given Naruto food at first, and he realizes now the kitchen must be her domain, because there is no doubt the kimonoed lady in front of him is anything but the owner of the entire brothel. She looks like a courtesan, not someone who belongs here, covered in flour or gizzards. After a brief conference and a distant smile, she walks out. Conversation resumes shortly after she's gone, no nervousness in the air now, so this must be a daily visit, though maybe not always this peaceful.

She exits without flair, turning abruptly on her heel. She strides away (looking like someone who always strides) without a glance at Naruto, so he figures he's okay. It isn't until she's almost gone that he notices her companion, which shouldn't have happened. And right away, he knows the dude is a nin; there's no other explanation. He's kind of short, with wild black hair and dark mischievous eyes. His body is compact, a lot of power concentrated in a small space. Though his mistress (boss? mother?) hadn't spared Naruto a second glance, his eyes lingered on Naruto. Naruto did his best to appear unintimidating and meek. He wasn't sure it was working when the man's gaze sharpened in interest.

“Hi. I'm Ken,” he says with a big grin. His teeth are very white, Naruto notices. And his eyes are very blue. And he's wearing a very tight shirt. “I work here. You are?”

Naruto knows he spends the next couple minutes talking about himself, but he can't really remember any of it by the end of the conversation. He regains his senses by the time Ken walks away, casting a smile over his shoulder before walking off. As he goes Naruto recognizes a set of shoulders, so familiar but so impossible to place, the stride both familiar and secretly cherished. But the moment of recognition is gone and Ken once again is a stranger, and he looks like no one Naruto has ever seen before.

Naruto finishes without fanfare, and is reluctant to exit the refreshing atmosphere of the kitchen, but he is hurried out by the head cook – Ma Belle, it means beautiful, and you sure as hell better refer to her as such, one of the older men had informed – once the room gets too full of bustling courtesans to stand up or even breathe.

He's swallowed up by the outside air. It's heavy and moist, and he suspects water has been thrown over heated stones throughout the building. They obviously make an effort to keep the place as hot as possible, probably because so much business is conducted without clothes on, Naruto decides. He's hot in the humidity, and irritable, because now that he knows the air is drugged it scratches at his lungs, clogging them up with invisible grit.

Naruto trolls around the side passages for a long time, trying to avoid people as much as possible. He isn't in the mood for giggling right now, which is all he hears around others. That and moans, anyway. He's a teenage boy, but this is over the top even for him; he could never stand to be so useless. Naruto scratches up the walls just for kicks, claws digging deep into the wood.

Finally, after an hour or so of restless wandering, he stumbles upon a garden, surrounded by paper glazed so thin it's translucent, light seeping through. He sits down by the plants and just breathes, unable to grasp why he hates it here so much.

As the sun gets brighter and brighter, he hears a slamming of doors and a scream, and then another. He perks up, dashing out into the hall, trying to find his way back to a more central area. There's a slamming of feet against hardwood above his head, and then a side panel a few feet in front of him is slid back to reveal several burly men, and with them, Ken.

“What happened?” Naruto asks, realizing that their meeting is probably not accidental.

“The honorable Hisao has been found dead.” Ken levels an even look at him, and Naruto is too starved for words to say anything. Shit.

Ahhhh, a bad ending. But a suspenseful one. Maybe? Perhaps? No. Well then.

the third installment!

2008-10-16T21:54:06Z

Finally!! I have finished with the third chapter of what is basically Naruto and Jiraiya traveling around kicking ass and taking names and sometimes being emo. This was soooo hard to get down, mostly because I lost interest in it more than halfway through. This always happens, so I decided to actually work through it. And I did! How exciting. And I've even finished ~1/4 of the next chapter! I expect that I shall lose interest in it... tomorrow. So I'm just going to post this now in the hopes that editing and such will come... someday. Oh dear.

Chapter 3

Blinking blearily, Naruto stumbles onto his feet and heads towards the nearest tree. Sighing contentedly as he goes about his business, he stands there will his eyes closed, head tilted back. There may or may not be drool. When he turns around, his eyes are still partially closed and he's not fully awake, focused only on the food bubbling in a pot over the fire. Mmmm, foood.

And then he steps into something hot. Very hot, actually. With a high, girly scream Naruto yanks his foot out of the fire as quickly as possible, sitting down and cradling it gently.

“You're such a chick sometimes,” Jiraiya snorts, looking over at Naruto over their sizzling breakfast.

“Oh yeah? Wait till Tsunade hears you used that as an insult!”

Jiraiya pales beneath his makeup. “There's no need to get nasty.”

“Then shut it and give me some food.”

“It's not even done yet, brat. Siddown and shut up. No, better – do 1000 pushups while you're waiting.”

“I'm not Lee, old pervert,” Naruto mumbles, but does it anyway, mostly because there's nothing else to do – and besides, he wouldn't put it past Jiraiya to actually withhold food if he doesn't. Nothing, not even pride, is worth missing a good meal for.

Jiraiya mumbles to himself over the soup, stirring occasionally but mostly just singing to himself. When Naruto finishes, he walks back over, close enough to hear Jiraiya sing “Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head!”

“I can't believe you made up a song like that,” Naruto complains, plopping down across the fire from him.

“What, a song about coconuts?”

“So that's what you're calling them now?!? You pervy old man, I've had it up to here,” and here he holds his hand up to his chest, “with your euphemisms.”

“Oh my,” scoffs Jiraiya. “That's not very high yet; guess I can keep going with them then. Short stuff.”

Naruto bristles, about to launch into a great and mighty tirade when -

“Is this what passes for clever banter between you two? What a shame for both of you – Jiraiya-sama.”

The woman crouched easily on a tree branch looked strange to Naruto. Her skin, her hair, her eyes, everything about her was black, or maybe just a dark, dark brown, Naruto thought, narrowing his eyes in confusion. Naruto's first overall impression was of a panther, but when she jumped down, he could see she loped, like a wolf. She moved, he realized, just like Jiraiya. Except, you know, with grace.

“You were Jiraiya's student?” Naruto asks, trying for shrewd and reaching odd and high-pitched instead.

She grins and comes closer. “A while ago now. And not for very long. Thank the gods.”

“Long enough,” Jiraiya grumps, folding his arms and trying to hide how pleased he is. He fails miserably, especially when she walks and gives him an affectionate pat on the cheek.

“I've been looking for you for several months now, Jiraiya. Where have you been hiding out from me?” She smiles. “And your food is burning, old man.”

“Old man,” Jiraiya roars, striding over to the pot. “Don't tell me you're going to start calling me that too?”

“I heard the boy and decided to try it out,” she replies dryly. “Not sure whether I like it or not. It's certainly appropriate.” Her gaze is direct and warming, like she and Naruto have been friendly acquaintances a long time, and she's glad to see him. “Here, child. Fine – young man – come over here. The old man obviously doesn't have the manners to introduce us. I'm Oltotsi. You are?”

“Naruto. I see you're not from around here?” he asks, again aiming at suave and shrewd, and again failing miserably.

“You see incorrectly. I was born only a few miles from here. Now. 'Naruto.' I'll remember it.”

“Make sure you do. Someday I'm going to be Hokage of the Leaf Village.”

“Really. Well then, show me what you've got.” The amazing thing is that the friendly look doesn't shift from her eyes until after she's already gone. Where? Her lunge is quick and decisive, and it is over before Naruto has a chance to register it. Damn. She's obviously one of the squirrelly fighters. He always has the most trouble with the opponents that you can't. Really. Hit. And then he does.

Or not. His swing in her direction missed by an inch, and she ducks in under his arm, jabbing him in the stomach with a pointy stick. Ow. And then again. And again, as he tries to land hit after hit, only succeeding in hitting where she was a half second ago instead of where she is now. She knocks him to his feet after a hard jab to the stomach knocks all his wind out.

He doesn't waste any more time flailing around. He's not just some kid; he can catch all of her feints, up down and over, and can block most of her strikes, but not all, and he knows he has to go on the offensive. Bounding up the nearest tree, he sits and just pants for a minute. Then he starts to think. She's strong, but she's not stronger than him. She is fast. Well, I'll just have to slow her down.

His hands start to form as he jumps down, a long and complicated train that doesn't require a lot of finesse otherwise. She's circling around him, again like a wolf, but this time the prey is Naruto. He gathers himself, and... spits on the ground. She stops her constant circling to look at him, a skeptical look on her face. He grins toothily; she obviously hasn't spent enough time in Water Country. Slowly, a pit of water starts to form at Naruto's feet, and he darts towards her, hand pulled back for a punch. She dodges the blow, which is okay. Her feet are still touching the ground, which is exactly where he wants them. Water puddles at her feet, and then engulfs them, soaking her leather boots and bogging them down in the process.

“Ugh. Don't tell me that's your spit on my boots, Naruto.”

Naruto grins, but doesn't say a word. He's not about to tell her that it's actually water, brought up by, well, his own water and his chakra. And he's definitely not about to tell her that if she jumps up high enough, feet off the ground, that she can break his hold. Especially because he's just not very good at it.

The move pays off as they continue the fight; slowed down that little bit, she's unsteady enough that he can land in a couple good punches, and he doesn't pull any of them. She can dish out the hits, but she can't seem to take them, and he thinks he has her against the ropes when there are teeth latched around his throat. Or, no, a kunai. But close enough. He cautiously releases his hold on her hair, waiting for her to pull it back, when she slices him a little.

“That was for my shoes, little one.” And then she sheathes her kunai and backs away. “Not Hokage yet, are you.”

They both look around at the clanging of a spoon against the pot. “Oh children,” Jiraiya calls. “While you two were off playing I've been busy with our food. Which is done, by the way. Come here before I eat it all.”

They eat and train the rest of the day, Oltotsi and Naruto getting to know each other. Jiraiya sits under a tree in the shade dozing the entire day, obviously not caring whether they kill each other.

She's actually pretty cool, Naruto has to admit. She doesn't have a whole motherly attitude, which he appreciates, but more like she's just... really cool. Which she is. She walks with confidence, but she doesn't strut. Naruto does strut, pretty much all the time, and so does Jiraiya. At sunset they sit by the river and fish with makeshift fishing poles. She tells him fishy folktales and they joke around. Naruto tells her about Leaf village, and when he sees that Oltotsi is actually listening to him he feels interesting and like he's cool too. She's kind of like Shikamaru, he realizes. Except not lazy. Easygoing. That's it. Easygoing. They return to camp with enough for all three of them, and they force Jiraiya to cook while they lie down and look up at the stars come out.

He's already half asleep when he hears a low conversation, Oltotsi's voice strained. “Master, I need this. Please. The boy doesn't have to come, but I can't do this alone. Only a legendary nin can pull this off.”

Jiraiya's voice is rough and tired. “I can't leave him alone. Not now. There's too much Akatsuki activity in the area.”

Naruto misses the next part of the conversation because he has to scratch his nose. Even his awesome hearing can't register anything over the rustling of his clothes. “...reach Shattered Mountains before the month is out.”

“Which gives us what, six days? I'm sorry, I just don't think it can be done.”

“This is my life.” At that, Naruto can't hear anything more and isn't sure he wants to anyway. Not at night, anyway, when private thoughts surface and pain is fresh all over again. Whatever, it is, he'll hear more tomorrow.

The sun isn't up yet when Jiraiya shoves Naruto in the leg with his foot. Naruto drags himself out of bed with a tired sigh, knowing that wherever they're going it's probably going to be quite a trek. To his surprise, Jiraiya doesn't fill him in as they all get dressed and ready. Naruto and Jiraiya's normal ablutions consist of basically going to the bathroom and setting out, but Oltotsi is very fastidious and careful, actually bothering to wash her face and stuff.

“This must have driven you crazy when you two were training,” Naruto says to Jiraiya, both of them sitting side by side on a log near the fire.

“Yup,” Jiraiya replies glumly.

Naruto eyeballs Jiraiya. “So... where are we going?”

He grins. “You know that don't you? When you were listening last night?”

“Only sorta. Shattered Mountains?”

“I could tell you, but I think this should be a lesson to you: pay attention in Geography.”

“Wha? That's not very fair! I'll have you know Geography was at the end at the day. I was usually gone by then.”

“There you go then. Don't cut class.” And with that Jiraiya gets up to follow Oltotsi, who's moving off along the river, leaving Naruto to scramble along behind them.

They travel for several days, Oltotsi getting more and more tense, though she hides it well. She obviously doesn't know that Naruto knows, because she's continuing to joke around and pretend that they're not traveling on a time limit, one that shows clearer and clearer on her face with each day. The forest grows thicker and thicker as they move further and further into Fire Country, going further and further into the wilds that surround the bases of the great Fire mountain range. Leaf village, Naruto thinks, is not so far from here, just on the other side of a cascade of hulking peaks and crags. As they move closer and closer though, one grouping becomes more and more prominent. From this distance, they look like the edge of a serrated knife. A knife made out of diamonds. They're not tall enough to be topped with snow, and they're actually below the tree line, he can see by comparing them to other peaks nearby, but they're completely bare above a certain point, and gleam with a sharp pearlescent light. As they get closer it gets warmer and warmer every afternoon, as they get closer to a refracted setting sun shining through the peaks themselves. Even distracted by the beauty, Naruto can't forget whenever he sees Jiraiya's grim face and Oltotsi's gaunt one: five days. Four days. Three days. Two.

Water Country is a faded memory when they reach the foot of the Shattered Mountains. Even the most prominent one is not a very large mountain, but its bright jagged edges present challenges to anyone that would climb up. Somehow there are parts of the Shattereds that reflect light, white and searing, so that every few steps are punctuated by a blinding flash. The effect starts about three miles from the actual base, and Naruto spends them wincing and cursing every few minutes. Both Oltotsi and Jiraiya handle the light in stoic silence.

There is a path winding up the base of the largest, and Oltotsi's eyes turn up to trace its precarious and sporadic presence upwards. It peters out about halfway up, but she nods decisively, so apparently that isn't a problem. A hut punctuates the beginning of the path, and when the three nin knock they are ushered inside by an old, wisened man. The hut is small, but warm, and there are three beds inside, and children's toys scattered about. “Your grandchild?” Naruto asks, pointing, and then blushes when the “old” man says they belong to his five year-old. Looking closer once they're all by the fire, he realizes that the wrinkles hide the youthful eyes.

“Sun damage,” Jiraiya mouths, nodding towards the mountain man.

They exchange some rations and a kunai for a hot meal and directions, and then they're off on their way, leaving their hotter clothes behind in the man's safekeeping. Apparently it only gets hotter the further they go up the mountain.

Chapter 3.2

The going is tough even for a ninja. It gets hotter the higher they go, and harder to see. Light floods Naruto's eyes and his eyes turn to slits. Whenever Jiraiya looks back at him he seems unnerved. Naruto is mystified until he spots his reflection against a sheer cliff face. He looks a little like the fox, his face scrunched up in effort until the scars expand into whiskers across his face.

But Naruto thinks the fox is a power they might need, which is scary, because... well, a nin like Jiraiya shouldn't need backup. Wherever they're going, a nin like Oltotsi shouldn't need backup either; he's seen her hands move in practice, and she is no pushover. He wonders if that's why Jiraiya didn't look too upset by his appearance.

Whatever sign Jiraiya was picking up on, Oltotsi was too. Her mouth tightened until it was a flat line, a line echoed by the creases in her forehead. It didn't feel ominous to Naruto as he basked in the sunlight during a brief stop for water. That is, until there were no more birds singing, and the sparse bushes and grasses looked brown and almost cooked.

By the time they reached the path's end, near noon on the second day, sweat was pouring off all three of them. Jiraiya shoved jerky at each of them, admonishing them with a “you need the salt” when Naruto complained he was too thirsty for it.

They start up again the next morning, the sun a dream behind them. The mountain sloped up sharply under Naruto's feet, and when he slipped for the second time, he stopped to investigate. Carefully brushing away the dirt, now a thin overlay, he saw... something hard and slick and a little warm. Clawing at the remaining grime, Naruto looked down into dull, deep blackness. He imagined things moving in the dark, but when he blinked they were gone.

He looked up as if breaking a trance only to Jiraiya's foot inches from his face. “Hurry up, slowpoke,” he rumbled from a distance somewhere above Naruto's head, framed by the sun and visible only as a halo of dirty gray spikes.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Naruto, pushing himself up and shooting ahead, brushing off images of an unfathomable dark.

It took Naruto another day and night, staring up at the thick ice caps of the mountain to figure out why it was so hot. “Glass,” he mumbled to himself. Not ice caps – solid glass. Look at the rainbows refracted across the ground again and again, he felt very silly.

“Yes,” said Oltotsi, coming up behind Naruto and saying the first words she had spoken since they had reached the stretches of uninterrupted dirt and glass. “The Shattered Mountains should crack and break, but instead they stand defiantly, defying all life to grow here. It is said they are cursed – all who journey here will be lulled by the heat and sink into a sleep of 1,000 years. That is, if their bodies do not wither away first.” Her face was tight with tension and beautiful in its extremity of emotion. Why had she brought them here?

“I need you. Both of you, actually. Together, we're all to stubborn to give in. With three of us, we can all watch each other, stay awake and alert.” A shadow of her old grin passed over her face. “All three of us are stubborn as mules.”

They reached the heights as the sun was setting, shining in their eyes through the glass. It was so bright that Naruto almost missed the body, jammed into a crevice. Oltotsi stopped and scanned it anxiously, but it was a sack of bones, with barely a trace of cloth left.

“Don't give up,” Jiraiya said gently. “He was always resourceful when I knew him.”

“You knew him long ago,” Oltotsi murmured. She squared her shoulders and stepped up to the crevasse leading up to sheer cliff face bounding up far above their heads. Naruto couldn't see where it leveled off, and he doubted that he could even get up there, let alone be in good enough condition to fight... whatever.

“How are we doing this?” pondered Jiraiya, rubbing the back of his neck. The sun cut lines into his face, forecasting his old(er) age.

Even as he spoke Oltotsi was unraveling a rope from her belt, light but strong cord. Ignoring Naruto's question of “And what the hall are we going to anchor that to?” she pulled out a long stick, almost a staff, splotched with a trailing dark stain down one side. With a quick bite and a ripping motion of her canines to the base of her thumb, her jaw pulsing, she swiped blood onto the staff.

Before Naruto could register any hand motions she made, there appeared a giant... furry-like thing. “It is called a koala.” Oltotsi tossed the rope up to the “koala,” who caught it easily, regarding them with still black eyes standing out from its soft gray fur.

The creature - “Kanda” Oltotsi had called him – climbed to the next level of the mountains easily, claws digging into the glass, shattering it by sheer dint of size; Naruto could have easily fit into one of the hole created by Kanda's claws.

The rope bit into Naruto's skin, looped about his waist and pulled tight. He wanted to whine, but bit it back; now wasn't the time.

Kanda disappeared as the gained the ledge. Around them on all sides was clear, translucent glass, unstained by smog or blood or any sign of humanity. Naruto wasn't sure why they had come here; there were no enemies here. He looked around, bathed in the heat of the setting sun magnified by glass untouched by dirt. It was so warm, and he was so warm already. Naruto covered his face with his hands, trying to block out the light. If only he could just... sleep. Finally rest.

Wait. What?

Naruto shook himself vigorously, only to see Oltotsi and Jiraiya watching him and each other grimly, eyes flicking back and forth. He nodded an affirmation: yes, he was awake, and would be on his guard from now on. They moved forward, with Oltotsi like a bad omen, “It will only get harder the further we go.” It was already hard enough.

They pushed onward doggedly, in the end tying the rope around all three of them, so that as long as one person was still going, the other two would as well. Naruto was feeling more stable now, and was just fighting to get to the end, wherever they were going. Everything stopped mattering but that, the rush to go forward and break free.

When Naruto next opened his eyes, it was completely dark, and his leg was burning, and he couldn't breathe right. Straightening himself up and clawing desperately at the rope pulled taut about his waist, his eyes strained to see through the night; though in the daytime the mountain was flooded with light, right now the moon was a vague pale shadow behind the thick glass peaks, not yet up to its full height.

When he was finally free, he reached down to his leg, fingers brushing around gingerly in the dark. There was a kunai there, buried not quite to the hilt. He started when his fingers brushed warmth, the body of someone else. The fingers were long and thin and warm, the fingers of a young person, the fingers of a woman. “Ol- Olt-” He cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse and dry. “Oltotsi?”

There was no response, but her fingers were gripping his pant leg so tight that he had to pry it off with both hands. Unrestricted, he took his shirt off and pulled the kunai out, pressing down as hard as he could and binding the wound up as best he could. Naruto shivered in the dark, and shook Oltotsi gently at first, and then harder and harder. She wouldn't wake up, and he worried at a nail, wondering what to do. He looked around for and found Jiraiya, slumped over in a sprawl, arms splayed out in supplication.

No amount of shaking would wake Jiraiya up either, and Naruto kicked him - just a little bit, just enough to wake him up, not that it wasn't satisfying too. But when it didn't work, Jiraiya only snorting a bit, unmoving, Naruto slumped down next to him. This was so depressing. He was never going to be able to wake them up, and they were all going to die here, and somehow it didn't really seem to matter anymore, not even to Konoha's most indomitable ninja. Naruto slowly toppled over, sinking down into a peaceful oblivion.

Except he woke up again, the moon clear and radiant over his head. His leg was bleeding again, and pulsing in that worrying way that he new presaged infection. With each heartbeat, he was able to think clearer. He looked over at Oltotsi's unconcious form, stretched out with purpose towards the spot he had passed out. Naruto took up the kunai and gingerly scratched the back of her leg, only just breaking the skin. There was no response, but pushing harder, he broke through skin, fat, deep into the muscle, blood welling out. Naruto slumped over once again, this time knowing as he passed out that he wouldn't be able to wake up again.

Fortunately, he didn't have to. Naruto woke up to the sight of dark translucent glass stretched out in front of him, and to a dull ache in his calf, a pain of healing instead of infection this time. He knew that his bandage must have been changed, or he would have been able to smell it from here. Oltotsi popped into his field of vision, her hand as it was before, long and slim and competent, quick fingers snapping a few times in his face before dragging him up.

Jiraiya was up too, bedraggled and cradling his arm to his side, but conscious. Oltotsi nodded to each of them and they set off once more, marching like soldiers in a file. This turned out to be a good idea when the path narrowed, and it was a tight squeeze. Naruto's bones clicked as he shouldered by, and Jiraiya had to shuffle sideways through the tighter spots, a weird crab walk that made Naruto grin even though there was nothing funny going on.

Pushing past a series of crystals jutting out of the ground, they reached a cluster that eventually gathered together above their heads, leading down into the ground. “This looks almost... constructed,” rumbled Jiraiya, voice bouncing leadenly off the walls.

“Yes,” agreed Oltotsi. “That's because it is.” She walked forward, past the arching entrance – and Naruto could see now, the marks of a entryway now, the arching frame, the structure to smooth to be natural. For the first time, Naruto felt a foreboding chill. Oltotsi in trouble? Fine. Big giant mountains? Fine. Big giant cursed mountains? Only to be expected, really. When was there not someone to rescue on a big rushed dash through the forest and up a sheer cliff? But this? Naruto stood stock still, firmly resisting the impulse to either dash away madly or to grab Oltotsi by the neck and demand an explanation. He resisted doing the latter mostly because he knew his ass would only be kicked if he tried.

“Old man,” he hissed. “Old pervert! What the hell is this?”

They watched together as Oltotsi became completely invisible in the gloom down below, until not even a shadow of her was still visible. Only then did Jiraiya lean over and murmur, “The man we are looking for... was very creative. And powerful. And didn't like to be disturbed.”

“So what, he created a cursed mountain to occupy? One that kills people? What the hell!”

“No. Boy, shut up, you're starting to get shrill. The curse was here before, obviously. He just took up residence in an old place.” Jiraiya stared down into the passageway as though he could see clear down to the bottom. “A place not meant for humans, powerful or not.”

And then rising up from the tunnel came a hollow cry. Naruto started forwards, but Jiraiya grabbed him tightly by the arm, face stony. They stood at the entryway, listening to the short staccato sounds of sobs rising up.

to "keen"

2008-10-14T23:07:59Z

I was thinking about the tendency in slash (and het, sometimes) fics to use the word "keen" in a sexual situation. The authors probably don't know, of course, that "keen" is a word of horrible grief, or mourning. Banshees keen, which makes it so ironic when "Sasuke keened as Naruto teased him gently" and so forth. When you are having sex, you don't want your lover to keen - if they are, you are doing something wrong.

Keen is also an entirely emotional word. It refers to an extremity of emotion, rather than a physical pain. If you are hit in the stomach with a aluminum bat, you are not going to keen. When your arm breaks or you're being tortured, you're not going to keen, you're going to scream your head off. So it's always interesting when "keen" is used in a sexual situation - and it works. It invokes an extremity of emotional distress during what is supposed to be a physically pleasurable moment.

return to fandom

2008-08-22T05:42:22Z

Hurg! So. My computer crashed, and all my lovely WIPs were destroyed. Which is okay, cause shit happens. Recently started writing again, with a new and much more expensive laptop. Hopefully the experience won't recur. I've decided to put up a bunch of recs, particularly for Naruto and Smallvile/DCU. Which means I should actually comment on stories I liked and let the authors know I enjoyed their work, which means (sigh) an end to my lurking. I have a massive list, too, so who knows when I'll actually post stuff. At the least I'll only be posting to communities until they're all typed out for any given fandom.

There is No Such Thing Chapter 3

2007-03-16T01:39:13Z

Hey all, this is the ADULT (no kiddies!) version of the latest chapter in my Raenef V/Eclipse fic. Concrit appreciated.

When he walked into the main hall, Raenef almost gaped. All the times he had been here before, the place had been filled with gold and jewels, silks lining the walls and everyone in huge elaborate costumes. Raenef and Eclipse had been exceptionally conservative in their clothing last time, mostly because Eclipse had been trying to give Raenef some appearance of dignity; now, they were dressed opulently compared to everyone else. Demon Lords of all different forms wandered through the main hall, all united by their magic, and their allegiance to the Council. They had apparently chosen to show that by carrying massive swords and wearing massive armor. So many spiky things everywhere! Raenef marveled. Even Eclipse seemed a little taken aback.

They moved rapidly past the guards, and waded through the sea of metal as quickly as they could. Raenef avoided touching others as much as possible, because everyone looked so touchy. Even so, they had several collisions, once with a gaggle of lesser demons that quickly sheathed their claws when they saw Eclipse behind Raenef, and once with several demon lords, each of whom gave Raenef contemptuous glances when he bounced off of them. Raenef knew he should say something demon-lordy, but couldn't think of what to say quick enough, and just stuck his tongue out before running after Eclipse.

Finally, they were able to reach the main doors and get to their seats in the council. They sat in the second row, where the most influential and powerful demons sat. The first row was reserved for those stupid and silly enough to want a close and personal view of the action. In the second row, Eclipse explained, they were safe from any fights that might break out on the speaker's floor, but still prominently displayed. Raenef wasn't sure he wanted to be “prominent” in a room full of possibly angry demons, but just swallowed and nodded.

As they sat there, Eclipse described each of the demons filtering in, and their position on clerics. Raenef was more and more grateful for Eclipses tall presence at his back as the rows behind him filled. There were hundreds! And according to Eclipse, this was only the demon lords and the most powerful of the demons; all the thousands of weaker demons weren't allowed in. No wonder they had been able to match the clerics in the old war.

The council started with the usual announcements, introductions of all the demon lords reincarnated within the past five years (everyone looked at Raenef, who could only shift uncomfortably), and the public execution of convicted demons. Raenef was careful not to look away during the last part, because Eclipse had pointed out that would be a sign of weakness.

After that, people started to get to the point. “I've had more clerics interfering with my wolves than ever before!” said one really furry demon lord, while another just showed the burn on his arm, where holy magic had been cast at him by a bunch of clerics.

“None of these complaints so far have much power behind them,” Eclipse murmured into his ear. “The support for fighting with the encroaching clerics will come when the third or second row speak up. They're the ones with real influence.” Raenef looked at the faces of the people in his row. Their faces all looked blank and a little bored, but Raenef thought he might see some alarm on some of them. Meruhesae especially looked worried, while Crast, lord of monsters, looked a little eager. Scary.

The complaints went on and on and on. And each one sounded exactly the same! Luckily, every time Raenef started to doze off, Eclipse poked him awake. Raenef came fully awake when the person right behind him stood up and went into the speaker's circle. Someone from the third row was going to argue! The second row was made up exclusively of the most powerful demon lords, but the third row contained some of the more independent demons.

The man heading towards the center of the auditorium was tall and muscular, with a smooth stride and beautiful hair exactly like Eclipse's. When he turned around, Raenef could see he was incredibly handsome, if a little disturbing-looking. He creeped Raenef out a little. Looking at Eclipse, Raenef could see his face was set and his hands clenched around the arms of his chair tightly.

“Eclipse? What's wrong?”

“That... Raenef, that is Gabriel, the second-most powerful demon alive. Be very cautious of him. He has the ear of every lesser demon. Were he to call for war... the movement for conflict would gain a lot of support. And he will most probably not like you for personal reasons as well.”

“What? Why?” When Eclipse only grimaced in response, Raenef had a sinking feeling in his chest. It sounded personal, and he didn't want to intrude (well, he was a little curious) but... what if it mattered? “Is this something I need to know? I don't want to invade your privacy, but I can't make a mistake either.”

“Later,” Eclipse managed. “On our way home.”

Meanwhile, Gabriel has been talking passionately, shouting, “They are sanctimonious dirt beneath our feet! They dare to provoke us because they think we will not strike back. We should hit them now, before any more gods manifest themselves! The time for maximum slaughter is now, and I for one am done with this prattling.” Shouts of support echoed throughout the hall, and Raenef was scared they were going to start charging that instant.

Then a quiet voice spoke up to his right. Meruhesae didn't even stand up, but instead said softly, “And we are not ready yet either. Have you forgotten the mass slaughter of demons and demon lords? Gabriel, use sense. Look at the demon lords; dozens have only just been reincarnated, and most of them still don't know how to use magic against a force as powerful as a god. Our 'army' is composed of children. To fight now, it would be foolish.”

Raenef looked around at the reaction to her words. Meruhesae was considered the wisest of them all because her realm was the future; most likely, she was speaking now because she saw something bad come about because of Gabriel's words. That at least would counterbalance Gabriel's influence.

“Our army is composed only of children because of inadequate teachers!” Gabriel snarled. Eclipse's sharp intake of breath was Raenef's only warning before Gabriel looked straight at him, and pointed one clawed finger. “Lord Raenef is coddled by his teacher, and allowed to keep his childishness. Given the right motivation, he could be back to his former power in no time at all!”

Raenef did his best to appear imposing and unruffled. If he tried to say something he'd probably botch it pretty badly, so he just arched an eyebrow and smirked evilly. Right. Try to make the other guy look foolish, not you, just like Eclipse had said.

“Are you accusing Eclipse, terror of the war, of coddling?” Krayon's voice was amused, and drew some snickers.

Scowling, Gabriel started in on some retort, but Raenef didn't bother to listen. He was disarmed, at least for now. Thank goodness for Krayon and Meruhesae!

Slowly, the discussion wound down after that, though various demons continued talking for another couple hours or so. Surprisingly, some demons even spoke openly against fighting, probably feeling braver because of Meruhesae's stand.

Dinner was a crowded affair, with Raenef sitting next to Eclipse and some jelly-like demon, who Raenef avoided looking because it made him feel a little queasy. Across from him was another nausea-inducing sight, more because of his manners than anything else. Raenef simply sat there, mouth open, and watched a hog-like demon smearing chicken grease on his face. Erk. Looking down at his soup, Raenef was only able to manage a few spoonfuls.

Finally, it was time to leave. Their rank enabled them to be some of the first to leave, and Eclipse quickly moved them out to their carriage. When they were finally sitting by themselves, Raenef sat with a big sigh, shucking off the outer layer of his clothing and its tight uncomfortable collar. “Finally we get to go home!”

“Hm,” Eclipse murmured uncomfortably.

“Hey Eclipse, how come we can't just transport out of here?”

“We're currently in a separately spiritual plane as well as a separate place,” Eclipse said, adopting his best lecturing voice. “To leave, we must use the allowed transportation, which is the only way we'd be permitted past the borders.”

Raenef nodded, and after another uncomfortable couple minutes of silence, prodded, “So... Gabriel?”

Eclipse sighed. “I suppose it would be best if you knew the truth. Gabriel and I fought together during the war. Together, we were a very efficient killing team.”

“And?” prompted Raenef, knowing there was something more personal there.

“And we were involved.” Eclipse avoided eye contact, standing and looking uncomfortably out of the window. “I would not call us lovers. We used each other for pleasure, and fought together.” Eclipse paused again. “He did not take my 'desertion' well. There has been anger between us ever since.”

“I see.” And he did see. Eclipse was gay. He liked men. Or liked really handsome demon men anyways. Eclipse was gay!

“My Lord?”

Eclipse was gay! He liked touching men and kissing men and sucking on them and - “My Lord!”

Oh. Eclipse looked a little worried. About him liking men? “It's okay Eclipse! I like the fact that you're gay!” Oh, um, that sounded suggestive. Judging by Eclipse's expression, he had caught that too. Raenef laughed uncomfortably and turned to look out the window.

Eclipse only smiled softly and came and sat across from him, looking out the window. Or seemed to be. Raenef looked at Eclipse's reflection in the mirror, only to find Eclipse looking at him! They both looked back out at the scenery. Raenef was suddenly horribly conscious of only wearing a shift. If he got an erection... he swallowed.

Trying not to think about anything, all Raenef could imagine was Eclipse getting up and crossing the small space that separated them, and just reaching down and rubbing his hand against his crotch. Maybe licking his neck, and then sucking on it, and just pushing the edge of Raenef's robe up and stroking and – shit! Think of... dustbunnies. Spring cleaning. That pig demon! Whew. Raenef let out a small gasp of relief and froze when Eclipse looked at him with widened eyes. Maybe Raenef wasn't the only one feeling this tense atmosphere.

He was really tempted to look at Eclipse's crotch to check, but he knew the demon had more control than he did anyway. If Eclipse wanted Raenef, he would never in a million years show it before Raenef did. Raenef imagined just getting up and going to his knees, mouthing Eclipse through the dark fabric of his robes, Eclipse's clawed hand in his hair... Oh, this was so har- difficult! Not hard at all. Nope, not at all.

Raenef spent the rest of the carriage ride shifting uncomfortably in various states of discomfort, states he was pretty sure Eclipse noticed with increasing discomfort of his own. Why did all his teenage hormones have to kick in right this instant?

When they reached the house, Raenef immediately transported into his room and ripped his robe up over his head, frantically pawing at himself. A few minutes later, he pulled himself up from the floor and buried himself in his sheets, groaning in embarrassment. At least he hadn't done anything right in front of Eclipse.

Eeek!

2007-02-24T07:21:31Z

Wow, it's been forever since I last updated. I guess getting cut off from the internet will do that - I was in the hospital, and suddenly I didn't want to write anymore. Oh well. I have a rough draft of some stuff that I just want to post, not final versions for any of them.

Parents

Chapter 1

The soil was parched and the color of dried blood, slightly bleached from being in the sun. A lizard skittered across Christopher's field of vision before vanishing behind a rock. The sun blinded him, and made it painful to raise his head, so all he could see was the ground, the dry cracks lines of black over the iron-red soil, the little creatures scurrying over it to avoid him. He felt like an intruder, a jutting pillar of soft flesh compared to their rough scaly hides. Though he couldn't see it, he knew his shadow must be stark and obvious, casting over the rocks and stubble behind him.

Christopher had lived in Arizona most of his life, and knew well the cactus and the snakes and the sun. His dog, Murphy, had died from the bite of a copperhead, and Christopher had heard before that rattle whenever his foot had gone down in the wrong place. To him, the rattle had always sounded comforting in some way, like a small maraca played without a human hand. The sound was different, and the threat it symbolized was frightening, but the sound itself was merely another sound of the desert, like the wind over vast open spaces and the silence that heat makes as it rises at the height of noon. These sounds were the sounds Christopher lived with and knew well. These sounds were the ones he liked to hold close to his conception of home.

Home for Christopher was the small pastel pink house he lived in with his mother. Some might call the little place dirty, but Christopher was a little boy, and did not have the ability to notice either way. The windows were covered in venetian blinds, which were always closed and never dusted. The only door that was ever closed was the screen door, it's aluminum frame rattling every time it was opened and closed.

Christopher knew the sound intimately, having lived there since he was a few months old, back when their family had bought the new house hopefully, dreaming of moving up in the world and prospering. Christopher's father, who had died years before in a flood, had taken the family's hopes for a larger home and a brighter future with him. What had been intended to be an only-for-a-few-years home turned into a forever one, one the family had to cling to.

Unaware of this rather depressing fact, Christopher only knew the faded pink couches, the wooden (plastic) floors, and the little tv that served as the centerpiece for the main room. His room was small, but it was cozy. The curtains muted the sunlight, so that his bare walls and bed and bookcase were bathed in a dull, syrupy blue light. It was soothing to him after the long days spent walking the desert.

His mother was a woman bleached by the sunlight; unconsciously, Christopher always grouped her in with the worn couches and chairs, and the plastic siding of their little house, cracked like the ground, and the floors worn and scuffed with years of dirt and dust. She had been beautiful once, but Christopher did not understand this. She was still kind and gentle, but like a worn blanket now, one that has been loved and given comfort so well the seams were slowly pulling out with every use. Now all of her beauty was in her demeanor, the grace of which was lessened by her slouch and heavy wrinkles. Even so, Christopher loved her, though he did not have the capacity to appreciate her. There were many things Christopher could not do.

Ouch!

Lost in his thoughts and unaware of anything but his feet, Christopher had walked right into something. Someone?

Looking up, and up, and up, he saw it. It was a man, taller than anyone Christopher had ever seen before, handsome and kind. His eyes were soft and warm, and he was slightly stooped, as though ducking to avoid a low-flying bird. He worn jeans with patches and holes, and a flannel shirt. To anyone else, he would have looked a little slow, but not to Christopher. This is because Christopher was a little boy.

Upon further inspection, Christopher noticed that the man was, in fact, a statue. The lack of movement and the monotone color were the giveaways, though Christopher can be excused for thinking of the man as real. He was so warm, and looked as though he were about to open his mouth and say something wonderful. After a time of just looking, Christopher sat down. Then he curled up and fell asleep.

Chapter 2

When he woke, it was dark, and seemed very cold. Christopher blinked muzzily at the vast expanse of unbroken land, black and blue in the light. There was a movement in the dark that might have been a coyote (though it could have been, and was, just Christopher's imagination). He felt afraid nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the cold brush of a hand down his arm. Yelping, he turned around, but saw only the statue, smiling down at him warmly. Staring, Christopher realized that he was not comforted.

Getting up, Christopher brushed himself off and headed towards home, cold and stiff but otherwise fine.

The light was on when he approached, and the blinds were open for the first time he could remember. He could see his mother moving about rapidly, the tails of her apron flying out behind her in the kitchen, her movements quick and nervous like a hummingbird's. She paced back and forth beneath the fluorescent light of the kitchen, clearly visible through the window. He hadn't realized she would be so worried. Christopher started running towards home.

He could see the door clearly now, just to the left of the windows, shiny in the moonlight. Suddenly, there was a flicker of darkness in the corner of his eye. It was fast, like the shadow of an airplane flying low, and passed over the kitchen like a wolf or a wraith. Then it was gone, with only a feeling of dread in the boy that stopped him up short. Then his mother saw him.

She burst out of the kitchen, the door slamming out against the side of the house. She rushed up into the stillness of the desert, picked him up, and whirled him around. “Chris! I was so worried about you!” She hugged him tight for a moment, then put him down, her arms trembling, hands running up and down his arms as though to warm him. “Where were you all this time?”

Chris stood there, still, wondering how much to tell her. Too much would only make her emotional and even more worried. “I found a statue out in the desert,” he said gently. “And while I was looking at it, the sun was so hot and I was so warm that I just, well... fell asleep. I'm sorry if I worried you.”

She looked gently at him, his face silhouetted by the moonlight. Despite the promise of his parents, Christopher was not a cute little boy. His skin was darkened by the sun, and his legs and arms were strong from climbing, even though he was young. His chin and nose were rather too large for his face, and there was a flat dullness to his eyes. His cheekbones were high and prominent and his eyelashes were long; in all, he might have made a pretty girl, but as a boy did not fare very well. Despite his strangely emotionless eyes, he was sweet towards those he loved, and she knew Chris was very protective of her. “That's alright honey. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine mom. Just hungry.” At that he grinned at her, and jerked towards the house.

She stopped for a moment, processing. “Chris – you found a statue? In the middle of the desert?” He shrugged, nodded, and jerked towards the house again. She sensed there was more to the story, but was too upset and relieved to be able to draw it out if he didn't want to tell it. There would be time for that later. Softly, she sighed, and stood up, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

She drew Christopher towards the house, arm draped across him warm and comforting. Walking with her, he looked back over his shoulder, and almost thought he saw a glint, like light off of metal. But that was silly, of course. They entered the house together, and then his mother closed the door shut behind them.

Chapter 3

The first week after the statue in the desert, Christopher mostly stayed inside. Despite the kindness in the man's eyes, there had been something unnerving about him. Christopher thought he knew what that something unnerving was, but he was unwilling to voice it aloud or to even consciously acknowledge it yet. Instead, he stayed inside while his mother went to work, and instead of watching tv or playing with his legos, he read.

His mother, though a patient and good woman, was not a great reader, and Christopher had few books that were not simple children's stories. His father, however, had gone to college, and the family had a boxed collection of books the mother had been unable to throw away, though she had tried to force herself many times. Christopher had never looked at them before, but the morning after his time in the desert, he pulled the box out from under his mother's bed and carefully opened it.

Christopher had been expecting... he didn't know what he had been expecting. But it was not this. He had little conception of adult books, outside of his mother's romance novels, and had been expecting books with colorful covers, or maybe massive textbooks. Not this. He reached in and pulled out one, flinching at the feel of dry, yellowing paper and the dust on the cloth cover. Turning the book carefully, he saw on the spine in worn gold letters “Things of Legend.” Another one said “Uncommon Fairy Tales;” the next, “Space Giants.” They were all books about things Christopher had never been exposed to, but he now found their mystique fascinating. Though there were few pictures, he picked up the most colorful one and started reading.

Four hours later, he looked up. Though he had spent his entire life in the desert, far from any city lights, and could clearly see the stars every night, he had never thought much about them. Now he knew they were all suns, far away. He knew other things as well, but he couldn't quite connect the facts he had learned with the universe he saw above him. He looked back down at the book, and was lost again.

It was dark by the time his mother came home, and Christopher had not eaten all day, or even turned on the light. She found him slumped over the book, breathing softly, his back rising and falling. She picked him up and carried him carefully to his room, nearly tripping over books in the dark. His bed was rumpled, and she tucked him in as best she could without waking him up. Brushing his hair back from his forehead she frowned slightly. Sometimes he looked so little like his father, but now, sleeping like this, those dull eyes closed, they were very similar. Chris' face was usually so tense, and that combined with his dramatic features looked so stark. But now, he looked lovely, like a porcelain child. She worried about his coldness.

Getting up, she maneuvered back into her room, avoiding the pile of excavated books. Mark's books, she realized. He had been reading Mark's books. Her face crinkled up, and a tiny sob escaped her as she clutched the books tightly.

Chapter 4

Christopher woke on his side, staring at the cracks in the paint on his walls. He felt a strange sense of unreality; one minute he was reading about the theories on black hole formation, and the next, he was staring at cracks. Sitting up slowly, he muzzily stared at his feet, his toe sticking out of the hole in his sock, looking strangely disembodied.

Pushing the sheets aside and getting up, he opened his curtains, looking out at the dawn light, staring him right in the face. The sun flailed weakly at the land, and bluish purple shadows reached out towards the little house. He felt odd, as though he had been picked up and moved into another dimension. Everything looked slightly skewed to him, like he was dreaming.

Suddenly Christopher felt cold, and he abruptly shut the curtains and turned around, looking at the dark blue-stained sheets and mattress and carpet. Cutting off his view of the desert had not helped; he still felt tense and afraid and alone.

He eased open the door and looked out into the main room. The entire room was bathed in that same blue light, the pink couch almost purple, the shadows around the room deeper than normal. Looking in there, he realized what frightened him; everything was so still, as though there was no one in the world but him. Him and that statue. It seemed to dominate his thoughts whenever he let it. Christopher needed mom.

Venturing further into the house, being careful not to make any noise, he crossed the living room, checking quickly that the blinds were closed. Mother's door was closed, and there was no sound coming from the bedroom. Christopher opened the door slowly, careful to turn the doorknob all the way to the right so the latch didn't make any sound.

She wasn't there. Her bed was made, and the books were picked up. Christopher looked under the bed, and saw the box. All the books were in there. He took one out, and carried it into the living room, still looking for his mother. It was possible she had already left for work, but he'd be surprised, because it was so early still. There were no dishes in the sink, and the counter was bare. The entire house looked undisturbed.

Ambling into the kitchen, Christopher poured himself a bowl of cereal and ate it slowly, careful not to disturb the silence. His chewing felt too loud.

Still unnerved, but bolstered by his meal, he got up, washed the dishes, running the water as low as possible and putting the sponge where the water hit the metal of the sink, dampening the splashing sounds. He cleaned the bowl and spoon with his hands.

Afterwards, he took some books from underneath his mother's bed and carried them into his bedroom. Something about the still, serene bedroom, perfectly clean, and her bed, perfectly undisturbed, shook something in him. He shut the door silently, locked his door, and started taking the books out of his bookcase. There weren't many. Not nearly enough. Trembling slightly now, he shoved the bookcase in front of the door, first jamming some of the thicker books underneath the door, so that they were wedged tightly between the thick carpet and the door. Next he needed to fill the shelves. Everything available went on the bookshelves, especially metal things. Speeding up as he went along, he frantically crammed everything that could fit onto the shelves. Then, finally, he ran out of things. His race cars, his legos, his paperweight, his baseball bat, all had been sacrificed.

Feeling a little better defended, Christopher sat on his bed, careful to shove the covers aside in case he had to suddenly move. Then, with nothing else to do, he started reading. He read about all the strange things he had never heard of before, like ghouls and kobalds and Babba Yaga. He didn't realize it, because he had never been to school, but he was researching. He wasn't sure what, or if he would recognize it when he found it, but right now he was so afraid. His fears were formless, without reason or substance, and were so unlike Christopher. Christopher had never been afraid of anything, even the floods during spring that washed the landscape away and changed it; the same floods had even killed his father, but with them he did not feel afraid. He had never feared monsters in the closet, or ghosts, or murderers coming to their isolated house, in the middle of the blank desert lit like a beacon, though he had understood all these dangers. Now, only reading kept him calm.

As he read, a corner of his mind wondered about his mother. Was she just at work? If she came home, would the feeling go away, or would it swallow her up, leaving him alone forever? All he could do was read.

Around four, while the sun was still strong, Christopher encountered a problem. He was hungry. Hesitantly, he moved towards the door. Reaching over the barricade, he touched the doorknob lightly. Then he turned the handle. So far, nothing. Christopher got on his hands and knees, and pushed the bookcase to the side, slightly. Peeking underneath the door, the boy strained his eyes, and listened as hard as he could, reaching out with every sense he had, trying to feel... anything.

And something moved.

Christoper sprung back, and pulled the bookcase in front of the door frantically, covering all the cracks he could. All of his weight pushed it back against the door, his back muscles trembling, tears dribbling down his cheeks in long, wide tracks. He hadn't see it or heard it; he had felt it move, something passing within him and clenching his stomach in fear. He could feel it now, somewhere in the house. He sobbed silently, knowing that if his mother wasn't dead already, she would be when she came home.

He felt like a tiny rabbit, paralyzed by fear. He curled into a tiny little ball, pressing himself against the toys and clothing packed tight against his right side. The pointy metal sword of a knight jabbed against his quivering stomach, making it all incredibly real. He was not dreaming, and he was trapped in here. He could hear it now. It was slavering outside his door, hot breath coming in pants. Christoper heard the click of claws on the floor.

But it did not try to come in.

His mind raced frantically. Fighting back the tears, Christoper gathered himself. The books had said that night was a special time. This creature, one he knew meant him harm, might be waiting for the ideal time to strike. He had to escape before night. There was only one way out. The window. And from there, the desert. And if he braved there, the creature might follow him anyway.

Paralyzed by indecision, Christoper stayed there, curled up on the carpet, looking at the parts of the rug stained by the Kool-Aid he snuck into the room that one time, and the white spot from his chemistry experiment with the bleach. A tear rolled down the bridge of his nose and caught there, tickling him.

His mother was dead. Or as good as. Unless he left, and it followed.

Christoper gathered himself. He was eight. He had never gone to school. His father had died when he was three. Christoper remembered his father's face, always kind and gentle and horribly handsome, but never anything his father had done. His only company, his entire life, had been his mother. He had never even had a pet. What he knew about social mores, he knew from mother, and from the tv that didn't work anymore. He had a vague, mostly self-guided set of morals that had been partially shaped by his mother and by his father, whose example had taught a great deal. He knew if he had a chance to save mother, he had to take it.

Besides, it was his only chance too. Realistically, the bookcase would not keep that out, whatever it was. Christoper imagined its sharp claws; how easy it was for them to tear through wood and send splinters flying.

Once his mind was made up, he moved quickly. He pushed the curtains over, shoved the window up, and shimmied out of the window head-first, catching himself and scraping his hands. Pushing up, he got started running as fast as he could until he was out of sight.

Eventually, he slowed to a walk. It was hot, and his back and face were covered in sweat. It dried on his skin, becoming a grimy, sticky layer that covered him all over. He uselessly rubbed his hands on his pants, and then started towards the only real shade nearby, the cliffs.

The cliffs were a few miles from his house, and formed a semicircle around the house. They effectively cut the house off from the nearest town, shielding them from the city lights and the any company. Every day, Christoper's mother had had to drive out and around the cliffs to get to the restaurant she worked at.

Now he headed towards them thankfully. He was so tired and so thirsty, but he was able to push forward.

Spring

I was born in the winter, on a relatively warm day in February. I became a writer because it was easy for me, and I was capable of making a living off of it, and because I wanted to.

My ideas were frozen on the city streets when I was younger, but when I grew older all the ideas that filled my world as daydreams spilled out, pouring off the ink of my quill. They didn't start out as particularly good ideas, and as they progressed I grew more and more fluid in my methods. For me, this was like spring, with the huge thaw; I was born in winter, frozen, and thawed. Or rather, my writing changed like this. The problem with the above metaphor is that I am equating myself with my words, as though I had no life outside of them.

I do, of course. Any character in a written piece is necessarily flat and lifeless. People are really quite infinitely complex, enough that even a five-novel analysis of a person is not enough; our lives, at least if we are interesting people, are compossed of the contributions of parents, friends, change occurrences, our childhood homes, our professions, our siblings – and so on. Impossible to enumerate, impossible to understand.

To give you some idea of who I am, and why anything I write should be listened to, I will give you three excerpts, real or imagined, from my life; this is commonly known, in the trade, as chiasuro. I shall attempt, through several small moments, to demonstrate a greater picture.

Reflecting upon my previous statements, I realize the arrogance of this exercise. It presumes, of course, that the examples, showing dozens if not hundreds of external influences upon a single character, are most important in their relevance to my life. As though I were the focus of all the events. As though among all the thousands I have met or who have had some effect upon my life, I were the most important.

The truth is, I should not be listened to for any merits of my own. Read this brief note, not because I wish it, but because there is something here. Something you need to hear. When I was young, I was told by a man I much admired, “I became a teacher because I wanted to be a writer, but had nothing to say. Only devote your life to something if there is a purpose to it; you need to have purpose.” My people were always particular about everything having a purpose.

And this is mine: I write. I write because I have something to say, that cannot be said in quite this way by anyone else. Instead of what this all says about myself, what does it say about you. Or your people. Or my people. As long as it has relevance, and purpose. Whether this entire message about purpose has more to do with writing technique or life I could not say.

But here they are, though I am not sure if they have purpose or point anymore. That is the difficulty, sometimes, in writing.

My sister used to put me to bed every night, tucking me in tightly. Her fingers were short and stubby but beautiful, because she put copious amounts of lotion on them every night before going to bed herself. My sheets were softer than her hands, but I never appreciated that as much as I should have. I didn't appreciate my sister enough either, though I understood her more the older I got. It took me longer to understand the value of material comfort; some things we must do without before we understand their value. What I am ashamed of here is that when they were taken away, the thing I missed more were the sheets.

My father was a barrister, and was there when they executed the serial killer of the century with a blow to the skull with a warhammer. It was apparently a quite messy death. I'm not sure if that is a key detail, but he came home that afternoon and first killed my sister in the bath and then himself. With a knife though, not a hammer. I was away at school, and found out about it during Theater.

Imad the Sane is listed in the history books as the death of my country: the death of Es-Annon. My city was beautiful in the way a hummingbird is beautiful, in that its true appeal lay in its fragility and motion. Its wings fluttered for a few thousand years in a flurry of motion and jeweled flashes, and then was crushed by the careless motions of the planes. Or by a dictator so sane he was insane; he crushed the fountains and the hanging gardens beneath his feet because they were not orderly enough, and killed all my people because they were unhygenic. My city was transient, and passed quickly out of time and mind.

I know I promised only three, but I cannot restrain myself. The main question here, for me, separate from any lesson to you, is this: If all my people are gone, and my city dead and forgotten, why am I still here, writing about it?

There is a logic fallacy here, I suspect.

Sasuke didn't recognize him at first. It had been years, and they had both grow up unbelievably fast. They were both adults now, but Sasuke would have known those shoulders, those feet, those hands, anywhere. He had, after all, been dreaming of him secretly for years, imagining the changes, the growth, the different timbre of Naruto's voice.

But there were more differences than he had anticipated; the hair was more red than blond now, and he was wearing plain blue scrubs. Most of all though, it was the stillness. He was facing the window, too still to be Naruto, Sasuke thought. Naruto didn't relax, he didn't give in. Naruto was never still.

Except he was. His arms were folded on the windowsill, his body leaning and relaxed, his head resting gently against the window. The entire room was empty except for the two of them, and for a second all Sasuke wanted to do was stand there a little, soaking up the sun and Naruto's presence. It had been years, but the dead-last's aura was still the same. Probably the same smile too, but Sasuke wouldn't have a chance to see that; he had a job to do. The sun made dust motes gleam in the air, and Naruto's hair blazed; Sasuke really wished he didn't have to do this.

Sasuke walked up towards him, masking his chakra completely, trying to be as silent as possible. A foot away, he moved quickly, pressing his body flush against Naruto's and a kunai tightly against his throat. No one could heal from a severed artery, not even a demon fox. To his surprise, Naruto didn't start, didn't move at all. Was Naruto drugged? Sasuke knew he must be when the other man's body relaxed back against his.

“Sasuke,” Naruto murmured, turning his head so that his lips brushed Sasuke's neck. “Bastard, what are you doing here?” Chilled by Naruto's soft, vacant voice, Sasuke looked down. Naruto's eyes were gleaming purple, which was alarming; even more alarming was their dreamy, dull quality. Naruto's hands moved up slowly, claws stained red, but instead of reaching for the weapon, they simply clasped loosely around Sasuke's arm.

“Naruto. I'm here to... to say I'm sorry. For everything, back then.” Naruto didn't even blink, just kept looking lazily at him. “Do you forgive me?”

“No,” Naruto whispered, grinning. His teeth gleamed.

“Why not?”

Naruto's grin widened, eerily showing all his teeth, all the way down to the molars. “Bastard, didn't you know? Love never dies.” Naruto reached down and took Sasuke's hand, moving it up, to over his heart. His voice came out thickly, emotion overwhelming the drugs. “I loved you, and it left scars on me. I could never get them away. I tried. And I always wondered why I couldn't scar you too. You still smell the same, like blood or incense. I could always detect that before I saw you; only you though. I didn't care enough about anyone else like that, I guess.”

Sasuke couldn't say anything for a minute, frozen by unfamiliar feelings. This... this was not Naruto. His grip around the kunai loosened, but Naruto didn't move away, or instantly take advantage of the weakness. Naruto just breathed in deeply, licking his lips. “I could smell you, you know. Behind me, walking up the stairs, coming down the street.” Naruto's eyes focused for an instant, “Are you here to kill me?”

“Yes,” Sasuke breathed. He could smell Naruto too, a soft scent that reminded him of home and explosives – saltpepper, maybe? - at the same time. It was his mission, given to him by Tsunade; the only reason he had been forgiven, and the only reason he had come, right here in his arms, smiling gently at him.

“Good.” Naruto pressed back against him, inhaling sharply. “I wouldn't let anyone else do it, you know. Not even Granny.” He chuckled a little. “The fox doesn't like her much, I'm afraid. But it likes you, Sasuke. It likes you a lot.” As though to emphasize his point, Naruto reached down and lightly rubbed at Sasuke's crotch.

Focus. Sasuke tightened his suddenly lax grip on his weapon. “And you, Naruto? Will you let me do this?” Naruto looked out of the window again. Sasuke realized that from this angle the Hokages' mountain was clearly visible; it was probably like vinegar in a wound for Naruto.

“I killed her you know. Not the fox. Me. I think...” Naruto's voice trailed off. Hollowly, “I think I just got tired of her making excuses for me. Sakura never did know when to stop pushing. The old me never would have done that. I'm changing, I think.” With an indolent grin, Naruto added, “I'm the villain now, Sasuke, and you're the hero. Will you bring me back home? Or try?” His claws tightened around Sasuke's hand, pressed it firmly to his heart. “I don't want to be someone I would have hated. Back when I was just me.”

Sasuke searched wildly for anything that would make sense, that would make Naruto understand, even if it was just now, in the last minute of his life. “You still smell the same as back then though.”

Naruto made a small sound like a sob, his nose rubbing against Sasuke's neck. Turning to look out the window, Naruto nodded sharply, claws digging into Sasuke's free hand.

Sasuke made it quick, moving his hand abrubtly deep and across. Blood splattered wetly against his face and hand. When he licked his lips, he could taste it.

A/N: So... this must have been done a hundred times already, but I had a dream about this so of course, I had to write it down. If you want a much better done rendition of this same Sasuke kills Naruto because he's a horrible fox demon so-on-and-so-forth concept, look for “Smoke in Spring” by Saro.

The Dead Man is Gone - Chapter 5

2007-01-08T16:00:10Z

Yet another chapter in what might be way too many oneshots. I also NEED TO GO TO WORK but can't get off my ass. Dammit.

Chapter 5

The funeral parlor was small and cramped. His father had liked big things, so Dudley had helped his mother pick the largest and roomiest coffin there. Mummy muttered over the price, but Dudley pleaded with her and she got his choice; it worked every time, but it was especially important today.

His mother was in black, and so was Dudley. Stupid Harry was standing next to her, thin and short, in dark grey. They all moved over to the register, mum signing another paper, and then they moved outside. The funeral was in three days, the wake was tomorrow. Dudley felt tears welling up yet again, and for the first time in his life, suppressed them instead of bawling. He was so bloody sick of blubbering like a baby. After she was done, Mum led them away, a hand on each of their backs.

It was a horrible day for a funeral, to be honest. It had rained last night, and was really windy. Whenever a really large gust of wind blew, wet muddy water flicked onto all the funeral guests. They were all gathered in a cluster around the grave, great big hole in the ground and a huge white angel. Dudley thought the angel looked a big like a poof, but his protests had been ignored.

Harry stood next to Dudley, right by the graveside like the rest of the family. He was such a stupid brat, but he was their cousin. Dad had never really liked him, but mum had always encouraged being nice to him. Father had encouraged a lot of things, including driving really big cars and being a man. And now he was dead. Dudley wasn't supposed to know, but his father had died tripping over a chair and falling down some stairs. Not the best death; Dudley had a vague sort of idea that his father would have liked something more dramatic or dignified better.

Something in which Harry hadn't been the one to see him die and hear his last words. Dudley almost hated Harry for that, for seeing his father at the last, when he knew his father had loved him more, had always hated Harry. Secretly though, Dudley was glad all the way down to his toes that he hadn't had to see it, to hear his father's last breath.

Harry didn't look too happy about everything either, even though Father had been his worst enemy in the entire world. His face looked really pale in the old suit mum had bought from the junk store, but it fit him perfectly, and for the first time Dudley could see how thin he really was. With a strange surge of fellow-feeling, Dudley reached out and held Harry's hand.

When the coffin lowered, Dudley started crying, great big tears. Harry's hand tightened around his, and they said goodbye to the only father figure they could remember. The two boys stood there, mum in front of them, her hand quick and jerky as she tossed the dirt into the grave.

The small family watched as people came up one by one to pay their respects. Most of them Dudley didn't recognize or care about, but there were three particularly striking people in line, stark and elegant. The man had a cane, but didn't walk like he needed it; it was like he was an old movie villain, one of those with the sword hidden up the walking stick. There was a small boy that looked about their age, 10 or 11 at the most. He was pretty for a boy, and wore a sneer that matched his father's.

And lastly... what must have been the mother. She was leaning down over the foot of the grave, her soft blond hair spilling over her shoulders. She laid a flower at the foot of his grave, and then walked back to her family. Dudley thought for a minute of the story in church, about the night of Passover. All the Hebrews had put goat's blood over their lintels, to ward off the angel of death from their home. Dudley didn't believe in God (his father had disapproved), but this was what the angel of death would look like: shining and beautiful, but forboding.

They stopped briefly in front of the Dudley, all of them almost glowing in the gloom. The man spoke to his mother, that sneer still on his face. Does he even know he's doing it? Dudley wondered. “Mrs. Dursley, our condolences.” Looking at Dudley, he nodded once, shortly.

“Thank you. Did you know Vernon from work?” mother asked, her eyes slightly wide. The man could have been Father's boss, Dudley supposed. He was certainly dressed like it.

“Unfortunately, we are cousins. We always give relatives our respects in the end, even if they were born flawed and ungifted, as your father was. His mother refused to cull him from the fold, and now here we are." The man shrugged then, the smirk intensifying. "Goodbye.” The last was said to his mom, her face white. Dudley couldn't tell for sure, but he thought she was angry, her lips pressed down tightly like when she was about to yell at him or Harry. Dudley understood, then: these people, strange and beautiful, were attacking them with words.

The man was about to turn away, his entire stance one of scorn, but his gaze caught when it reached Harry. “Why, Mr. Potter. You knew this man?” At Harry's jerky nod, the man's entire posture changed. “My condolences to you as well.”

As if on cue, the woman stepped forward and handed her husband a flower, which he in turn handed to Harry. “Remember, the Malfoys are always proper, even towards a cousin such as this. This is my son, Draco, and my wife, Narcissa.”

The boy looked at Harry, the scorn gone. His eyes flickered to look briefly at Harry's scar. When the blond boy glanced at Dudley, Dudley could almost feel the push backwards. Disgust, that's what that look was. The boy turned back towards Harry again, and nodded shortly, just like his father, with a really queer expression on his face. Stupid prick. Why should he like Harry better?

Mother was looking more and more furious the entire time these strange people talked to Harry, until finally she stepped forward, shoving Dudley and Harry protectively behind her. “I don't know who you people think you are! Even if you are some of that kind, you will leave this place! If you want to be decent family to him now that he's dead, you'll just leave! Go on, we don't need scorn from such as you.” She gulped in air, then relaxed once they stepped away.

With an arched eyebrow, the woman walked away, taking the boy's – Draco's – hand. With a final nod to Harry, the man turned around and they left together. The crowd parted for them like the Red Sea, and Dudley's chest felt hot and tight as he watched them go.

"Who were they?" Harry murmered to Mother, his eyes fixed on their retreating backs.

Mother breathed out in a great long sigh. "I'm not exactly sure. Some of Vernon's family, I'm afraid. Freaks, all of them. They're not our kind." And she wouldn't say anything more about them.

The rest of the funeral was calm, but it had been ruined. It was now hard to think of Father, and especially hard to take condolence after condolence. Dudley felt awful the rest of the day, and Mother's fingers were claws curled around her purse. Dudley didn't know what Harry was thinking.

Planescape: Torment fanfic 100 challenge!

2007-01-08T14:04:11Z

Okay... so not sure if this is a good idea, but I've decided to start it anyway. So here's the table, and hopefully there will be entries soon. Not that anyone checking on here would have ever heard of PS:T. It's sadly neglected.

001.	Beginnings.	002.	Middles.	003.	Ends.	004.	Insides.	005.	Outsides.
006.	Hours.	007.	Days.	008.	Weeks.	009.	Months.	010.	Years.
011.	Red.	012.	Orange.	013.	Yellow.	014.	Green.	015.	Blue.
016.	Purple.	017.	Brown.	018.	Black.	019.	White.	020.	Colourless.
021.	Friends.	022.	Enemies.	023.	Lovers.	024.	Family.	025.	Strangers.
026.	Teammates.	027.	Parents.	028.	Children.	029.	Birth.	030.	Death.
031.	Sunrise.	032.	Sunset.	033.	Too Much.	034.	Not Enough.	035.	Sixth Sense.
036.	Smell.	037.	Sound.	038.	Touch.	039.	Taste.	040.	Sight.
041.	Shapes.	042.	Triangle.	043.	Square.	044.	Circle.	045.	Moon.
046.	Star.	047.	Heart.	048.	Diamond.	049.	Club.	050.	Spade.
051.	Water.	052.	Fire.	053.	Earth.	054.	Air.	055.	Spirit.
056.	Breakfast.	057.	Lunch.	058.	Dinner.	059.	Food.	060.	Drink.
061.	Winter.	062.	Spring.	063.	Summer.	064.	Fall.	065.	Passing.
066.	Rain.	067.	Snow.	068.	Lightening.	069.	Thunder.	070.	Storm.
071.	Broken.	072.	Fixed.	073.	Light.	074.	Dark.	075.	Shade.
076.	Who?	077.	What?	078.	Where?	079.	When?	080.	Why?
081.	How?	082.	If.	083.	And.	084.	He.	085.	She.
086.	Choices.	087.	Life.	088.	School.	089.	Work.	090.	Home.
091.	Birthday.	092.	Christmas.	093.	Thanksgiving.	094.	Independence.	095.	New Year.
096.	Writer‘s Choice.	097.	Writer‘s Choice.	098.	Writer‘s Choice.	099.	Writer‘s Choice.	100.	Writer‘s Choice.

pink_paranoia @ 2007-01-05T11:08:00

2007-01-05T17:14:25Z

Continuation of The Dead Man is Gone... now officially AU!

Chapter 4 - Everything Dies

It is the kind of day when no one is outside but you, and you're able to do anything and everything you've ever wanted. The air is ripe with your own potential and the promise of rain on the horizon. The sky is a bowl, and all that keeps the rain from falling is the fear of going down such a long way.

This is how Hagrid feels today, but he doesn't think about it like that. He doesn't need metaphor to understand the world, though he's generously patient with those who do. Instead, he thinks of today as a good day.

Hagrid reaches down, and feels the soil running through his fingers. Aye, and the sprouts are almost ready for repotting. Professor Sprout needs to replant the sprouts soon. Heh! That's a good one, that is. Have to tell that one to Sprout tonight, she'll get a real laugh. These small shrubs though, forget their name, they need to be done by hand. They're tough little things too, and so will need his bigger, stronger hands. Hagrid is happy to help, though. Some things can't be done with magic, and Hagrid likes reaching down into the ground. Nurturing things that will still be there when he's old and gone is so satisfying.

Hagrid doesn't think often of how short his lifespan will be, because why bother with worrying, but he knows his body can't last for long. Dumbledore explained it all to him once; apparently the pressure of his giant blood and strength is too much for his slightly human body, enough to shorten his lifespan to that of a Muggle. Hagrid doesn't really mind dying though. His father is there already, and right now Hagrid feels strong and whole. He can lift an entire tree over his head (a fact he is privately extremely proud of, even if it is only smaller trees), he has delivered calves and a litter of puppies into the world, he's planted things that could outlast Hogwarts – though they won't, magic willing – and he's talked to centaurs and unicorns and everything else magical and special.

A chill of mist reminds Hagrid – he has to patch up his shack just a wee bit if he's going to make the winter comfortably. He goes inside to get his umbrella which he will use discretely to patch up a few of the trickier holes. Dumbledore wouldn't mind, after all. Definitely not. Afterwards, he goes inside for a bag of dog food, glancing up at the ceiling with satisfaction.

Every summer he's allowed to take care of the local strays, and takes care of them with the savings from his own salary and from the house elves' leftovers. The dogs are all penned up in a nearby stall every night, and when he takes the food out to them, they all step over each other in a rush to get to the door.

Later that day, after he's done with the shrubbery, he takes the dogs out for a walk. All twenty race forward, yelping a bit. The biggest one is German Shepard probably mixed with cerberus or something, who Hagrid named Cheery, and it growls as it races forward, jumping on top of other dogs. Hagrid races forward and picks it up before it steps on one of the puppies. Silly little thing. If he didn't know better, he would have thought Cheery was trying to squish the baby.

Puppies safe, the rag-tag pack races towards the Forbidden Forest, running together through the clammy air, slipping on patches of mud.

When they reach the lake they all rest for a minute, mouths open and panting. Hagrid's cheeks are bright red, and his chest is heaving. To cool him down, the dogs jump on him and lick his face. The puppies duck under his arms during the break and huddle close. They know he won't squish them, even as big as he is. For a moment the pack sips some water, and then at a movement from Hagrid they all start running again, up and onward.

This is the life. Hagrid thunders up the hill after a small bitch who can't quite keep up. He scoops her up and they race forward, moving to the front even past Cheery. Hagrid lets the girl slip down to the ground as they run and suddenly all the dogs course forward, sprinting for that final stretch back to the pen. Summers for them are the happiest time of the year.

After they are all back in the stall, given water and fresh hay for bedding, Hagrid heads inside for a spot of tea. He wants a dog year-round. Maybe he should ask Dumbledore. Or better yet, since Dumbledore would of course say yes to such a simple request, he should just go get one. A big gentle one to help him out with some of the tougher animals in the forest. The tea is ready, and he pours it out into a relatively tiny little cup. His finger can barely fit into the handle, but he's had it since back before he entered Hogwarts so he can't bear to throw it away.

They're all such good creatures, the creatures in the forest, he thinks. But they really don't know their own strengths and poisons and powers and such. Some of them could even be lethal, poor things. So yeah, of course he could use some flanking with the more unintentionally dangerous ones. Might just go into town tomorrow and get some cute little thing. Yeah.

Slumping down in his chair, he falls asleep in his chair, the teacup propped up on his stomach. His knuckles brush the floor and his back will hurt in the morning, but he won't notice. It's not worth it to notice things like that.

A/N: So, basically done with the next three, which admittedly isn't all that hard since they're all really short. Will post them once I can't stand to edit them anymore. I also have to say that I've mapped out about half of the story (it just keeps growing!) and there will be one-sided (?) Harry/Draco. It'll probably only be mentioned in a couple chapters, but just so you know, it is there. Those of you who hate slash, sorry about that.

pink_paranoia @ 2007-01-05T10:43:00

2007-01-05T16:46:46Z

Title: Ghosts
Summary: Naruto and Jiraiya find a haunted town, and Naruto can't stop thinking about Sasuke.

Most of the time, Naruto didn't understand Jiraiya. It was strange because Naruto knew that he and Jiraiya were a lot alike. They were both loud, both powerful, and both perverts. It's the lack of dedication that Naruto couldn't understand (though since he was very simple in some ways, Naruto phrased it as: Why is the old man so lazy?).

As far as Naruto could see, Jiraiya spent most of his time peeping, an activity Naruto somewhat hypocritically joined him in, or writing his porn. While Jiraiya thought of this as a perfectly valid use of his time, Naruto simply can't understand not training. Orochimaru wass out there, constantly fighting and building up his army, moving ever closer towards a final confrontation with Leaf Village. Naruto's skin burned just thinking about it.

Most of the time they simply moved from village to village; the two thought the same way and made good traveling partners. They were content in their similarities, happy to find another who wanted to stop at the same point they want to, and got bored with any given town at the same time. They didn't argue about the little things, where to stop, how long to stay, where to go, what to eat. Their companionship was easy in this way.

Where they got bogged down was in the bigger things, the things that were harder to talk about because there were so many sore points. Sasuke took up a good deal of Naruto's hate and love and frustration and deep thoughts. What occupied Jiraiya when he can't sleep, Naruto didn't know.

Where the similarity between the two broke down is at the level of the intellect. Jiraiya was capable of thinking in poetry, even if what he wrote down is crappy porn, and Naruto was unable to relate on this level. When Naruto talked about Sasuke, or the fox, he spoke simply, with raw emotion and he stumbled over his words. Mostly, he didn't like to talk about it at all; usually, training worked well enough to supress everything.

When Jiraiya talked about his demons, Naruto didn't understand anything he said. One day, after a long day of chakra control, and they were sitting by the fire together, each staring into it and brooding on their individual demons, Jiraiya contemplatively said, “It feels like my entire life has been flashes of instances. Like one minute I understand everything, and then I blink, and then new things are happening. But I've lost everything in between.” Naruto could do nothing but stare blankly; all he could think to respond is “Wha?” but that's not a very good response so he said nothing, which was probably the best thing to say anyway.

Naruto knew there were parallels between Orochimaru and Sasuke, just like there were parallels between him and his teacher. Why else, after all, would things work out this way, so neatly? He and Jiraiya and Sasuke and Orochimaru and even Sakura and Tsunade and wasn't that just so weird? It was like fate or something.

Naruto still didn't understand seven months later, when they arrived in a small town in Water country. They were “incognito,” meaning that they tried not to be too loud or noticeable, which they both failed at miserably, as usual. Even so, they managed to make it to the dingy hotel without incident, moving down the single road through the rain.

There was only one room, so they bedded down together. Jiraiya had cold feet, so when Naruto woke up in the middle of the night with an ice block against his calf, he wasn't particularly surprised. Resignedly, he got up, knowning that he wouldn't be able to escape the feet now that Jiraiya had migrated over. Stupid old man. Naruto was not at all subtle, but even he was able to understand that the cold feet could be a horrible ploy by the old man to get the entire bed all to himself. That was because he understands Jiraiya was a sneaky old bastard, much like what Naruto will become.

It is cold and clammy outside, probably because this is, after all, Water Country, so Naruto pulled on his not-subtle-at-all sweater and went out to train. Sitting on the front porch of the hotel was a small kid, dirty and dark haired. Naruto was reminded with a chill of Haku, and his miserable childhood. He wondered, for a minute, just how many children were ignored and dirty orphans here. He also wondered if Fire Country would look like this if Orochimaru won. Naruto completely ignored the fact that he was once an orphan exactly like this kid, because he obviously didn't count.

The entire town kind of looked dirty and run-down though, not just the kid. Like almost everybody had left, or was dead. It looked like the Uchiha compound. Ugh. Uchiha and Haku in one day. Plus cold feet! It really had not been his morning.

He went towards the nearest empty clearing, feeling around for any kind of chakra signature. There was nothing, so he started running up trees, a comforting routine that started off most of his days now. He spiced it up by only putting chakra in the tips of his toes, of course, but it was still easy.

An hour later, he finally noticed the feeling of disquiet that had been trickling down his neck for the past hour, slowly increasing in magnitude. Looking down out of the corner of his eye he saw... the orphan boy. The child was incredibly skinny, and had a slim pale face. When the kid made eye contact, he ran away. It was then, from the way it moved, that Naruto finally realized it was a girl. He almost saw red for a minute; something in him had always hated the idea of girl orphans, even though Sakura would kick his ass if he ever said anything like that out loud.

After she ran off in fear, he started training again. Going after her wouldn't do anything but make her more scared, he knew, but maybe her curiosity would bring her back.

The sun rose completely, burning off the morning haze, and Naruto came out of his trance to a completely different forest, one which was bright and shining and somehow looked a lot bigger. Mist had a way of shrinking things, Naruto reasoned to himself. It seemed reasonable that everything became closed in when you couldn't see fifty feet beyond you. Jiraiya was back in the village, and Naruto decided to take a break, just to see if Jiraiya actually had anything relevant to training to say.

Which, of course, he didn't. Sometime Naruto really wondered about the pervert, where all his drive went. On the other hand, maybe there was nowhere to go once you reach Sannin status. But Orochimaru! It was an endless cycle that Naruto kept turning over in his mind, one he couldn't quite wrap his mind around.

Jiraiya was sitting at the bar right next to their lodging, well into his fifth cup, which wasn't much until you factored in the size of the cup. He was also sulking, which in a town like this could only mean one thing. “Get shot down again, old man? You should stop hitting on girls younger than you, maybe then you'd get some.” Naruto paused for effect, Jiraiya eyeing him sourly. “Oh, yeah, that's right! Only Granny is your age, and she's way too attractive for your wrinkled ass. Oh well!”

“You're funny kid. For your information, the girl came on to me. A figure like Venus, but with youthful litheness. So young! Such wicked knowledge! A dark-haired, mysterious beauty with eyes like fire.” Naruto eyed his teacher with amusement as he went on about the girl for another five minutes, waxing poetic.

“I'm telling you boy, if I have a feminine ideal, she's as close as I've come.” “Not,” Jiraiya took another gulp, “that I settle for one archetype of beauty of course, I'm a man of varied tastes.”

Naruto settled in on a barstool and ordered a cup of his own. “Whatever, pervert. Whenever I think about your taste in women I feel a little sick.”

“Ah yes, I do like them young sometimes, don't I?”

“Eh, yeah, that's what I mean. Shut up about it, I don't want to know.” Naruto looked around the bar then, only now fully examining his surroundings. His first glance coming inside had revealed nothing dangerous, but on second glance he felt jarred. There wasn't anything specific that threw him off; all the other winos were quite and seemed perfectly harmless (to a ninja, anyway), and there were no strange chakra signatures Naruto could detect. But still, there was a trace of something wrong, like a remnant or a stain in the air.

Naruto murmured into his cup “Old man, what's going on here?”

Jiraiya muttered back, not moving at all, “I'm not sure. It was here when I came in.”

“Is it some kind of scar? A curse?”

“Good job, boy.” Jiraiya sounded somewhat surprised. “You're getting quicker on the uptake. I think it is. Something happened here, and it's left its mark. You wanna follow it?”

Naruto grinned into his cup. “No duh.”

They both got up and Jiraiya paid for them. Moving out, they strolled around the entire length of the town, what little there was of it. There wasn't much there, only a small general store and what appeared to be a small schoolhouse, a remnant of more stable times. It was surprising, all things considered, that there was even a place to stay here. This village might have been on a trade route once, before everything was disrupted.

Oddly, the only other place they found the trace was their hotel. Naruto felt a slight chill; neither of them had noticed. Even if Naruto wasn't very good at noticing this kind of thing, he should have seen something. Shaking his head, he waved at Jiraiya and ran off, back to the clearing. It was only when he stopped for a breath that he noticed: it was here too! What the hell?

He stopped, linking the tavern to the forest, and realized the only thing linking them together. And it made a grim kind of sense too. It wouldn't be strange, for a ghost of some kind to link to a child. Children sometimes had an unfair amount of tragedy attached to them. Naruto felt very protective of the girl at that moment, simultaneously afraid and angry for her. She was probably only five or six, and it was sad, just too sad.

That ominous feeling attached to a child probably explained how Naruto could feel anything. He just wasn't sensitive in that way, but he felt a deep and abiding sympathy for little kids. His connection to that kind of thing might enable him to see what he would normally miss.

He started searching, spreading out from the town and circling outward, searching all the places a young girl would hide out and finding nothing, before finally finding a small hut a mile away. It was empty, but it too had the same jarring feeling. Naruto shivered. It was like seeing a dark blurry object out of the corner of your eye that you knew meant to hurt you - and there was someone out there, just a little girl, who felt it all the time.

He knocked on the door lightly, careful of the rotting wood, before ducking inside and looking around. There were clothes scattered around, a woman's and a small girl's. There was a small toy duck, which used to be yellow but was now a faded orange. The place looked like it hadn't been lived in for a while, but Naruto definitely felt it was connected to the spiritual rot here.

The place was too creepy to stay in long, so once Naruto was sure no clues were there, he left to find Jiraiya.

He was sitting in front of the bar, on a bench outside. Night was coming on, so more and more people were gathering together after a long day, and they filtered in and out frequently. They all looked the same, Naruto noticed, all dark-haired and all pale. This entire town, in fact, reminded Naruto of him, from the pale coloring to the strange silence they all carried with them to the hauntedness of it all. This place had seen too much desertion and desolation in past years, and it showed.

“Yo, Naruto,” Jiraiya greeted from his seat. He seemed deceptively relaxed, enough for Naruto to tell that every sense was in reality alert. “How'd your day go?”

“Good. I figured something out. You?”

“Huh. I figured out something too. Enough for us to be sure that the curse won't be following us on the road. Listen to this: thirty years ago, back when this area was more prosperous and had traders moving in and out occasionally, a beautiful healer lived here. Her family had lived out in the woods for generations, collecting the precious plants that grow out in that forest. She lived out in the woods all by herself, and came into town frequently to heal those too sick to come out and visit her. A young man, a young man who was visiting in that inn,” and here Jiraiya pointed emphatically right across the street, “fell in love with this woman.

“He stayed for months here, wracking up debts and generally making a great fool of himself, mooning after her like the whelp he was. She kept refusing his advances, and would choose no other. He went mad with love, or with lust, and murdered her right where we are sitting. No one came out to help her, even though there was a window right here and she screamed for help until her last breath. Even to this day she haunts the main street right here. And she was the woman I met in the tavern, I'm certain of it!”

Jiraiya leaned back, giving a satisfied sigh. “So if nothing else, we're safe because she haunts the town, not just random travelers.” At Naruto's angry look, he amended, “But of course we're going to try to help the town, why not after all? I'm just saying, you know, that we're probably safe from her. If we need to be.

“Now, Naruto, you look like you're troubled. What did you find out?”

Naruto squinted into the distance, in the direction of the hut, troubled. “Sensei, did you say she lived alone?” At Jiraiya's nod, he continued “But I found the place she lived, a place really heavy with the taint, and there were women and girl clothes there. And there's something else. There's a girl. She was sitting out on the front porch right there when I came out this morning, and she followed me out training too. The taint is in both places. I think this healer, I don't know why, is following this little girl. But it's wrong; we need to stop it!”

No child deserved to be haunted. Naruto thought again of the Uchiha compound, silent and cold when he had visited it. A discoloration that might have been splattered blood still colored the sidewalks. The fan that splayed over the main room. Naruto hadn't gone any further in than that, even though he had wanted to look at Sasuke's bedroom. He couldn't stand to see any more evidence of his friend's self-torture.

“Alright,” agreed Jiraiya, somewhat surprised at Naruto's vehemence, though he knew he shouldn't be, not really. Naruto was much more compassionate than his teacher, maybe because he was young, maybe because he was born that way. “If we want to help this little girl, we should probably find her.”

Again, for the second time that day, they searched the tiny little street, this time with dark approaching. The tavern was the most likely place for the healer to go, but she was following the little girl, who might have gone for shelter somewhere.

Finally, when they couldn't find her anywhere in town, they went back to the hut. Though they waited there for several hours, huddled in the woods outside the mold-black shack, nobody went inside or near it. Those were some of the most eerie hours of Naruto's life; he couldn't stand the idea of a orphan using it as a shelter, night after night, going into the blackened ramshackle thing. He himself had slept in places that looked worse, but never anywhere that made him sick just to look at it. The house almost vibrated when he looked at it, it was so cursed.

In the depths of night, when the moon had fully risen and the birds were starting to sing, they gave it up as fruitless and went back to the inn for the night. Maybe she would show up to watch Naruto train tomorrow?

Right when Naruto was about to climb into their window, however, Jiraiya stopped and canted his head towards the main street. They climbed slowly over the roof of the hotel, only to freeze at a grey-black figure, which Naruto slowly realized was the child. But different, possessed by a furious rage.

“We have to help her!” Naruto hissed. “She's being hurt by that ghost!”

Jiraiya tensed. “Naruto, when you look at her, what do you see?”

“It's the same orphan, but she's surrounded by an angry aura. That's the ghost, right?”

He nodded slowly. “But when I look, Naruto, I see a beautiful woman – the woman from the bar – now with a stab wound in her stomach. We see the same aura though. ”

“Is the little girl possessed?”

“Um, maybe. I've also heard that ghosts take on different forms, depending upon who they're facing. The woman... she looks very violent.”

“The little girl just looks angry.” Naruto blinked in wonderment. Did this mean that the ghost was two people? Or that she liked Naruto better?

“You should go down,” Jiraiya said, nodding firmly, almost but not quite hiding his fear.

“Coward,” Naruto muttered, sticking out his tongue before crawling down the front side of the roof. He wasn't afraid, for some reason. He just felt that the little girl had been if not friendly, at least not mad all the times before. When she turned to look at him though, her eyes were so wide and black he started to have second thoughts. Bracing himself, he kept walking forwards.

“You. What are you doing here, traveler?” The voice was hushed, and a small child's, but it echoed and hummed.

“Eh... I was looking for you. To help you,” he added. What the hell were you supposed to say to a ghost, anyway?

“Help me? Little child, you cannot help me. I do not want to be helped, after all.” There it was again, that echo. She was a little girl, but she was also a woman, a gentle-faced one that reminded him of Haku. When Haku was in his girl clothing, of course. She made Jiraiya afraid, but to him, for a second, she looked caring like Iruka did sometimes. She made him feel happy a little, even with the seeping hole in her stomach.

“Why are you here? And you were a little girl. You are the woman, right?”

She nodded, looking dark. “I am the healer you were speaking of earlier, with that pervert.”

Hah. Naruto laughed nervously, thinking that in this case Jiraiya's obvious pervertedness wasn't so good, considering how and why she died. “Is that why you look like a adult to him? Cause he's like that?”

“Possibly. And you are a child; I cannot bear you ill will.” She looked so gentle when she said the word 'child,' almost incandescent.

“Did you like children?” he asked curiously. She really wasn't all that scary-looking right now.

“Yes, I had always loved them. I held a child in my belly when I died,” she ground out, fully adult and angry, before she calmed down again. “Her spirit was too weak to stay. I am in this form with you now because you want to see it. And because it comforts me. A child's heart is stronger than an adult's. As a child I can forgive, when as a woman I can only be angry. I loved this town as a little girl, and when I am like that, I can love it still.”

She paused then, looking sad and small, even when in the form of a beautiful woman. “If you would have love from someone, get it when they are a child; people are more capable of love then than at any other point. I am almost glad my little girl died, rather than have to grow up in this town, which is rotting and sad and will die soon; some places should not be loved.

“One day this village will simply be a ghost, and I will haunt nothing but empty buildings. I am happy, in fact, that she must not stay here and haunt this place too.”

Naruto felt unspeakably sad when he remembered the baby and toddler and little girl's clothes scattered around the shack. To be anticipating a baby so much, and to be thankful you never had it... this was a cruel place. “Is there anything we can do? How can we give you peace?”

She smiled at him. “Some things are not meant to be forgiven. And sometimes there is no resolution; I am a ghost now, and wish to remain one until I fade away. There may be no point to it, but I would rather be a creature of memory and hate than have the past fade away. The evil my murderer committed must be remembered, both because he killed myself and my baby, and because no one reached out to stop him, though they could see his descent into lust and obsession. My tragedy must be remembered, though it causes me only rage and pain.” And that, Naruto thought, was the saddest thing of all, though he couldn't tell why. His chest felt heavy like he would cry, but he pushed the tears down. It ached.

“Now leave me, you and your older friend. I have no patience for him, but no wish to hurt you, child. Go hide in your room, and leave tomorrow. Trouble me no more.” When Naruto looked at her, he could see only the woman; the little orphan girl he had seen was gone. He turned around and couldn't look back until the inn door was closed behind him.

When they woke up that morning, they got dressed silently; they hadn't spoken of the woman, Naruto couldn't tell if it was a sensitive subject with his teacher. Probably not. After all, Jiraiya had seen much worse things. It stuck in Naruto's head though, even as they left the town behind until it finally disappeared in the mist and the trees.

Shortly after they left, Naruto and Jiraiya were once again sitting and staring into a fire. Naruto had to ask. “Jiraiya, how are you able to just go a day without training? How are you able to forget?”

"Naruto, it was not hard for me to let go. For you, every town holds some reminder of your rival. I see Orochimaru reflected in nothing. He doesn't occupy enough of my mind for me to see him in every event, every coincidence. No thing in my life serves as a way to understand his."

At Naruto's blank look, Jiraiya put his pipe down, looked Naruto in the eye, and said flatly, “I'll only tell you once, Naruto, but it's obvious that you need me to spell it out. Orochimaru and I are not the same as you and Sasuke. Orochimaru, I didn't want him to come back. He turned from a creepy little kid to a creepy and insanely driven man in a flash, and without me really caring either way. We were not ever friends, let alone the intense, obsessive thing you silly little kids seem to be wrapped up in.” With that, he settled in on himself, staring fixedly at the fire.

Naruto sat there for awhile. To think, that things were not the same. It seemed he always needed things spelled out for him. Jiraiya had said once that there were always metaphors and parallels in life, but Naruto was just too slow to grasp them. He had been smugly joking at the time, or had been as far as he could figure out.

So Team 7 and the Legendary Three were not the same? It was true, Naruto supposed, that Jiraiya could write and Naruto could not; Sakura didn't like risks the way Tsunade did. He didn't know what the differences between Orochimaru and Sasuke were; he probably wasn't subtle enough to see them.

But if that was not a true metaphor, what was? His mind kept going back to the ghost woman, and how sad she made him, sad beyond the rape and murder she had suffered. “My tragedy must be remembered, though it causes me only rage and pain.” Naruto felt like he was being bashed over the head with whatever it was, he just couldn't see it. When they both bedded down, he still didn't quite understand.

The Dead Man is Gone - Dead Man Walking

2006-12-08T21:02:48Z

Woot! I am a writing machine. Quality goes down, yeah, but... yeah. Could use an edit or two.

Title: The Dead Man is Gone

Fandom: Harry Potter

Summary: Sirius and settling in, Azkaban style.

Chapter One can be found here.

Chapter Three - Dead Man Walking

Dead man walking! Padfoot went over to the door, gulping down the food lying on the floor. The food tasted clean for a minute, sweet and succulent, before it lost all its flavor. The evil thing passed by him, probably a long distance away, since he wasn't howling and could think. Padfoot wanted to bite it, but a part of him that was not dog thought this would be a very bad idea.

How long had he paced here? The sound of his nails clicking across the floor was so familiar. To Padfoot it felt like a long time. He wondered if he would age as a dog or a man. Seven years was one human year, so would he die earlier than normal?

He was a dead man walking, real smooth talkin, a blade blunted down to the bone. The song keeps playing over and over in his head. He doesn't think he made it up.

These are the things Sirius can't think about anymore:

* * *

When he first arrived, Sirius realized that it wasn't like he had thought. No one deserved this. He spent the first day huddled in the corner, trying to avoid the dementors as much as possible. He curled up, nose pressed against his knees, desperately trying to avoid looking around. Damn him! The stupid rat betrayed them all! Bastard! Sirius wanted to smash things, but it was so hard to move. Oh James, Lily. Even as he thought about them, overwhelming horror threatened to smash him down. They were dead. When he tried to focus on the happier memories, they started to flatten and drain, slipping away from him. After that, he tried to stay away from his good memories as much as possible, preserving them for after his escape.

Anger was easier, so he clenched onto it, feeding his anger and outrage at the Ministry, Voldemort, and the rat. Peter. And no wonder he had that form! The four of them had joked about it school, saying it only meant he was useful and able to go where others couldn't. What rot. But even as he thought the anger, it seeped out, only leaving gray and listlessness. He didn't have the energy to be angry, even at Voldemort. Everything was going flat and bleached.

This wasn't working. Sirius looked at the floor, at the stone blocks held together by magic. They were hungry for him, the stones were. The entire place was a strange combination of clean and clinical hospital and Slytherin dungeon. It was the kind of place you would call a facility, but wouldn't show to anyone out of fear they'd shut it down for rights violations.

There had to be a way to survive, to stay sane here. Sirius had been imprisoned in a farce of a trial, too mad with grief to be help himself. He wouldn't back down to the Ministry again. Every part of him that was stubborn, every bullheaded bit of his personality (and that brought back memories of McGonogall; she must be so disappointed) was resisting the pull of despair. But it was so hard; no memory was pure and happy, not so close to the dementors. And with every pass of one by his cell, he felt worse and worse.

There had to be a solution, but Sirius couldn't think of it quite yet; if only he had his wand!

* * *

The forest grew less and less every day, and stumps were scattered across the land. It would have been better, perhaps, if there had been desolation all around, so that the healthy fields would not cast the stumps in such stark relief.

The maker of this was a lumberjack. He worked every day at this, manual labor for his family. It became easy after he got the hang of it. A little muscle is all it takes: an unhinging of the shoulder, bringing it back, and then letting the momentum carry him forward. He did this under the beating hot sun, sweat dripping down and stinging his eyes. His muscles burned, but he continued until the sun was sinking, the memory of his child's voice rising with the moon, beckoning him home.

He rolled his shoulders as he walked, the ache of fatigue brushed away by the tantalizing smell of food on the wind. But it was oddly quiet in the dark house, silence roaring in his ears. And then. A child lying on the floor. The baby, sleeping in a pool of thick black water – because that must be sleep and that must be water. The darkness allowed it. He moved on down the hall, gripping the forgotten axe in one hand and jacket in the other, the zipper making an impression on the palm.

He passed his wife, but couldn't look. There was a man, ravaging the dresser, rifling through the clothes. A thief. So. A little muscle was all it took: an unhinging of the shoulder, bringing it back, and then letting the momentum carry you forward.

Then Sirius woke up, muscles in his back jerking. He had nothing to defend, nothing to avenge. And he didn't have his wand anyway, or even an axe. He spent the rest of the day as Padfoot.

* * *

He was a dead man walking, real smooth talkin'. A Muggle singer played on the radio in Lily's house. Sirius sat at the table, shifting uncomfortably. Lily had invited the four of them plus Molly down to her parent's house for New Years, and they had all accepted eagerly. Lily's parents were really nice people, he knew; they had first met at the train station two years ago, when all the Gryffindors of their year had gotten off the train together. They had been so afraid of the Slytherins then, but they had no idea what a threat Voldemort would become later.

Knowing Lily's parents, Sirius had been expecting a warm, merry New Years complete with hot sister to flirt with and a little partying with good friends. Petunia wasn't quite what he had anticipated, but neither was the vacation. Lily and James had spent most of the last weekend cloistered together in her bedroom or cooing over each other, Peter had been acting strangely ever since that owl from his mother had arrived, and Moony was coming down with a cold. Damn.

So here he and Petunia sat, awkwardly looking at the kitchen table and not each other, listening to the radio. The plastic tablecloth was white with a red checkered pattern, and Sirius traced the lines with his fingertip, feeling the ruts where knives had scraped the surface and where something, maybe grape juice or wine, had spilled and stained the white purple. He was a dead man walking, a blade blunted down to the bone. Sirius knew she was attracted to him, could tell by the way she wasn't sneering at him like she had at his friends. Lots of women were attracted to him though; it wasn't a big deal.

They sat there for a while. He was starting to be amused by her nervous fidgeting. Her hands clenched and unclenched around the edge of the tablecloth, and he knew she was going to break the silence right about - “Sirius? Do you, er, like the music? Or should I change it? Because I could always change it? Unless you like Billie Holiday, that is. I think it's Billie Holiday.” Called it in one, Sirius thought with no small satisfaction. He amazed himself sometimes.

“No Petunia, I think the music's fine. Keep it on.” He was a jet black man, and without him the streets are colder. Yesterday will always linger. Whoever it was, the voice was melancholy and smooth, and rich in a way such a damaged voice shouldn't be. Petunia's timidly hopeful expression was no longer all that funny, so Sirius got up. He had never been deliberately cruel to anyone but Snape. “I'm gonna go outside and smoke. Don't let them eat without me, eh?” With that he walked out, wishing for some robes to cover his tight jeans. They made his ass look hot and there was no point in tormenting the poor thing.

* * *

The only reason it occurred to Sirius to change into Padfoot was that the dementors had all gathered near a far-away cell, where there had been an attempted break out. Sirius could hear screaming, and all he wanted to do was know what was going on. Changing into Padfoot, he tried to use his superior hearing and smell to get a good impression, but all he heard was intensifying screaming and then silence. There wasn't even any blood. The dementors didn't ever smell like anything.

But through the sudden fearful silence throughout the prison, away from their stifling presense, Sirius realized something; he didn't feel as sad. Dogs simply weren't equipped for the kind of despair that humans were capable of, and lived in the moment. If he could let go of the past, there would be less rotten, less spoiled, less to grieve. This was the birth of Sirius' hope.

* * *

There are things Sirius doesn't let himself think about, at least when he can help it:

    His mother and father and their varied arguments.
    McGonagall, who he had always actually liked, deep down. Dumbledore and Hagrid.
    How long has he been in here? (He thinks it might have been five years, but really it's more like one).
    Moony and what he must think.
    James and Lily.
    The boy who lived.

* * *

Padfoot thought about the Rat, and imagined it's flesh squeezing between his teeth, bones crunching and joints popping. When he ate his food, he tore at it like it was the Rat. He tore at it like it was a snake. He tore into it and it sunk down his throat.

When it was the real thing Padfoot wanted it to wriggle down the whole way.

Author's Note: So, despite what the first chapter said, these are not so much drabbles about death so much as they are explorations of the Harry Potter story through the eyes of minor characters. So far, they have all been pretty dark, and do address the nature of death, but the next one features Hagrid, is halfway done, and is so far quite cheerful. Hagrid's a pretty cheerful guy overall, which might be why.

The Dead Man is Gone - Love Never Dies

2006-12-08T00:58:25Z

Title: The Dead Man is Gone
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: AU drabble series starting from the defeat of Voldemort on. Told from the viewpoint of unusual characters.
Chapter One is here.

Chapter Two

Petunia came awake with a jerk. It took her a minute to identify the soft whimpers that had woken her up, because they weren't coming from Dudley's crib at the foot of the bed, they were coming from Harry's crib over by the open window. The curtains shifted a little in the wind, and suddenly she realized it was raining, and the drumming sound in the background was the rain falling on the roof and going down the gutters. In his sleep, Vernon snorted and rolled over. When he moved, she could see his stomach jiggle a little through the sheets. We're getting older, she thought absently. The baby was still crying, shifting restlessly in its crib. Stupid child. He was going to wake Dudley if he kept this up.

Petunia sat there, looking at the blue sheets on their bed, spackled with patches of white streelight filtered through the trees. The breeze smelled like rain, a smell which usually refreshed her, pushed her into action. It was too late, though, and she was too tired. She didn't want to get up, wouldn't get up. But with the rain she couldn't fall asleep. Dratted rain.

Her fingers toyed with the sheets draped over her legs, stretching the fabric over her thighs as tight as it could, until her fat bulged out from the pressure. She scratched at her face absently, cursing under her breath when she hit the cat-scratches from earlier today. Figg's cats were all horribly annoying and vicious. She waited, listening, but Harry still hadn't started crying, just kept whimpering softly.She played with her hair, clacked her teeth, watched the walls flare up with color then die back down as a car went by, brights on in the rain. She inspected her nails carefully, checking for chips in the polish. Dudley still didn't wake, didn't need coddling. Petunia didn't have any excuse to put this off any longer. She carefully pushed the blankets aside so as to not wake Vernon, and went over to Harry's crib.

Lily's eyes looked back up at her.

Petunia had been born with watery blue eyes, the kind that were a little red around the rims, so it had always looked she was about to cry. When combined with her mousy brown hair, before she had started dying it blond, the effect was underwhelming. Petunia had always felt distinctly uninteresting. Lily's eyes had always been electrifying, the kind of emerald that could usually only come from colored contacts. He had the same eyes, too bright to be real.
Lily had always drawn well, even when they were young girls. She had won school awards for her picture of their dog sleeping. That was what Lily drew mostly, dogs, cats, and wild animals, unicorns and dragons. She always had been fond of odd, imaginary things. The week before Lily left for school, she and Petunia spent almost every day together. On the last day, Lily had drawn a picture of them sitting on the front steps. Lily had been very kind to Petunia with that picture, and in it they looked almost exactly alike, knees bumping and smiling. Petunia hadn't thought of it for years, but the first year Lily was gone it had hung on Petunia's wall right above the dresser where she could see it every day.

Petunia breathed in shakily. She didn't know where the picture was. Was the picture still safe, hidden in the attic somewhere? She didn't know what had happened to the drawing, and somehow that was very important to her. Lily and she had never looked like sisters at any other time. Harry and Dudley would never look anything alike. Both boys looked like their fathers anyway. Where was it? Maybe Lily had had it hidden away somewhere in her old house. Petunia had heard about the house that had exploded due to a “gas fire” the night after Harry had appeared, and she had wondered. And the picture wasn't here. She had treasured it, made for her by Lily to keep her from being lonely. Petunia remembered Lily reaching down to pick her up when she had fallen off her bike. They had read fairy tales together before bedtime. The house had seemed so empty with Lily gone; Petunia had been so left-behind and deserted.

Petunia stifled a sob (mustn't wake Vernon or Dudley, though they both slept like the dead, nothing would wake them up) and hurriedly wiped at her face, trying to get all the tears off, but she couldn't. Her face, on her cheeks, it was water. The rain was coming through the open window, and the blanket was soaked. The baby was crying, waving its arms at her in distress. It might have been crying for minutes and Petunia couldn't tell. She just didn't know how long she had let Harry sit there, wet and cold and alone. He was so tiny, smaller than Dudley by a lot.

Petunia pulled the window closed, picked Harry up, bouncing him up and down. Together they went to get a dry blanket, Harry's sobs fading into whimpers before finally dying down altogether. Petunia carried Harry to the window and watched the rain spatter against and slide down the glass until he was completely asleep.

The Dead Man is Gone - Harry Potter

2006-12-06T22:40:20Z

Title: The Dead Man is Gone

Fandom: Harry Potter

Summary: Lucius Malfoy is finally convinced that Voldemort is dead, but letting go is difficult. Pre-Sorcerer's Stone.

Lucius has always considered himself a judicious, level-headed man, so when he first saw his lord disappear in a flash of light, he didn't immediately leap to the dramatic conclusion that everyone else had. He left the Potter house discretely, quietly, careful not to panic. The baby boy was left untouched, sitting in the rubble.

He sat that night in his study, watching the fire and waiting for a prickle on his arm, some sign. His fingers slowly stroked the red velvet arm of his chair, arms bare. After about an hour his skin started crawling, but he didn't deign to acknowledge the discomfort. It got hot, so he took the black robes off, and put them on the floor. He didn't say anything, or look at anything. He waited. At some point, the birds started singing. With an abrupt wave of his wand, Lucius silenced them. They too would wait.

When a glow grew at the eastern horizon, predawn, he stood and looked outside for a minute, thinking. Sunrise and sunsets are times of change; they had long been used in dark magic as catalysts. All the oldest and longest rites, requiring the most power and care started at sunset and ended at sunrise. They were tests of subtlety, skill, endurance and dedication. All the greatest works for the cause had been bloody, long, and ended at sunrise. Harry Potter, the son of a Mudblood and a Potter, had survived the night; this morning, everyone would hear the news. A baby! The Dark Lord dead! The reign of terror over! And still Lucius felt nothing from the Dark Mark.

It was obvious to Lucius at that moment; in all likelihood, his lord wasn't coming back. Voldemort was gone, the boy lived, and Dumbledore had won. Lucius had to plan, had to gather up all the dark artifacts and hide them where no inspectors could find them, had to find a way to protect the status of his name in the public's eye, most of all had to find a way to catch himself and his family before they fell. Their lives had to change, be perfect in public. These would be tenuous times, requiring all his skill. The sun rose, and Lucius moved into action, feverishly drawing up letters to various allies in the government, gathering up the most incriminating things and banishing them to a special cache created by a long-dead ancestor for occasions just like this. The final thing to go from his study were the dark robes, lying discarded on the floor. Lucius almost burned them. No real reason to save them. At the last moment though, he paused, and instead cleaned them with a quick spell, folded them, and put them in with the other things. Black robes were always useful, after all.

When the house elf announced breakfast, Lucius quickly changed and headed down to eat with his wife and baby son, past dozens of portraits, ancestors sleeping in the dark early-morning halls. But before he left his wing of the house altogether, he paused. The dark mark was fading now, quiescent. He pulled his sleeves all the way down to hide it anyway. Just in case.

This is probably the first in a series of drabbles set in the HP universe. They're probably going to be somewhat AU, but that's not completely planned out yet.

There is No Such Thing Ch2

2006-12-06T04:42:36Z

Title: There is No Such Thing
Author: pink_paranoia
Fandom: Demon Diary
Characters: Eclipse/Raenef V, all the usual suspects
Summary: Raenef and Eclipse are inexorably drawn into the next war between demons and gods.

Chapter 1 here.

Chapter 2 - The Before Time

Five Months Earlier

Energy gathered around his body. Raenef could feel it tingling in the tips of his fingers. He cupped his hands over the desk, wind whipping around the small room, gray clouds gathering around his outstretched arms. A stirring filled the rooms, and the windows whipped over, silk curtains flapping in the violent air. The sky outside was blue and sunny, but in the castle study, the power was palpable. The light gradually seeped out of the room, until the room was saturated with energy. Raenef's blond hair fluttered around his face, framing it perfectly. His pale blue robes practically glowed in the eldritch atmosphere. Suddenly, there was a small popping sound.

“Darn it!” Raenef shouted in frustration. When he roughly pushed away from the desk, papers scattered onto the floor. Eclipse thought he looked rather like a bird, elbows flapping up and down as he stomped and jumped around the courtyard.

“Remain calm, Raenef. You are close to mastering the technique; you only need practice.” Raenef had indeed improved over the past few years. After the merge of the three Raenefs, he was a much better student. Raenef now had a control of magic close to Eclipse's own, and as a demon lord had a great deal more power. He still didn't have the attitude of a true demon lord though, at least not in private. Though Eclipse would never admit it, he actually preferred things that way. The boy was meant to be flighty and naive; it was all just a part of his charm.

Blinking at Eclipse's compliment, Raenef blew a bit of blond hair off his face, nose scrunching up. He picked his notes up from the floor, scrambling them into order. "Eclipse, it's just so frustrating. I want to incorporate this spell into the newest Crusaders. The latest have just been so nasty still."

"Lord Raenef, the Crusaders are best left intimidating. I know you don't like them, but they are imposing guardians. Please, at the least, don't turn them pink again."

"They were a subtle pink!"

"They were pastel." Eclipse covered his face with his hand for a moment. The memory was too painful. His Raenef now had the same gift for enchanting objects as his predecessor, but he was rather more careless with them. Or childlike perhaps. More something. Arching one eyebrow, he went on. "Raenef, you have more raw power than Raenef IV did; I feel, however, that you should perhaps restrain yourself from some of your more personal touches."

At Raenef's blank look, Eclipse twitched. First the breakfast in bed fiasco this morning, which proved that Raenef could not cook. Then the lesson, which was three hours of coming close to full-fledged weather magic, but never quite finishing the spells. And the continued presence of the pink Crusaders patrolling the perimeter was wearing. "Raenef, I know you find the color pink personally comforting. I have even accepted the white, baby blue, and violet room decorations. But there are certain things, my Lord, which are sacrosanct. I ask that you leave the Crusaders capable of intimidating. Even their dragon-like form can't quite pull that color off."

Raenef mock scowled at Eclipse before nodding in assent. “Fine. But only if I get to redo the kitchen. That thing I talked about earlier, with the gold and the white.”

He sighed, eyes narrowed at the young man. “As you wish.” Gold and white were acceptable. Not as good as black, purple, and crimson, but they had potential for grandeur, at least. “Are we finished here?” At Raenef's nod, Eclipse rose and teleported to the kitchen.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Raenef wandered in and made a cup of hot chocolate for himself. Eclipse was still busy slicing up tomatoes for their sandwiches with quick, efficient movements. His hands worked quickly and adeptly, never making a mistake. Everything Eclipse did was smooth and graceful. Even if his long nails tended to catch on things. “Can I help?” Raenef asked hopefully.

Eclipse continued to slice, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes. With a gentle smile, he said “Raenef, do you remember what happened the last time you tried to help out in the kitchen?”

Raenef blinked, setting his #1 Demon Lord! mug down onto the black marble counter. “Of course, Eclipse, I made breakfast just this morning.” Remembering the brief fire, he quickly went on. “But that was a fluke! I know with you supervising me, I could do just fine.” He tried out the puppy dog eyes, but Eclipse only shook his head, amusement in his eyes, and started in on the meat. Annoyed that he couldn't help somehow, Raenef managed to set the table without incident.

When they started to eat, Raenef caught himself looking at the two empty chairs wistfully. “Eclipse, where are Erutis and Chris now?”

“Chris of course is preparing to to become the high cleric of Rased.” Eclipse stopped a bit, chewing, before continuing with a malicious smirk. “And I can only assume that Erutis is still being followed by Krayon. What he sees in her, I have no idea. I doubt she's still running that mercenary company however. I doubt she is good at being in one place for a long time.”

“But she was with us for a long time!”

“A few months. And you are a rather special character, Raenef. People do things around you they would not normally do.” Eclipse looked at him sidelong. “I for instance, am eating a turkey sandwich on rye. Not exactly my usual blood of innocents.”

“What?!?!”

“Relax, my lord, I was only toying with you. I ate meat. There aren't enough innocents around anymore to survive on blood alone.”

Raenef couldn't figure out if Eclipse was joking or not, so he spent the rest of his meal sneaking suspicious glances at Eclipse out of the corner of his eye. He was almost certain he was being teased, but with Eclipse it was so hard to tell.

When Raenef finished, Eclipse started cleaning up. This was why, when the message appeared, Raenef was the first to see it; unthinkingly, he simply grabbed it and started reading. “Council of war? What? Eclipse, come look at this. This note is from the Demon Council, inviting us to a council of war in two days. What are they talking about?”

Eclipse took the letter, reading at it with a blank expression. “It is as expected. The demons are getting anxious.”

“But why?” At Eclipse's expectant look, Raenef stopped to think. “It's not because of Chris, is it? But he won't try to attack you and me, will he?”

Eclipse carefully folded the summons before answering. “The fact of the matter is that none of the other demon lords will feel comfortable with the vessel of Rased running the largest church of the known lands.”

“Chris wouldn't attack us, I know it.”

“But not all demons are so immune. Indeed. I believe this meeting is taking place because they're afraid.”

Raenef turned away, looking out of the window. “Surely it can't be certain? War can't be inevitable. Not yet.”

“Not yet,” Eclipse acknowledged. “No doubt this meeting will address how to prevent such a conflict. Demons are not immortal; we want this war no more than the humans do. ”

“Chris wants it though.” Raenef looked out of the windows overlooking the main lawn. He and Chris had fought there, and had faced Raenef IV, along with Erutis and Eclipse. “He hates demons.”

“But he doesn't hate you.” Eclipse's voice was soft. “ He knows you. Remember, you are a demon lord, and you have power, but you are not like them. You don't have to change and become like them.”

I only have to change my public behavior. Only the way I speak to others, the way I comport myself, the way I decorate and dress. Out loud, Raenef only said, “But I am still a demon. And so are you. We still use dark magic, both of us. And that's not something either of us can change.” Eclipse squeezed Raenef's shoulder softly, not knowing what to say, then left.

Raenef went out onto one of the many balconies of the castle, and leaned against the white marble. From here, he could see the palace grounds, raised on a plateau separate from the rest of the realm, which stretched out for as far as Raenef could see. All of it was his to rule, or at least to intimidate. The lawn was green and beautiful, but the land around it was parched and barren. For the first time, Raenef was discontent. It was all well and good to be a demon lord, but Raenef didn't want to be a demon lord alone, disconnected from all other people. He didn't want to be a green plateau, alone in a desert. He loved Eclipse, would do anything for him, even study, but Eclipse was so remote sometimes. Raenef wanted an old woman to putter around and make him cocoa, or for someone to joke around with, like Chris. Though maybe they would never fool around like that again. Raenef wanted to make people happy, and have friends like back in Puhel.

Raenef stood there, thinking about weather magic, and the desert, and rain. Control was always easier for him when there was purpose behind an action. The thing he had never liked about the other demon lords was how mean they were. They never helped anyone, only hurt others. No wonder Chris didn't like them. Maybe there wouldn't even have to be a war if the demon lords just started being nicer.

His mind made up, Raenef went back in to talk to Eclipse. He would attend the meeting in two days, and he would act regal and intimidating, but he would be himself. And he would try his own prevention efforts, whether the other demon lords liked it or not.

There is No Such Thing Ch1

2006-12-06T04:29:55Z

Title: There is No Such Thing
Author: pink_paranoia
Fandom: Demon Diary
Characters: Raenef V/Eclipse, OFC

Chapter 1 : Battlefields

The fighting had stopped. Raenef moved forward slowly, doing his best to step around the larger pools of blood and body parts. Thousands of clerics had been tossed around like sacks, shaken by the wind sylphs called by Krayon before he finally fell. The more innocent part of Raenef quailed at the sight of his friend now pinned to the ground, dead. In his last moments Krayon had been a savage beast. There were no traces of the striking, surprisingly wise Demon Lord left, just anger and magic.

Eclipse moved up behind him, solid and comforting. He had wiped most traces of the battle off, and his face was compassionate. They could afford that kind of emotion now. “My Lord, I am glad to see you are uninjured. Chris is with the rest of his troops. I would have stayed with him as you ordered, but my presence seemed... unwelcome.” His violet eyes and even now clean black hair stood out starkly against the chaos of the plains.

“It would be. They've probably seen enough of demons for one day.” Raenef's voice was steady, at least. If there hadn't been people around, he might have leaned in and touched Eclipse, but he was too conscious of their position and audience. They might be fighting on the side of the light, but they were still dark magic users. “Come on, help me find her.”

They moved on silently, looking among the bodies for Erutis. Everywhere he stepped, Raenef felt flesh give way under his feet, but didn't have enough energy to levitate. He couldn't pick her hair out on any of the people scattered around. There were so many bodies, and there was so much red. She wasn't anywhere. He had honestly expected her to be somewhere near Krayon, to have her revenge, but there was no trace of her. Not even her sword. Raenef's breath shuddered in and out of his lungs and for a moment he couldn't keep looking. But no, he wouldn't give up on her now. Not yet, when she could be wounded and fading fast.

The sun had fully set by the time Eclipse delicately put a hand on Raenef's shoulder. He didn't say anything for a while, and simply took Raenef's hand and tried to pull him back, towards the tents. Feeling Raenef's resistance, he tugged again. “I believe that we can at least sleep in the camp without any worries. You need rest.” Looking out over the completely black and empty plain, his legs finally unlocked and Raenef leaned his head against Eclipse's. Eclipse ignored the gore that still clung to his master's hair and held him, burying his face in the blond hair. “Our tent is by Chris. We can continue looking in the daylight, when the clerics are rested enough to heal her. Right now they don't have enough energy to be good for anyone.”

Raenef followed Eclipse then, willing to be led by the hand as though he were still a child. When they reached the circle of firelight, they dropped their hands for propriety, but stayed close. Raenef walked straight to Chris' area, ignoring the dull, frightened gazes of the exhausted troops. Eclipse was right behind him, a black and purple shadow to his left, guarding his weaker side even among allies.

At their approach, Chris stood, wearing a clean set of robes. He smiled in the firelight, looking worn but satisfied. It had been a great victory for Rased today, despite the costs. Even with the white high cleric robes, he still looked like a rogue when the firelight glinted off his earrings and he had that smile. “Raenef! Eclipse! I've been wondering where you were. You're both okay?” Chris waved his worried attendants away so they could talk privately.

“We're both fine, Chris, don't worry. Are you alright too?” Raenef sat down on a log, some of the tension draining out of him.

“Yeah. Well, I mean, it's hard to get hurt when the god Rased inhabits your body during battle, you know?” Eclipse raised an eyebrow at Chris' bold assertion of Rased's power, but remained silent. His opinion of his old enemies during the old human-demon wars hadn't improved over the course of this campaign.

“Chris,” Raenef said, interrupting his nervous chatter. “Have you seen Erutis?”

Chris swallowed, and shook his head. Raenef eyes felt hot and dry. It was probably too late by now, he knew; nobody could lie out on that battlefield so long without water and restoration magic. Maybe though. He would hold onto hope. When Raenef looked up, Chris was staring into the fire, blinking rapidly, face strained.

Eclipse broke the silence, shifting his weight. “Chris, you should get some sleep. There will be petty demons that need taking care of tomorrow. They'll be too weak to go back to their realm, but strong enough to fight back. Most things are more dangerous when cornered, so they need to be killed soon, and carefully.” He nodded goodnight, and then moved off to their private tent.

Raenef smiled at Chris, finally, and hugged him. “You do need sleep, Chris. You aren't actually a god, you know. Still incompetent as ever, really.”

Chris jumped up energetically. “I resent that! I'll have you know I'm one of the best high clerics ever. Don't make fun of my absolute genius.” Chris huffed, and then his face cracked into a grin again. “Stupid demon lord. You're too pretty to be competent yourself.” He paused, then continued seriously, “It is good to have you here, Raenef. All teasing aside, it would have hurt, to fight against you. You and Erutis and Eclipse – this wasn't your fight, none of you, not really. And it can't be easy, to fight against your own kind.”

Raenef couldn't think of what to say. Joining the side of the light had not really been choice so much as necessity. He couldn't say that to Chris though; they both knew the politics that had forced events to this point anyway. To war, and death. Raenef only smiled at Chris, and waved a little goodbye, moving away from the campfire.

Eclipse was already lying down in the tent when he arrived, breathing evenly but not asleep. Raenef took off his clothes, red flakes falling when he moved. Sitting up, Eclipse looked deep into his eyes, kissing him softly. They lay down together, and Eclipse waited for a sign from Raenef indicating his desires. Tired and numbed, Raenef only hugged Eclipse tight and sighed against his chest. They both lay in the completely dark, gathering their magic for tomorrow, too wary to sleep.

Patterns and Pathways - Sakura-centric

2006-12-06T03:12:36Z

Author: pink_paranoia
Title: Patterns and Pathways
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Sakura, Naruto, Sasuke

Patterns and Pathways

Sakura is working absently on the latest patient in critical care, monitoring their chakra recovery carefully and making sure the broken legs are healing straight. She likes the work, even if it is bloody. For one thing, it only takes a certain kind of concentration, so the rest of the time she's free to think about other things.

There are times when all she thinks about are patterns. She like the idea that her cells reproduce according to a precise and intricate algorithm. When Sakura looks at healing scrolls, she can understand the movement of the chakra throughout the body; there is power in the way it flows, in the paths it moves in. She's good at healing because it takes control to see and manipulate the flow, to restore it. They are small and intricate, but she can handle that, and she likes putting things back into their proper position.

When two people come together, it is according to some precise and intricate dance. The two of them join and recombine and a child is produced. Within a village, the community moves in patterns, children growing up, genin becoming chuunin, the elderly and the more powerful ninja dying. Sakura understands that. Sometimes she sees the world like it was a body, and knows that time will travel like chakra, in a proscribed pattern. She can see the inevitability of Sasuke's leaving, and knows that either he or Naruto or both will die young, because they are very powerful. She knows that Tsunade must die because she's powerful and old, a lethal combination. She knows that Orochimaru will die like everyone else, because that is how the pattern works, that is how time travels.

Konoha is stormy today. There is a flash of muddy-gray yellow darting around on the training grounds, and she know it is Naruto, working like always. Through the hospital window he is just a small blurry shape, but the trees look greener because he is there, and the day feels less dreary when she looks his way. In the village itself, rain sloughs off the layer of dirt on the roads and runs down to the gutters, carried off to the streams far enough away that the village will not flood.

She wants to divert the course of the rain, stop it from leaving. But if you change the natural flow of chakra, you kill the body; if you stop the rain from leaving, the village floods. Even when Sakura sees all this, though, and knows some things are inevitable, she stills wants to reach out and shift the pattern.

Gaara-centric fic

2006-12-06T03:07:09Z

Author: pink_paranoia
Title: Perchance to Dream
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Gaara

Perchance to Dream

Gaara doesn't sleep. He can feel Shukaku too easily, slithering like sand in the back of his mind. When Gaara closes his eyes, they are gritty and gummed up. The skin under his eyes is loose and bruised-looking. But still, he can't sleep. He can't even relax; every night he sits stiffly on the floor, listening to the village rest. Not sleeping, of course, means not dreaming. Gaara finds he doesn't mind. The sound of shifting sand is like dreaming to him.

There was once an old folktale about the prince of a village whose father was killed by his uncle. The uncle then married the prince's mother, and the prince was driven by the need to kill his uncle in revenge. There are no parallels between Gaara and this prince. Gaara has outlived all his enemies; there is no need for revenge. In this story, the uncle died at the prince's hands, the father at the hand of a snake, and the mother at the hands of the son and his demon.

Still, the prince of the folktale had a point: To sleep, perchance to dream. What dreams may come? To die is to sleep, but Gaara will do neither. He shifts uneasily on his pallet, legs folded under him, stomach tight with control, and the constant ache of his head increases when he stands up. Walking over to the door, he looks out over the still sand, awaiting his command, all of it. He doesn't want to wonder: what dreams would come, if they could? There are very few good things to dream about, at least that he will admit to. Dreams would be uncontrollable things, probably violent, probably scary.

Gaara likes to think he is like the desert, powerful enough to swallow any being whole. But there are things sleeping under the surface of the sand, artifacts and ruins left by people long dead and gone. After the most violent windstorms twisted metal frames, the bones of humans and animals and monsters, and sometimes entire buildings appear where there was only a dune before. Things are hidden in the sand, but they are preserved there too. Things better left buried. Gaara will leave dreaming and dying to the little story prince.

Seeing in Red

2006-12-06T03:00:17Z

Author: pink_paranoia
Title: Seeing in Red
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Naruto, Kyuubi, slight Sasuke

Seeing in Red

Today Naruto decides that life is good. Not good all the time, but usually pretty nice. He has friends, even if they've all changed as they get older; he's always getting stronger, faster; Tsunade gives him respect; Jiraiya has taught him all the best ways to look at unsuspecting girls; and Iruka still takes him out for ramen. Even if he does disapprove of Jiraiya's influence. Predictably, Naruto decides this while at Ichiraku. Not that this makes his conclusion any less valid – wisdom of the cup and all.

Walking home, he ponders his discovery. He feels more content than he has ever felt except for - well. Except for the times when he felt accepted by his teammates. Almost like he had a family. But now he doesn't even seem to need that. There is a thrumming beneath his skin, like vibrations running through the ground and buzzing his bones. It used to be distracting, especially at the beginning of a battle, but he hardly notices it now.

Naruto stops outside of a grocery store. The sun has completely set, and snow is starting to fall. If he buys groceries they'll probably get wet, but he doesn't want to go home yet either. Through the windows he can see lots of people, mostly just out from work. With the lights reflecting off the glass, they almost have a red tint. Naruto goes in wanders absently through the aisles. He doesn't want anything, but the process of searching is comforting. Once the cashier and a few of the older patrons start to give him dirty looks, he grabs a couple sodas and leaves.

As he walks closer to his house and the neighborhood gets a little more shoddy, he takes off his jacket and gloves. People are more likely to mind their own business here. The snow is cool on his skin. Naruto knows that he's changing. He doesn't get cold, needs to eat less, can only sleep a few hours every night. The light catches the air at a certain angle and things change. More and more often, when he looks up at the sun there's a red aura around it. Not all the time, but probably soon.

He finally feels comfortable now, in the snow. Streetlights glow orange over his head, and the snow is an inch deep on the ground. It sparkles red and orange, like carnelian or something. Naruto knows what gems look like now, and the exchange rates with other villages, and how to properly outfit for missions in other countries. A poor student, he still learns what he needs to know. A Hokage can't be ignorant.

The kyuubi's color is like an orange sapphire he saw while defending a traveling jewelry maker. Naruto pulled the mission off without a hitch (for once), and saved the craftsman and the gem.

Naruto wonders what the world looks like through Sharingan. Unlocking his door and putting the cans away, he sees red bleeding into the white light of the fridge. What would it be like to see red always? Would he still want to eat ramen if the broth looked like oily blood and the noodles looked veins? Naruto walks through his empty apartment, brushing the tips of his fingers over the table, chair, and the gashed-up walls. That's pretty much all there is. He doesn't touch the pictures anymore because his claws might damage them.

The contentment he feels, it is not thanks to this house, or to his team, or to his friends. He's had all that before and never had this warm feeling in his chest. Naruto can almost see the fox, rising through a pool of red up to the surface, bringing warmth and a feeling of triumph with it.

But Sasuke chose to leave. No matter what else may be gone, Naruto has a choice. He may see in red, but his eyes are doing the seeing; he may not get cold, but it's still his body and his mind. He may be content, but he refuses to stop searching. And he'll still eat ramen no matter how grisly it looks. Satisfied, he puts on his night cap (but not his pjs because they're too hot) and goes to sleep.