View Single Post
  #7  
Old 04-18-2009, 05:13 PM
Scourge of Amaranth's Avatar
Scourge of Amaranth Offline
PE2K Website Staff
 
Join Date: Apr 2007
Location: I swear I'm not
Posts: 1,627
Send a message via AIM to Scourge of Amaranth
Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

Author’s note: I LOVE EVERYONE! Especially those who read and review my work, and especially my beta, Scourge, who helps with the dreadful run-on sentences—doesn’t help with the confusion, though. Sorry, but then again, no I’m not.

Disclaimer: If I owned the Darkangel or Death Note, why would I be writing fanfiction?



WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Shadow of the Sun

The icarus was already far away, a dark blot against the stars.
-The Darkangel, by Meredith Ann Pierce

The villages they visited recognized the child as something foreign; as soon as they saw him, haunted gold eyes and thin pale features betrayed him. At first, they saw him as a young traveler, immigrating from his own home out of mourning or grief, but later it would become all to obvious that the child’s mind wandered farther than any amount of sorrow would have born him.

He was a child of the gods, haunted by duty and the divine knowledge. He spoke with wisdom and suffering uncanny for a child, and he often looked at them in a way that would frighten them to their very core. They believed him haunted by death.

His eyes, they said burned with something no human could touch—his tongue was sharp in its articulation and speech, and he never lost the look of someone followed. Mocking and silent, he ever reminded them of the gods they had forgotten to pray to.

It was not pity that drove them to consult the child, but a sense of foreboding that had arisen among them. The boy with the strange fruit was not something to be trifled with.

The great cities had fallen long ago
leaving scattered villages spread across the land
each one ignorant of the others’ existence, save few nomads
and yet the news of my apprentice still traveled.


“You see these people, Light-kun? These are the people I may never converse with; these are the people I may never approach, save in violence.” The darkangel looked down upon his apprentice with an indifferent expression, though his voice sounded bitter.

Light stared on towards the villagers with a strange longing in his eyes. These people that he saw… it reminded him of home. They were simple people who hid their tanned faces beneath woolen layers, held simple hopes and dreamed simple dreams. In their yards their daughters ran freely, their skirts swishing softly against their ankles as they danced in the snow, their young, carefree faces beaming with the joy of youth—the joy Light had never known.

And he felt the same cold isolation he had always known among people, for by his side stood the vampyre with apathetic eyes.

“I do not know these people,” said Light, watching as a family walked out of their home and into the village’s common center, where a broken fountain stood triumphantly. And it was true—he had recognized no one since they had landed; these men were kinsmen to him, but this land was no place the soles of his feet had touched.

The darkangel watched the boy beside him impassively, his colorless eyes brooding in thought. When he spoke, his tone betrayed none of his intentions to the child; nor did his face give any inkling to his thoughts, and yet, Light could feel the faint irritation emanating from the creature.

“Perhaps, then, you would prefer to accompany me in my attempt at tracking down my lovely brides. I believe them to have run somewhere off in...” Ryuzaki’s head swiveled and his arms flailed until pointing vaguely south-east… “that direction. I’m fairly sure they still inhabit Japan—I doubt they could swim to China, no matter how long I’ve neglected to search for them.”

The darkangel then sighed, his inky feathers rustling with frustration. He looked back towards the boy with a bored expression, clearly impatient to leave. “I’ll be back once I find at least one of my lovely brides. Until then, you stay here and make some use of yourself by selling apples.”

“What use do darkangels have with material possessions?” Light was referring to the money he would earn by selling the fruit; the darkangel, being immortal, should by rights have had no use for such frivolous things.

“Who said I was in need of it?” The vampyre continued his sentence before Light could answer back, “I am off. Do not even consider fleeing, because I will find you—and rest assured, I will kill you.”

Threats are only effective if they have foundation
Empty threats are only useful if reveal your bluff
turns the situation to your advantage
I learned that the harder way


“Where are your wives?”

The darkangel didn’t turn from where he was perched, gazing out at the horizon with his dull eyes. The wingéd dæmon wondered briefly when things had changed, when she had found the courage and the desire to come seek him out and question him, rather than sit and wait until he came to her. It seemed that she could never run out of questions.

“Have you been looking for them?” His tone breeched on conversational and the dark-haired woman took this as a good sign. She continued.

“Yes.” With that one word response, she finally managed to grasp the creature’s attention—he rotated back towards the building, turning his view away from the dying trees and grass surrounding his domain.

“You’re a fool,” he said, all trace of conversation gone from his voice, his cold, dead eyes burning with anger, but whether it was directed at her or himself she could no longer say. The time had passed where she could deem the darkangel’s anger to be frustration with humanity—it was more than that.

To those who see me as a god
I can laugh
It’s a ridiculous notion
That I
could possibly be divine

The sun set in the west, illuminating the hunched child on the street corner, whose arms folded over his skinny legs in an attempt to stay warm. It was still winter, he reminded himself—the snow coats the ground, crunching as each humans attempted to hurry home before darkness fell. They ignored the small child curled against their neighbor’s home; they didn’t see the pile of crimson fruit resting beside him. They did not see that his golden eyes were bright with anger and indignation.

Twice now, the darkangel had imposed his rule through death—first by starvation; now it seemed he was fated to freeze to death, to become a cold, lifeless statue, clutching at a sack of scarlet fruit. Yet again the vampyre had shown his indifferent wrath by destroying him as, careless and merciless, he watched from the shadows, his crystal eyes laughing.

Light blew on his frigid fingers, searching for the elusive feeling of warmth. He knew the darkangel was watching him, that the icarus would not bother to search for his wives. After all, he clearly kept such careful mind to the last three as they wasted away within a cobwebbed room. At first, he didn’t notice when his limbs lost feeling; when he realized, he knew that if someone were to strike him, it would not hurt. Though he is, seven he knew that he was the icarus’ next corpse, his next lovely wraith to decorate his halls.

He could feel it, he knew it—he could see his wasted little body huddled in a corner, withering away among the walking corpses. His hands began to shake and his teeth chattered, and so he reached for an apple and took a bite, hoping that this would bring ire to the icarus and that he will have at least achieved something.

Light was pathetic. He could do nothing—he was small, he was young, he was not nearly as clever as he believed he was. The sun was setting, a star was falling—once more, Light Yagami is dying, as he had seemed to be doing quite often, in the recent days.

Death is an illusion
It does not exist
It is a lie

They gathered around the child in fascination. His skin looked translucent, almost as if he were made of glass; his arms and legs appeared to be made with the finest delicacy, each thin limb looking as if it had been sculpted into shape. His face rested in a somber expression far too serious for any child to wear.

They didn’t know where he came from or how he got there carrying nothing but a sack of exotic fruit. Initially, they guessed that he may have travelled from a nearby village, as his clothes do not seem particularly soiled from travel, but his features are far from anything they have ever seen—he was obviously a foreigner, a wanderer travelling far from any home he might have known.

It was only when they meet his golden eyes that they knew he is not just a nomad whose ways involved aimless treks that always circulated back to a common point—he was a long way from his home, any home. At first he said nothing, contenting himself by staring at them with his large amber eyes. They did not ask questions, fearing the way he looked at them as if he could tell their entire history in one short glance. There was a power in that stare; they felt it pulling on them, commanding them to obey and to fear.

When he did speak, it is not to say thank you, or to even state his name. He looks at them and asked, “Why did you bother?”

They didn’t know how to answer; they didn’t know what words to say. They simply watched as the child sighed in disappointment, rolling back under the covers where he closed his eyes and returned to sleep.

He never thanked them, not once; he seemed to believe there was nothing worth thanking them for. The next morning they found only rumpled bed sheets and a single red fruit.

He didn’t know that by leaving that solitary fruit, he had single handedly killed them all.

As Light Yagami grew, he became less accustomed to humans
He forgot what they were truly like
choosing to see them instead
as the ideal world in which he was stolen from
I didn’t feel the desire to tell him otherwise
He wouldn’t have listened.

Light couldn’t help but glare as he approached the vampyre, his arms outstretched to convey that he had done his task, that the cursed apples were gone. The vampire, of course showed no reaction to this—or anything else, for that matter—as he continued to stare blankly at the ground. Whatever held his attention did so for a number of minutes before he finally looked up.

“I swore I was moving the right direction. Perhaps they the impossibly has happened—they truly have managed to swim to China and I have managed to sorely underestimate the opponent.” The darkangel sighed under the weight of his shadowed wings—and ye,t despite the humorous posture, the darkangel still leaked a sense of something lethal and foreboding.

“Your apples are gone, your wives are missing—are you done here?”

The icarus looked down at the child with a wide-eyed expression that failed to express any shock or surprise. Light, in a flash of malice, found it irritating how the creature would put on a little show for him—the masquerade of ‘feelings’. The darkangel didn’t possess emotion.

“All gone? We shall have to return to gather some more, and then go looking in the opposite direction. Pray they haven’t swum to South America… if that were possible….” Whether the darkangel doubted his logic or whether he was continuing the act for Light’s benefit, the boy couldn’t tell. “Well, cheer up, Light-kun—you’ll get more apples to give away soon enough. I say ‘give’ because I originally said ‘sell’, and I have not noticed any money in that dirty tunic of yours.”

Light thought the icarus must enjoy the charade of acting out pseudo-emotions, he seemed to find if amusing to act offended, angry—disappointed, even. Light considered himself intelligent enough to see through it; he wasn’t just any human that the darkangel could shove about.

Light’s one true weakness was his ego
It was huge
Prodigiously huge
It was what kept him in check
It was what allowed me to be able to control him for so long
Of course, when that disappeared
everyone lost access to Light’s twisted mind


Misa noticed the pale boy in the marketplace. He stood alone among the crowd of hagglers, leaning casually against a wooden pillar supporting a building. Despite the easy posture that held a certain note of… something… that her schooling told her to identify as ‘contempt’, but which she could not bring herself to fully understand, it was his dark eyes, so dark brown they appeared almost black in the noon day sun, that her attention was fixated on. Misa watched as his eyes roved over the market goers, pausing on each wife haggling over prices with the vender. She found it hypnotic to gaze at him while he surveyed the scene around him as distantly as if he were a star blazing in the heavens, a silent and ever-watchful god of the night.

It surprised her when she found herself standing in front of him, staring at his thin, lanky figure and his dark, intelligent eyes. It took him a moment to notice her, as he was so absorbed in his own thoughts. Misa took this lapse of attention to scrutinize his ragged tunic and the stained burlap bag resting at his feet, but before her hand could open it, she was stopped by the boy himself.

“Do not touch my bag.” His grip on her wrist was tight and unyielding—she felt herself forced to look into his eyes, which, closer, appeared much lighter in color than she had originally conceived. They looked almost golden.

“You’re new here aren’t you? I’ve never seen any one with your color of skin….” Or, Misa thought to herself, eyes that changed color as you neared.

“I have a vitamin deficiency; that is all. It is not, as you say, an entirely different color—rather, it is your color of skin with a lack of ability to darken in sunlight.” He had an accent, she noted, but not one she could place instinctively. He must have come from farther away than she had previously thought.

“Fine then. I’ve never seen anyone who’s hidden like a hermit from the sunshine. So what caused you to venture out so bravely into the light?” Misa laughed at the boy’s puzzled expression; his eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to piece together some difficult riddle. It was odd to see that look on anyone’s face, even if they were foreign.

“I came because I came; my business is my own and has nothing to do with you.” His sentence finished and his gaze traveled from her to the swarm of people that still milled loudly about the brightly-colored tents and shop-fronts. His left hand traveled down to the sack and gripped it as if to hoist it over his shoulder and walk away.

People didn’t walk away when asked a question; people didn’t stare blankly when talking to a neighbor, or even a stranger—they smiled, they laughed—and this boy… he had not once smiled, or even pretended he found her interesting at all. It was odd, it was frightening—it was intriguing.

“So where do you come from, then? Don’t you love the marketplace, or the village, or the scenery?” She was rambling, attempting to regain his attention and failing miserably. Even as he looked at her, it was obvious he was not listening; his eyes were glazed and his stance had changed from relaxed to tense as she continued to speak.

He finally interrupted her in a high pitched imitation of her own voice. “Don’t I love the flowers? Don’t I love the beautiful people? Don’t I love the way they prance around buying this, selling that, chatting about the weather?” He let out a harsh laugh, a laugh that was more a projected exhalation than an actual vocalization of glee. “As for where do I come from—well, I am not even sure of that myself. Sometimes, I think the aliens forgot where they left me to rot.”

Misa didn’t know what to compare him to—he was too different, too much like the shadows that infested her room at night and the dark thunderstorm crackling in the distance. She couldn’t describe a force of nature because there were no words for it, just as there were no words for him.

“I didn’t ask you about flowers,” stated Misa softly, watching as his face seemed to transform to stone before her eyes.

“No, I suppose you did not, but then you did not ask me anything of, consequence, either.”

The boy sighed, hoisting the bag over his shoulder; its contents bumped haphazardly against his back. “The sun is high and I have fruit to distribute. The wingéd dæmons are waiting and I am not one to keep them.”

He didn’t understand humanity anymore than I do
He can’t help it
As much as he likes to believe it
He simply is not as human as he thinks he is


__________________

EmBreon is the maple syrup to my slightly undercooked crepe
{URPG Stats}--{ASB Stats}--{Fanfiction}
khajmer = biffle
yoface = broham

thegalleonman: (8:37:28 PM) How sad.
thegalleonman: (8:37:37 PM) I'm amused.
Reply With Quote