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Creative Writing Share your fan fiction, stories, poems, essays, editorials, song lyrics, or any other related written work. All written must be your creation. Start a new thread, and keep replying to that thread as you add on more chapters. Anyone can join in at anytime.


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Old 11-29-2008, 03:48 AM
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Default Whispers in the Dark (4/18)

Whispers in the Dark
by The Carnivorous Muffin
assissted by Scourge of Amaranth

In comprehensive terms, this is a ridiculously AU crossover of Death Note and The Darkangel Trilogy, in which Carny and I (Scourge of Amaranth, Scourge, though, please) steal Death Note's characters, mix them with The Darkangel Trilogy's basic concept, and dump them into a tripod with various other influences (some of which may be more obvious than others). Knowledge of neither fandom is required to enjoy Whispers.

As far as the posted bits go, (at this point, the Prologue) do not expect to understand exactly what is going on.

Imagine, if you will, a world in which people can not do evil. What, for this compulsion, defines 'evil' and... without evil, how can good exist? How did the world come to be in a state where there are neither good deeds, nor bad ones--where free will is a thing of the past, and even the truly despicable, cursed with both the ability and inability to choose, have nothing?

*chuckle* So, I asked the author for a summary and this is what she gave me:

Hola, I’m writing a fanfiction piece with the help of my beta/grammar-nazi called Whispers in the Dark. This piece actually started as a frustrated challenge to myself to write a Death Note x Vampire fic that didn’t suck. That being as it is, what I ended up getting was a Death Note x Darkangel crossover. While it is a crossover, it doesn’t stay true to either world (that’s usually what happens when my beta and I team up on fan fiction; the world explodes or dies--literally). That’s my warning for dark themes, and I don’t mean Stephene Meyer’s definition of dark themes. The story is basically set in the future with minimal technology where seven-year-old Light Yagami is kidnapped by a Darkangel. I’m a fan of vague summaries, so that’s as much info as you’re going to get. Deal with it.

PG-13 would be the rating, if anyone wishes to know.

On a side note: Wid, if you will, is, as you may or may not notice as you read through, quite a bit of a rough draft at this point--this is, really, the 'rough posting'. It has been editted for grammatical errors semi-efficiently (if I missed anything, slap me with it), but overall coherence--in plot, presentation, and characterisation--has yet been achieved. Any input aimed at improvement would be adored (and yes, I know the writing needs more detail). As this is still an in-progress piece, it will be updated sporadically.

CHAPTERS

Prologue + "I Remember" -- Part I + Part II
Chapter I + "Why Does the Apple Fall?" -- Part I
Chapter II + Blossom in the Dust -- Part I
Chapter III + Caricature -- Part I
Chapter IV + Shadow of the Sun -- Part I

~IGC t DM+

Last edited by Scourge of Amaranth; 04-18-2009 at 05:15 PM.
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Old 11-29-2008, 03:49 AM
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Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

PROLOGUE
"I Remember"


The dead apple falls from his hand,
gliding through the air,
and he can’t help but watch its blurring,
graceful arc
even as it falls silently to the floor
It rolls until it brushes against a pale hand, glowing crimson in the dark room

Cold eyes watched as the flames rose. Everything, everything burned, turned to ash by the heat of the inferno. By morning the village would be dead and nothing would remain but dust and charred stone. The wanderer watched in contempt as the hell-sent blaze tore through all he had ever known, spiraling through houses and trees in graceful, undulating arcs of light and color; crackling in a rushing, overpowering deluge of sound and force.

Someone had once told him that he had a heart of snow–something so cold and icy that it tore away the flesh of all who tried to touch it. They were wrong, though. His heart was fire, a skillful dancer who changed tempo on accordance to the fuel given; it fed off of fear and anguish and turned them into little more than another step in its elegant waltz. Those who touched it didn’t freeze–they burned.

He continued to watch the world below him as it burned away into the night; he could hear the tolling of church bells calling out to him from across the abyss, shrieking with shattered memories and brittle promises. Those bells could never drown out the howling; they merely accompanied it in a hellish cacophony. The first time he heard the peals, he had thought them beautiful, but perhaps… perhaps even that had been a lie, another broken promise.

They had promised him that one day he would be normal; swore to him he would be able to feel, to love, to be… happy. They had promised to take him away from the shadows in the nightmares and draw him into their own personal Eden, but the light was not bright enough to blind him from what he was meant to be; nor was the darkness deep enough to swallow the shards of hope that still clung to his heart, cutting the dancer’s feet with its hollow words and empty offerings.

The wanderer looked to the sky, watching as white flakes began to fall from the sky. He breathed deeply. Seven years ago he had stood on this very hill, back when his heart had been as cold and pure as the ice that fell from the stars. How long had it been since his heart had melted away inside his chest, freeing the dancer from its frozen chains? Tedium, empathy, satisfaction; all had fallen away with the death of each bride and the pealing of every bell, gradually replaced with horror–the horror of an innocent child confronted with (at that time, to him) a monster worse than death.

Terror.

It had kept him locked in that place. A dark shadow had haunted him for the past seven years; the fear that one day the thin, bony fingers would wrap around his own neck and steal his soul. He still feared it, during the night, in the absence of the stars; he could practically hear the angel scribbling away, hunched over his work in concentration. He could still feel that cold, dead gaze linger upon him as it decided whether or not he was too bothersome to keep.

“Is Raito-kun afraid of the dark?”

Yes, he was afraid; of course he was. Who wouldn’t be afraid of him, the angel of death with skin empty as snow and eyes of colorless crystal; the pale angel with shadows of wings whose smile chilled him to the core and hands destroyed everything they touched; an otherworldly being from a world where color no longer existed? In the darkened realms only black and white remained, and like the angel, he was expected to see the world in that way. He needed to be completely color blind, but he didn’t want it–not anymore.

He would see the rainbow spectrum again; all would be as it was. He had to fix the brokenness—prevent the earth from returning to its original state.

After all, no one else could.

He doesn’t breathe
He doesn’t think
He doesn’t feel,
but around him the world collapses

He stared at the various candelabras, each one lit with a small flame that shimmered slowly, illuminating the vast cavern. Some of them rose like cat tails out of the misting lake, playing tricks on his perceptions and dangling a veil behind his eyes. For the first time in three years, Light experienced a vague sense of homecoming–shuddering images of stone walls, rainbow-hued windows and flickering candles pushed through his concentration, but he stalled his thoughts and continued to wade through the waste deep water, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the dimly lit path in front of him. A chorus of voices drifted down into the labyrinth, swelling and floating around him; he tuned each of them out as he crept along with a silence born off need.

All he needed was a name, a simple name, and it would be done.

He knew that, just like humans, these bastards could die, and, he knew, just like every human, they were afraid to. Every one of them had begged on their knees the moment they had seen the intent in his eyes–they had promised him riches, power… “anything his heart desired”. When his expression remained firm and his hands steady, they had begun to curse him with vulgar profanities meant to goad him into slipping up. He didn’t make mistakes, the dead Darkangels had discovered, because every weakness he had would be used against him.

As he drew nearer to the source of light, the drifting tempest of the gasping clangs of an organ assaulted his ears. Again, there was the odd sense of being home–there had been an organ there, too, for as long as he could remember. That organ had often made the same incoherent noises of rage and pain; he never had been able to make it sing.

This, though… this wasn’t like the stumbling fingers he remembered playing with; no, this was horrifying; this was beautiful. It was everything that the world was made of written into a simple melody that wove through the air with a complexity that, despite his intelligence, he could not follow.

He stopped. It was beautiful, it was terrifying, and it was like looking in a mirror.

He saw himself sitting at the organ, sloppily throwing chords together, jamming down on the keys; anything. Anything to drown out the screaming. He saw himself crying, weeping; betrayed by his naïve faith in justice and righteousness and innocence. There was no such thing as evil in this world, they had said–it was a remote concept, irrelevant and incomprehensible to all, he had thought. There was no wrong and, by default, no right, they had said, but it had all been little more than a fabrication composed by ignorance and inexperience.

Finally, he had learned, and had tried to bury the knowledge in a progression of angry, stumbling first chords from a child’s small hands. They hadn’t had the capacity to contain it all.

He didn’t want to move closer, but he had to; he had to see that small weeping child. He had to make him see the jagged world built of broken shards of truth, and so he stepped closer again, inching his way towards the source of the music and the light.

When he stood on the stone steps of the music’s lair, he was a part of the music–the crying, pounding music so heavenly and earthly that it was heartbreaking to listen to. When he reached the organ, the music stopped; the fingers came to a halt and rested upon the ivory keys.

They were not the fingers of a child but the fingers of a skeleton; pale, jagged, bony fingers. The being that owned them was not a child; he was tall and lean and like a starving man, he hunched over his music in search of life. His clothes hung limply from his bone-white skin in a sickly manner; twelve dark wings sprang from his back, deforming the shadow cast by the candle’s softly steady glow. Before him, papers filled with empty lines and crossed-out stanzas sat in calculated disarray.
Slowly, he began to laugh in a hoarse, dark chuckle that even in its beauty sounded pained and tortured. The melodious sound filled the silence, sharpening and refining it into a razor point.

He didn’t turn when he began to speak, but simply sat with a stillness that mirrored that of a wind-worn, twisted gargoyle. “Erik wondered when you would come.” He spoke with a weary patience of a man who has seen too much and lived too long,

“You remember your name.” Light didn’t say it with anger or aggression as he had intended; it emerged from his lips as an emotionless statement of fact.

The vampyre laughed again with a cold, demeaning chuckle that bordered on hysterical giggles. “Oh, yes, Erik remembers many things, now. He remembers everything; everything he had ever forgotten….” The Darkangel trailed off slowly. His shoulders straightened and his head tilted to the side, causing his shoulder-length, pure-white hair to shift in tandem. “That’s what Erik does now. He remembers… he remembers what others have forgotten in their haste. After all, what does he have left but memories? Memories and dust. One day, those will abandon him, too.

“She was very beautiful–so beautiful–when he first saw her. What a wondrous voice–it was beautiful, yes… all it needed was someone to help it grow, and Erik knew that he was the only one who could teach her. That’s why–that’s why he took her.” The great wings rose, concealing his pale profile from Light’s view; they shuddered as sobbing laughter filled the room.

“You killed her, Manasseh,” said Light slowly, remembering the wasted bodies, the broken and withered, mindless creatures. It was from those days that he had learned what hatred truly was–betrayal, abandonment.

“No, Erik never… he never touched her. Not once.” The angel continued to snigger at whatever promise those words were supposed to represent. He seemed to almost be choking on the giggles as they rose from his lungs.

“Do you really believe that?” Light asked, the hatred boiling inside him, inflaming his senses and catching his world on fire.

The Darkangel turned, but where Light normally saw clear eyes devoid of life, twin pits of molten gold stared. “Don’t you know, Boy? She’s the reason the music died.”

He wants to die
He wants to lie down and die, shove a stake into his still heart and force it into oblivion, to stop his pale hands from touching, from destroying another life
To stop himself from taking her life
the only life that ever mattered

“’What am I?’ I am an Icarus, a member of the proud race of Darkangels, black gods from the deepest pits of hell come to enact divine judgment on the human race; a monstrous beast that steals the souls of maidens and drinks their blood as a toast to mortality. As for ‘Who am I?’…. The world calls me Judah, but to those few who know me I am known as L.” The pale figure smiled, his face beaming in childish delight at his speech.

Once again, he was struck by how pale the creature was–his pale skin seemed to be almost carved from marble and looked almost jagged to the touch; his bones seemed to jut out from his skin in exaggeration, like those a starving child. His bony shoulders were constantly rolled forward, decreasing the creature’s height by several inches and his back was surrounded by a dozen dusky wings. Oddest of all was the creature’s colorless, thin face–vacant eyes framed by a mop of chaotic silver hair that made him wonder if the angel spent his time hanging from the ceiling.

“L?” The boy’s tongue tripped over the foreign syllable as he watched the Icarus’s wings twitch irately.

“You may call me Ryuzaki, because frankly, your mispronunciation of my name will drive me mad. We can’t have that, can we?” The Darkangel shook his head and began to pace in front of the boy, looking him up and down with shrewd, blank eyes.

“You aren’t a muscle man, but then again I don’t need you for heavy lifting.” He tugged on the boy’s thin shirt sleeve, lifting up his arm and clicking his tongue softly. The icy chill of the creature’s skin seeped through the cloth with ease, freezing the boy to the core. “Still, you should probably attempt to build muscle. Your arms look like toothpicks! What do they feed you kids these days?” The Icarus breathed out and dropped the child’s arm, then stepped back. “Ah, well,” came a sigh tinged with self-pitying mourning. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

He sees them, all the faces of his past
gathered around him,
each face masked with a trail of flowing tears…
all crying over him,
for him,
beside him

She was so pale–so deathly pale and thin, like a glass doll on the verge of breaking into pieces with cracks that were all too obvious in her transparent state, hunched over in the corner, her arms clutching her legs desperately as she tried to control her shivering. A thin trail of dried blood made its way from her forehead down to her cheek and her ebony hair had been pulled back roughly into a hastily-made ponytail, leaving several strands to frizz across her face. Surrounding her were the dark shadows that even the candle light couldn’t wash away.

A poor girl whose life had been torn apart by his own lifeless hands was all she was.

He didn’t try to speak even as he set down the tray of carefully prepared food in front of her bare feet. She shifted away from his gloved hand and farther into the corner as if the mere proximity burned. He paused before taking his hands away and standing up; she didn’t relax, remaining tightly curled into a ball in an attempt to protect herself from the wrath she thought he would inflict upon her. She didn’t look up at him when he stood, preferring to keep her eyes on the stony floor rather than see her death–eyes empty as death–staring down at her.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he said softly, the words leaving a bitter taste on his lips. The dark-haired girl looked up, betrayal etched into the black depths of her eyes. Her arms tightened around her knees and her mouth set into in a frown. “To know that everything you’ve ever been told… everything you believe in is a lie?”

Still she remained stubbornly silent, refusing to so much as move in his presence. It was only when he left that she would take a moment to scream and curse the day he had stolen her from the family that she no doubt believed missed her and to damn the gods to hell, all the while unaware exactly what it was that had spirited her away. But deep down, she must have realized that she would never leave this place again; that after sunset it would no longer matter which relatives missed her or what dreams she had left waiting at home. Eventually they would forget her or mourn her passing, all-the-while blissfully ignorant of the curse placed upon her.

Ignorant, just as his own family had been when he had returned home. Even then, they had refused to accept the truth.

With that, he turned from the human and proceeded to walk down the stairs, ignoring the sound of breaking dishes behind him and the wretched sobbing that would haunt his past and present… the sobbing of a dying human whose fate was inescapable.

The pain
All he can see is the pain etched out before him
He cries but hears only silence
he watches the world with eyes tightly closed
he hears the voices that do not speak
They whisper to him of things he cannot understand,
of things he will not understand

Last edited by Scourge of Amaranth; 11-29-2008 at 11:56 PM.
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Old 11-29-2008, 03:49 AM
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Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

“Wait one moment.” The Darkangel turned from his drawings and ran towards an overfilled closet, pulling out an assortment of clothing and obscure items whose purposes the prisoner could only guess. Finally, he pulled out a long over-coat, shook out a layer of dust and handed her the garment. She felt the worn cloth in her hands and looked up at him in confusion.

“What’s this supposed to be?” She turned the coat over and traced the back’s silver insignia–an intricate design of interweaving and overlapping flowers and thorns with a shaded feather resting in their center.

“It’s a gift, for you.” The Darkangel came and sat down beside her, climbing over a stack of large multi-lingual dictionaries. Despite the gift, the prisoner couldn’t help but feel a small sense of foreboding.

“But, I don’t understand….” She held up the jacket in front of her once more, noticing the ludicrous amount of straps and buckles along the sleeves and looked towards him in confusion before placing the gift on the floor.

“Humans generally don’t; you don’t have to understand it. In fact, it’d be better if you didn’t. I’d prefer it if you didn’t.” He clasped his black gloved hands together and stared at the floor, obviously in deep thought.

“What are you talking about?” She fixed the Darkangel with an inquiring glare, demanding an answer, but all he did was turn away from her with a soft smile and jump off the stack of books in a single leap. Her next question came quickly, with a shake of her head: “Are you just going to lie to me again and keep me in the dark like you always do?” Clambering off her seat of books, she ran after the retreating vampyre.

He stopped and turned to watch her pursuit and a moment’s silence waited. “No,” he began, his eyes following a mark on the ceiling, “it is I who am kept in the never-ending darkness. Not you. Never you.”

He turned and walked out of the room, retreating to the dark from which he claimed to deliver her.

Beside him is the girl, the broken girl who’s covered in blood
So much blood, so much blood
It stains the ground, it flows down the walls
He can’t take it,
he doesn’t want to see it there but
he can smell it
He can feel it
on his hands
soaking them to the core
He can taste it on his lips,
taste it on his breath
One last trace of her before she collapsed into dust
The onslaught of images continues to trample him,
forcing him into that bleeding floor

She blinked slowly before turning towards him, eyes clouded from the strain of her desperate attempt at escape. He wondered how long it had taken her to collapse against the pavement; how many steps it had taken before her legs refused to move; how many miles it took for her to realize exactly her predicament.

“There really is no escape from this place, is there?”

Outside the rain patted against the tin roof; he looked up, once again reminding himself that he’d have to fix the rusting sheets. The prisoner grabbed her dark hair and began wringing out the excess water, not removing her questioning eyes from the Darkangel.

“You can’t have expected to get far in this weather; you should have waited until the rain cleared up,” he said slowly, without a hint of admonishment in a tone that bordered on advisory. The vampyre looked through the make-shift window and watched as the bombardment of rain steadily thickened.

“It doesn’t matter what the weather is, though. If I had kept walking, I wouldn’t have found anything. You picked a very nice location for your prison; a place where no one but you can escape.” She laughed slightly before coughing into her hand and waited for her to cease before beginning his explanation.

“A prison?” His humorless words would have been mistaken for emotionless, were a tinge of bitter anger not apparent. “I’m glad you still have the naïvety to think of me like this–” and he paused, clinging to his calm, “as the demon whose only purpose in life is to tear out the hearts of innocent girls like yourself.” He sighed, reaching to his side and handing her a glass of steaming tea.

“How do I know this isn’t poisoned?” Her voice was cold, but her eyes flamed with the rebellious, fear-ridden anger of a cornered beast. She set down the glass on the floor beside the Darkangel’s black-clad feet.

“If I had wanted you killed, I would have left you to freeze to death instead of hauling your soaked carcass through the pouring rain.” His eyes met hers and the fires clashed–each flared equally as he dared her to grasp at the words left unspoken.

The silence around them froze as her eyes narrowed, boring into his with savage defiance.

“Or you could have touched me,” finished the prisoner in a soft tone that completely contradicted her granite expression, staring down at her captor’s carefully gloved hands.

His eyes widened and the ashes swirled.

“There are too many ways in which a human can die; for me, there is only one.”

He knows that the blood isn’t real,
that the stone angels weeping over his shoulders aren’t real
The faces, the tears, the pain
He knows it’s not there
and yet he feels it all the same,
he’s drowning all the same
The immortal god drowns in a pool of forgotten dreams, while alongside him
tears fall from a dead girl’s eyes

The new man stood hunched over in a deranged manner, his long, coarse hair pulled back into a messy pony-tail. He seemed almost sickly to the boy–pale skin clung to his bones in a starved manner, and yet his bright, crimson eyes seem to blaze under the non-existent black brows with a fervor so different from the dull haze or feverish spark he had recognized in the starving men at home.

He spoke in a rushed tone and a foreign accent, but with more familiarity than any disoriented traveler: “Greetings L. I bring news of the outside world, because–believe me, L–prior to what I had thought, there is a world outside of this dismal corner you’ve claimed as your own, and it is vast and wondrous and so ready for the picking.” The traveler laughed, leaning back and closing his eyes before reforming into the hunch. All at once, the child was struck by the similarities between this man–this stranger–and his own captor. The familiar hunch in the shoulders, the bare, pale feet, the wild, chaotic hair–his man seemed to almost be a colored, human version of the Icarus.

“Are people fruit, B?” The Darkangel smiled at some personal, inside joke, and stuck one pale thumb between his lips, indicating that the wheels in his head were in motion once more. The boy couldn’t help but slink farther back into the shadows, inching his way over towards the stairs; this man had not come to see him and would not be inclined to sympathy.

“No, of course not! They are cattle; dumb, mangy beasts! It is us, the Icari, who are meant to rule them–not be trapped by our own genius! L, we could be gods. We are gods; we have only to take our throne.” Here, he held out his hands towards the Darkangel, red eyes gleaming with possibility.

The vampyre merely cocked his head, expression remaining neutral. “B has a god complex,” stated the Icarus in finality, turning around and walking casually past Light and up the stairs leading to the bell tower with his dark wings falling off his shoulders like a poorly tailored cape. Even after he had passed, the child could smell the icy chill of death wrapped around the vampyre’s hands.

The foreigner rushed to follow the vampyre up the stairs and caught sight of the boy for the first time. He stopped. His back straightened and with an insect-like movement, reached forward and grabbed the boy out from the shadows and back into the light.

“And who the hell is this runt supposed to be?” shouted the stranger; in an almost imperceptible split of time, he had been transformed from the idealistic dreamer to the furious monster who held the boy in a choking grasp. “Is he my replacement, L? Is this little bastard my replacement?”

The Darkangel’s ascent slowed to a halt as the boy struggled in the man’s grip, his lungs aching for breath. Finally, the being turned and glared at the young man below him in accusation, his crystal eyes boiling in rage.

“You dare to call him an illegitimate son? You dare to look at his human features and call them counterfeit? Look in a mirror, B–what do you see? You are the ultimate disgrace; a child that is neither human nor demon–a monster without a definition to place it in the world. I may be a monster, but at least I am in no doubt that I am one–but you! What can you possibly know of what it means to understand what you truly are?” The vampyre jumped down from his position on the spiraling stairs to right in front of the stranger’s face, his clear-cut eyes driving deep into the man’s skull. Startled, the man dropped the brunette child and stared back at the Darkangel. “You think you’re a god,” he spat.

“Isn’t that what we are though? Isn’t it? Gods! We are gods! The fourteen dark gods from Hell–that’s what they call us! And you–it’s you who can’t see correctly! You’ve disillusioned yourself to believe that you are a monster… exactly what they want you to think! I used to think you were different; smarter, stronger. But now I see….. You are just as pathetic as the rest of them–just as pathetic as the rest of the humans. You’re no better than they are.” The red-eyed man sneered before spitting on the carpet, “You weren’t worth my time.” He bowed and stalked from the room stiff-backed.

The stranger never again came back into the stone sanctuary; it wasn’t until years later that the boy would ever set eyes on the half-blood god again, and by that time he would have grown accustomed to the blood-thirsty smile on his face.

“Why?”
he screams
“Why did you let her near me?! Why did you give me something to hope for?”
He wants to hear an answer,
to find someone to blame but as always there is no one
No one to answer him
No one to hear him
No one to pity him
He is alone.

Last edited by Scourge of Amaranth; 11-30-2008 at 03:34 AM.
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Old 12-24-2008, 05:50 AM
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Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

Author’s note: Sorry for confusing chapters—alas, they are my past time. Thanks to my grammar nazi/beta who has once again saved the day, and thanks to reviewers who rock my socks off.

Scourge’s Note: Um. So. If any of you have done any medical research, you’ll realize that that doctor later in the chapter has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. He’s actually quite a good doctor, but no one in Light’s world is particularly gifted when it comes to our definition of modern psychology. Please forgive him.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Darkangel Trilogy or Death Note. If I did, all this fan-fiction would be dedicated to myself and I would be rich rich rich.



WHISPERS IN THE DARK
“Why Does the Apple Fall?”

“I shall tell you the tale of the Maiden-Eater,” she told him, and began.
-The Darkangel, by Meredith Ann Pierce

He was always an odd child, something quietly tolerated and steadfastly ignored by the small community, but they all felt that, in one way or another, the Yagami boy was different.

Some blamed it on the child’s genius—on the mind evident from before the boy was too small to walk—that kept him far ahead of other children. His small, pudgy fingers would trace objects within a room, arranging them in what manner suited him best. His vocabulary expanded to the point that even the learned adults had trouble following him, and he had actually begun forcing himself to tamp down on the sophisticated, confounding elegance of his words. An extraordinary child, they proclaimed with glee. A child to be proud of.

And for some that was enough.

But most, the honest ones, contented themselves with the simple belief that Light Yagami was not entirely human—that even while he lived, ate, and slept among them, he was more distant than the stars who slept quietly in heaven; a silent observer of their own lives, and nothing more.

They had no evidence to support this conclusion. They had no facts; nothing but an unspoken truth that was passed from a line of ears and thoughts to each of them. When they felt Light’s eyes on their backs, they would stiffen and shudder, and, turning slowly, they would find him standing behind them, a small, comprehensive frown on his rounded face. It was in those moments that the town’s people knew in their hearts that the child had never been one of them, and that like the stars, he would never be close enough for them to touch… no matter how brilliantly he burned.

And for that, they were grateful.

I do not know much of Light Yagami’s childhood
I never pretended that I did
But knowing the way the world spins
It could not have been remarkably different from my own


“Light? Are you listening?” asked the elderly woman gently. To the spider on the wall she looked just like any other human—black hair, dark eyes, and incredibly dull. Her lips were puckered into a slight frown as she looked at the child sitting in the front row of the room, but even to the young arachnid, the expression seemed to be missing a piece of itself—there was no disapproval, no judgment; nothing but the distant knowledge of a deed that needed to be done.

The boy she addressed opened his mouth to respond, then closed it and simply nodded once.

Still unsatisfied, the elderly woman wrapped her knuckles against the desk in the front of the room. After a brief stretch of silence that should have been disapproving, she spoke: “Could you please explain, then, exactly what you were drawing in your notebook?” There was a twinge in her eyes that showed nature kicking in, moderating her choices. For all her rights, she could say nothing that would directly harm him.

The boy stiffened; his eyes turned downward, his smudged hands moving instinctively to cover his work. Waiting patiently, the woman smiled down at him. Whether the gesture was meant to be reassuring or intimidating—she was walking a thin line, her instincts screamed, although she could not hear—the smile had no effect, for when the boy finally removed his hand, he seemed to be no longer interested in hiding it.

The other children giggled nervously; after all, were they supposed to draw in their notebooks? Why had Light done it, then? They had not been told to; they were supposed to keep their notebooks neat.

High-pitched, as usual, the eight-legged creature noticed in annoyance, moving to escape the laughter that followed the young boy everywhere.

“Oh, Light, this is a lovely picture of….” The teacher trailed off, looking blankly at whatever was on the page. The boy did not turn his head from the window, focused as he was on one particular piece of rubble perched on the sill. She continued to stare at the coal scratchings in confusion, her brow wrinkled in concentration. The soft giggles died down, replaced now by small, unsettled mutters. Each of their small, dark heads whipped around to the other, all the while keeping their eyes on the one still child.

Finally defeated, the teacher looked down at Light slowly and asked the inevitable, “What is it exactly, Light?” She set the notebook face-up on the table, looking once more at the picture portrayed. The boy looked up slowly, his brown eyes wary; his fingers tapped nervously under his desk as he evaluated the situation.

He answered softly, carefully, judging every word he spoke. “Judah, the darkangel.” He traced the outline of the drawing with a fingertip and his eyes glazed over as he spoke. The spider noticed with its multiple eyes how far away the child looked from the rest of the room—how out of place he seemed among the other humans.

“A dark angel? That’s hardly….” And the flicker sets in; the spider does not know what it is, but it is there and it is not natural. “Are you feeling well, Light?” The woman blinked slowly and again her dark brow furrowed—Light, as he was called, frowned, but did not reply. The teacher, tapping her feet impatiently, opted to answer for him.

“Well, since this brings us to the topic anyway…. Light, would you like to share what you know about dark angels?” The teacher stepped away from the boy’s roughly-carved wooden desk and backed towards the front of the room, where a single white board stood. Once again, the boy did not speak. He instead stood and followed her path towards the front of the classroom and turned towards the confused faces.

Never eager, never pleased; when Light stood before them, no one remembered what to think anymore.

But as usual for the classroom and the spider, the boy seemed uninteresting and dull. What they did not see was the web of thought lurking behind his eyes, eyes that were never tainted with the binding calls of the genes; they did not see the amount of judgment put into each word, each expression—the fact that he was deliberately making himself boring so that they would not listen… so they would not catch him. So they would not look at him again.

“Darkangels are inhuman monsters who suck the souls and blood of young maidens and are, essentially, the cause of evil in today’s society.” Once again, his small, pale fingers slowly traced the dark face of Judah, encompassed by twelve black wings, making the figure seem thin and fragilely pale in comparison.

“Light, thank you, dear. You can sit down, now.”

The boy slumped down in his seat and once more began to trace the dark angel. The teacher, oblivious to his lack of attention, went on to teach about the controversial subject.

“Light is right; dark angels are great winged creatures who live high in the mountains to the north. Every year they come down to spread chaos upon the world. They are very bad, very nasty creatures who aren’t kind to small children.” The teacher smiled, noticing a small hand raised in the air. She pointed to it “Sakura? You have anything to say?”

“My daddy says that dark angels don’t exist. He thinks it’s silly to believe in them.” Sakura blushed and lowered her hand, ignoring the ever watchful presence of the boy sitting just behind her with his eyes still tracing the contours of his drawing, but his ears listening to every word.

Another hand shot up, waving about wildly. The teacher pointed to it, saying, “Go ahead, Toru.”

“That’s not true! My mommy saw a dark angel! She was walking home one day when all of the sudden a flying man came by and swooped over her. She said that she’s never been quite the same since!” The classroom exploded into noise as each student made sure his or her opinion was heard. Theories flew across the small room like paper air planes in the midst of a storm.

Dark angels came from the heavens and had wings made of stars.

Dark angels came from the earth, like moles, causing their skin to be pale as bone.

Dark angels were, in truth, the dead risen from their graves to spread poison and sickness among the living.

The spider was perhaps the only one in the room to notice when Light Yagami’s head lifted and his note book closed softly. The boy stood, examined the excited mass, then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The idea of origin was a lie
A lie those people desperately wanted to hear
because to hear that someone had not set darkangels upon them
It would have been more than they could bear


“What is evil?” asked Light Yagami at dinner on a seemingly insignificant night. He tapped his fingers against the table as he awaited an answer. His family blinked, looking at each other worriedly.

“Light, why do you want to know about evil?” asked his fretting mother, whose brown eyes had long since been lined with wrinkles. Beside her sat his father, who had, after working several years in the center of town, moved outside to take up a farm.

“Everyone talks about it. All the other children talk about it—their parents, and the people in town, too. And yet, no one ever says what it is. No one defines it and no one seems to be able to define it. I would like to hear your opinion on the subject.” Light sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking at his chop-sticks dolefully while he granted his parents the chance to glance at each other nervously before answering him.

“Remember your neighbor Takeshi?” Light’s father stroked his mustache in concentration, clearly trying to find the words to explain this in terms his strange son would understand.

“Yes. He was killed. A tree hit him?” the boy mused, remembering the teenage neighbor who had not come home at the end of a windy day. His family had grieved for the entire night—was that considered evil? The loss of life?

“Well, that’s your answer Light. That’s what evil is.”

“So then, darkangels create trees to fall on people? Or do they cause the trees to fall? Do they cause death? Is that why they are evil?”

“Dark angels? Who’s been talking to you about dark angels?” demanded his father as he spit out a half chewed piece of bread. Light’s mouth closed and he once more examined the wood grains on the table.

“No one has—I just wondered….”

“Light, are you feeling well?”

Light’s chocolate eyes lifted from the table towards his father, and all at once Soichiro felt that inhuman gaze pierce his soul with the confirmation that this was not his son seated across from him.

“Yes, Father. I am feeling perfectly fine.”

The strange thing about humans was not their ignorance
or their intolerance for differences
It was the way they could not seem to see consequences for their actions
The Third Law of old no longer exists in the human world
in the human mind

“Hmmmmmm. I hesitate to make a determination. I haven’t seen a case like this since… ever.” The middle-aged man stroked his salt-and-pepper beard thoughtfully, his dark, crow’s-footed eyes shining brightly. Before him sat a small, rather gloomy Light Yagami and next to the boy stood his father, who had paced the floor for the past half hour in anxious anticipation of the doctor’s diagnosis.

“I am still not quite sure what he has—” the man trailed off, twirling a finger in his beard, “—perhaps some variation of… what was it… the medical disorder found books from recent archaeological digs? Anti-social personality disorder? Yes… that would explain much… but it definitely would need to be coupled with… ah, malignant narcissism and Ausperger’s Syndrom. I’ve searched records—only a few cases like this have been recorded, and each doctor went to the old books.” The man’s eyes shone with excitement. “Personality disfunctions aside… has he always been this pale?”

“Yes—no matter how much time he spends outside, he just never....” The two men talked loudly, unaware of the child’s constant attention and the brown eyes that flicked from speaker to speaker, taking in unseen details. The doctor nodded slowly, surveying the boy who now looked at his shoes with distaste, counting the minutes as each one brought him closer to departure.

“I see…. And he seems unusually thin,” remarked the doctor, who turned to rummage through various silver objects. He pulled out a large magnifying glass and moved it towards Light’s face.

“He doesn’t eat much… we can’t persuade him to touch his food. He just sits and watches his food. At first, we thought it was a phase, but he hasn’t grown out of it.” Soichiro glanced down at his quiet son, his face revealing all the worried thoughts that harassed him at night. Still the boy said nothing and remained with his head directed firmly towards the floor.

“Light, your father says you do not talk to people. Can you tell me why?” The doctor bent down to the boy’s eye level, trying to get a hold on the brown eyes so different from his father’s.

The child lifted his head to meet the man’s gaze and spoke in a soft tone, “Nobody listens. Why should I talk if they do not listen?”

“Of course people listen to you, Light—people always want to hear what you have to say. People are worried about you; they want to know what’s wrong. You have to tell them what is wrong.” The older man stopped talking and waited for the boy to respond. At first, the child said nothing, staring straight at the aging doctor as he juggled the hazards and benefits of his options.

“You do not want to hear the answer. No one wants to hear the answer.”

Light Yagami as a child was
in other words
a complete and utter lie
A fabrication
A make believe thing placed upon the child I knew so heartily no one dared to tell the difference.
Quite ironic, really.

People feared him, abhorred him, and as time went on, the strain upon the society was too much for any one man to bear. The boy seemed less and less like others as the years passed; where before his prodigious method of existence was declared as a phase, it was now considered a flaw, something not quite right. His eyes were too narrow, his hands were too thin; his skin was far too pale. The seven-year-old child was the closest thing they would ever get to an anomaly, an oddity in their symmetrical lives.
Luckily, or perhaps, unluckily, for them the boy was quickly taken off their hands by something far more sinister—a creature that, to his peers, only existed in legends and other such folk lore. They would only have to deal with the child for seven years, eleven months, and approximately twenty eight days.

Regardless of what the individuals considered, whether this was a blessing or a portent will never be known, for if there was one thing that Light Yagami had mastered in his life, it was living in a world of gray. He was neither one thing nor another. In a black and white world, he was perhaps the only contradiction that existed—the only variable stubbornly refusing to blend into another shade.

If this event had never happened, Light Yagami may never have grown into the monster he became as his sorry life progressed. He may never have left that small town he grew up in, moving to the outskirts of the community, barely seeing the light of day. He would not have done a lot of things, had the fates woven him a different tapestry.

But as it is, he did not take that path; he instead walked down the one less traveled, and for him it made all the difference.


Author’s note:

R is for reviewing
E is for the eccentric authoress begging for reviews
V is for V because V for Vendetta is awesome and all who oppose are shamed
I is for ice cream because it tastes good
E is for exciting poems meant to waste your time
W is for waste of time as in that’s what this "poem" was

Read the poem and review, folks.
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  #5  
Old 01-17-2009, 02:38 PM
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Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

Author’s note: Author’s Note: Thank you readers, reviewers, and the ultra beta, without whom this would no doubt be a really crappy fic that no one would want to read because it would be so lame.

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Darkangel Trilogy or Death Note. I wish I did, because not only would I be rich—I’d own half the world’s muses, which would be completely awesome. Some chapter titles may be based roughly off of poem lines; don’t own whatever those come from, either.



WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Blossom in the Dust

“Yes, I have been waiting for you,” she cried out boldly, and could barely hear the words herself.
-The Darkangel, by Meredith Ann Pierce

The day L found the seven-year-old human Light Yagami was not particularly eventful. There was no apocalyptic storm where hail the size of pomegranates fell from the sky or the streets flooded with a downpour of unstoppable rain, but the day wasn’t unusually nice either. Just a typical day in the remains of Japan.

He hadn’t been looking for anything in particular, as no one ever is when they stumble across the greatest discoveries. The winged daemon had not even been flying, but had instead been crouched on a large steel remnant of what might have been a tall skyscraper and was now only a bent, rusted piece of metal. His great black wings stretched from his back, each feather not giving off the slightest sheen in the winter sunlight, and his lengthy toes stretched out from under the hem of his frayed pants, completely oblivious to the cold air around them. Below him stretched a great expanse of empty grasslands, composed of the long green stalks that had long since sprouted out of the ashes of a lost civilization.

He watched the horizon with a dull expression; L was not even certain regarding what part of Japan he was in—where once, he would have been able to tell Osaka from Tokyo right of the bat, he now could no longer find the slightest differences between the decrepit, discolored steel remains.

Slowly, he took out a hard-backed book, dusty and nearly illegible with age. He flipped the yellowed pages between thumb and forefinger with an expertise born only of experience. It was only because of his clear lack of attention that the child managed to make his way over to the icarus without being noticed.

“You are a darkangel.” The statement came from a pale, thin, child whose features were sharp and jaded.

L lowered his book, staring down at the human child with interest, noting the wisps of shadows flowing off his skin. L did not bother to respond to the small boy; he instead raised his book once again, pretending to look through the pages.

“If you are looking for maidens to eat, prepare to be disappointed. No one travels this far west unless they are already dying.” The boy gave a thin smile.

L felt himself unnerved by those narrow brown eyes, far too old for that small face. “Then I suppose you must be dying, as you are the only human I have seen all day,” stated L without lowering his book.

The boy blinked once at the darkangel, his expression becoming dubious as L continued to read. “Yes, I am dying just like everyone else,” said the child slowly, with careful precision.

Finally, feeling that his curiosity was sufficiently piqued, the darkangel lowered the book held between his knobbed hands. “Are you going to run, little boy?” L lifted one free thumb to his lips, biting down as his owl-like eyes surveyed the child below him. Dressed in a coarse green tunic and loose leggings, the boy looked like a starving child in second hand clothing. It was almost humorous to the winged daemon, who had seen more than his fair share of starving children.

“No, you have no business here. You will leave, eventually bored by the scenery and by that book you are holding. Seeing I have come all this way, I might as well wait until you leave for your dark castle, then return home.” The intriguing child turned his back to L and sat down, taking a book from under his loose tunic. L leaned over from his perch to glimpse a blank page and a hand rapidly creating lines out of charcoal.

Of course, the boy was right; L would have left eventually, bored indeed by the changeless scenery that the elderly found so amusing; bored by the faded print in his hands. The child had forgotten one thing, though: Himself. For whatever reason, he had automatically assumed that L would ignore him out of some divine sense of entitlement and not even figure him into the equation. That was where the human had gone so woefully wrong.

“You clearly base this theory on your knowledge of human nature, and as I am not human, that statement does not apply to me. How can you possibly think your ideas and observations will pertain to a creature you know nothing about?” L watched as the boy’s hand stalled and his head turned. His eyes brown eyes narrowed. L repressed a chuckle at the child’s sudden bout of ill humor.

The child, seeming defeated, dusted off his clothing and once more turned to glare at the darkangel with eyes that spoke of murder. The book of drawings closed as suddenly as it had been opened, once more being shoved into the loose fabric. Stiffly, the boy rose… all the while looking at the icarus. Finally, he spoke, “Ignorance is not something I choose to possesses; it is something passed down through my family, and I do not like it when people so bluntly state that I hold it in my hands.”

Arrogant.

That was the word that flashed across L’s mind as the boy pivoted towards the east and began to walk at a faster pace than needed. Naïve was a word that followed close behind, and yet L found himself staring at the human, his wide, color-less eyes trailing after him even as he disappeared from view.

It was on that day L remembered his last apprentice and decided it was high time he found a new one.

It is hard to escape the death of man kind
The remains of its peak
of its golden age
the pieces are strewn everywhere
One only has to look for them


Light did not speak of that incident when he returned to his house. Light carefully avoided all the newly planted crops out of habit; he had no wish to destroy the only source of profit for the small farming family. That path, of course, led him straight towards the very person he had been trying to avoid.

He simply nodded when he saw his father approaching with a worried expression, the fret in his old man’s eyes highlighted by the wrinkles and lines that come with age. “Light, where have you been? You’ve been gone all day; no one has seen you! What if you had died, Light? What if something had happened to you?” came the panicked words of the man he had always considered as father, a loose fact stated only at need and often sounding far darker than was intended.

“I was walking, Father. Is that so wicked? Have I been missed? The fields are sown, the crops watered. My work was done, so I left.” At seven years old, Light had yet to learn the meaning of tact.

“Walking? What happened to school? What happened to the education that you wanted—that we wanted?” Soichiro often released his frustration at his son through half-shouted questions intended to cause the boy to fall to his knees like any normal child and beg for forgiveness. “You have a gift, Light, so don’t waste it by disappearing into the wilderness.”

“You cannot send me back there, Soichiro. I will not go back there to be stared at—to be laughed at! They laugh at me, Father. Did you know that? Did you think that I cannot hear them when they speak of me? Do you think that I cannot hear you? Hear you talking with the village people?

“They say I’m sick, diseased.” Light briefly shook his head then made to move past his father into the house, but the elder man stopped him roughly before he could disappear from view, as he always did.

“Light, you are not exempt from the human race, as you may think. You are ill—you always have been. Have you seen the other children? Don’t lie and say that you can’t tell the difference. Have you seen your sister? That is what it means to be healthy, and you are not healthy.” Soichiro held his son still with two great calloused hands, standing so dark against the child’s pale complexion. Both stood waiting for the other to speak and the quietness consumed the words before they could be overheard by others.

“I never said I was exempt from the human race, Father. All my life you have told me I am sick and dying, that my skin is too pale, my arms are too skinny, my mannerism are too silent. And yet, with each passing day I feel no closer to death; instead, the fear rises within the people surrounding me. There is nothing I can do to stop it.” Son and father looked at each other once more. Light noticed the all too familiar glaze clouding his father’s eyes, but continued none the less, “Do you think I can go a day without looking in that mirror you so conveniently placed in my room and not see what you have described—that I do not curse myself every second of every day that I was not born like my precious sister Sayu, who can barely walk?” A stretched pause, “Who can barely walk, and yet I envy her….”

His father’s grip finally loosened. Light darted past the older man, up the creaky steps and into the wooden house with each plank creaking as if it might fall apart in one more step. It was not until he reached the top stair that he called back to his father in an apathetic tone, “I shall return when dinner starts, Father.”

And with that, he was gone once more from his family’s life, moving up towards the poorly lit attic where he could gaze upon the horizon.

The thing I hate most about humans is talking to them
Now to be fair
there were a few
a very few
who were not horrible conversationalists
But most of them were pathetic and it was not even worth your time conversing
All the same responses and questions
Very dull
if you ask me


A very curious aspect of the icari was their determination. When they believed something needed to be done, it would be done. It was almost admirable to those who did not know better, the poor fools who could not see past their blind charade. Of course, like most aspects of the darkangels, it was sorely misunderstood by the public, painted in an all too incorrect light so that when seen in its original state, the viewer could be quite surprised by the change.

Those who truly saw the darkangels would feel the ominous chant radiating from the icari’s minds ‘Get it done, get it done, get it done.’

But like the rest of the world, the icari themselves hardly realized they had such one-track minds, that their thoughts were driving them down a narrow path at a sprinting pace. They were completely oblivious to the blinders obscuring their clear-eyed vision.

So when L decided, in his single-minded way, that it was perfectly within his rights to steal the child… he could find no reason not to. After observing him for a few days, it was obvious that his parents were not fond of him, and in that dislike did not realize exactly what they were dealing with.

Scrawny, yes, remarkably so, but still—the simple brilliance he exuded, even as a human, was unmistakable and made up for any other faults. The bitterness could not be helped after being trapped with humans for so long; it would affect anyone’s personality, and L had a feeling that the boy had not been particularly agreeable before he had spent so long in that house.

Apprentice.

The word seemed ominous in his well-seasoned mind. This child, Light Yagami, would be his second apprentice. After the first one had failed so blatantly, he was not entirely certain he wished to take on a new one; that had been fifty years ago and he still felt the reverberations of his hasty actions. L was a rash creature, he did not deny it, but with his mistakes glaring at him through the dark, he had learned caution. The vampyre still would not question his decision too thoroughly—after all, how rebellious could one small human be? If worst came to worst, he could always kill him; what was one more dead body to the earth who bore so many?

But what L would not admit to himself was the need that comes with all vampyres and their goals, no matter how aloof or ambitious: The need to fulfill that self-set standard. Whether it was a good decision or not, Light Yagami’s fate had been decided the moment he met the darkangel’s gaze.

Apathy is a word not often described in human terms
and yet
in some ways
it is the best term that describes them
They are apathetic to the rest of the world
for contentment is a poison that slowly eats away at the people
I
for one
had nothing to do with it

“I do not remember anything from the night I was… spirited away. You must understand, of course; before that night, my life had been one routine after another. I was not prepared for such… shock, I suppose, is the word you would use.”

The icarus’ tone was not a familiar one; it was not the normal commanding authority to which she was accustomed, but a tone of sorrowful frustration. His thin face seemed weary, with the misery etched into that fair visage and his eyes showing the years that his youthful appearance had misplaced with his vigor.

“Nothing?” she questioned almost silently, but with his acute hearing the darkangel managed to hear and smirked slightly before resuming his usual indifferent expression.

“That is a lie. I do remember a few flashes of image—stars winking out of the sky, the sudden chill in the air, and night-dark feathers that sucked light from the room like miniature black holes.

“God, it was so dark. I could not see; I could not think. I was so cold.” He stopped speaking, glassy eyes focused on the events he did not want to remember. His gloved hands clenched into dark fists and the black fabric wrinkled with tension.

“But you didn’t want to remember, did you?” answered the dark haired woman for him, her thoughts once more picking up on what the vampyre preferred to leave silent and unsaid.

It was a talent she would later be both thankful for and wary of, but for now she considered it to be nothing.

Sometimes I find my memory is not quite what it used to be
There are moments where I am not sure why I am in one place
and not in another
Or times when I question what place I stand on and my own viewpoints
It is not a pleasant feeling

Darkness, the reek of darkness invaded his room, smelling faintly of rust and withering flowers. He had always felt the shadows, even when the light no longer illuminated their hiding places, and he had always been able to smell their breath upon his face, so he almost did not turn when a gust of wind rushed past him, carrying with it the cold smell of death.

He felt his own breathing fall short. He pretended he did not see them; he pretended he did not hear them; he pretended he did not know them as well as he knew himself, but they had always been there on the fringes of life, whispering silently in the dark of the night.

The voice that whispered to him was not the ones he knew so well—it was a new voice, but one he had heard before. Out of context, he could not place it.

“Yagami-kun,” it whispered in a calculated tone, as if it had already guessed his answer.

But of course Light did not answer. He did not want to answer. This was not his father, this was not his sister, and this was not some man to be shoved aside with an odd look and a cold word. He could feel the inhuman edge in the voice. This was no man that he could deal with.

The creature with the voice filled with darkness did not wait for a response. The stranger’s hands were filled with icy fragments cutting through Light’s clothing to his bare skin.

Before he could protest, before he could think, a single, strangling strip of cloth was tied around his eyes, obscuring his vision. He did not bother to scream, so his captor did not bother to gag him and instead hoisted him immediately into the air and through his open window—the window he clearly recalled closing before he had gone to bed.

He felt warmth flee from his chest as the cold arms tightened around him; he briefly considered struggling, but quickly placed the thought aside. Nothing would be accomplished. The icy chill had slowly begun to seep through his skin, making it hard to move—hard to think—but he knew if he struggled, he would fall to his death. His window was too high a fall to survive—they had not dropped back down to the ground and yet they moved forward.

“Darkangel-san,” stated Light Yagami in absolute sureness, watching as his fate was sealed in two pale, inhuman hands and feeling the wind increase speed and the air grow thinner. He could not process the daemon’s response to his words.

Cold. It was so cold.

The last thought that managed to pass through his muddled head before the oxygen-sparse air took its toll on his conscious was that someone other than himself might have found the situation incredibly ironic.


Author’s Note: I feel melodramatic; it’s so hard not being sarcastic. It makes me feel sad inside -_-“. Ah well, that’s the end of chapter two. Have fun and review.

If you don’t, I may have to make a terrible Chuck Norris joke. And no one wants to hear one of those.

Beta’s Note: I know them all.

Yes, seriously. I can recite them in alphabetical order.
__________________

EmBreon is the maple syrup to my slightly undercooked crepe
{URPG Stats}--{ASB Stats}--{Fanfiction}
khajmer = biffle
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thegalleonman: (8:37:28 PM) How sad.
thegalleonman: (8:37:37 PM) I'm amused.
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  #6  
Old 02-16-2009, 04:33 AM
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Default Re: Whispers in the Dark

Author’s note: Author’s note: I love disclaimers they’re so… constant. And reviewers are nice too, not to mention the ultra beta who puts me in my place when melodrama overflows into a pool of liquid suffering and despair… I’ll stop now.

Disclaimer: THIS IS NOT A DISCLAIMER

The real disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN DEATH NOTE OR DARKANGEL!!!!!!!



WHISPERS IN THE DARK
Caricature

“And you know what the icari does with their brides, do you, girl?”
-The Darkangel, by Meredith Ann Pierce

“Childhood?” repeated the darkangel slowly, his brow furrowing as he slowly thought about the word. His fair hair was pulled back into a thin braid, trailing down his back as he bent over various medical instruments that the human couldn’t have identified even if she wanted to.

“Or have you simply existed since the dawn of time?”

As always, he continued to work before he considered her statements, making no physical effort to show he had heard.

“No. I am not that old, though I age greatly with each passing year. The weariness one gains is unimaginable; being immortal is a far cry from being forever youthful, which is often the interpretation of my current state.” His black-gloved hands paused over a silver instrument that gleamed faintly in the candle’s soft light. “My childhood ended the day I was born. I was always aware of people… staring at me. I was an oddity in a world where differences cast one into doubt, into this category of… others. Something not welcome. I’m sure my family was rather relieved when I left.” He turned around with the metallic object in his lap, facing her with his ever-grim expression.

“Where did you go? Did you come here?” she asked, looking up towards the high-vaulted ceiling, glancing over the charcoal drawings that seemed to line every room, each black drawing showing another portion of the darkangel’s thoughts; each one another window into his closed mind.

“No. It was a long time before I came here. To say I left home is a lie. I didn’t ‘leave’, because that implies I had a choice. It wouldn’t have been long until I would have; tt was very difficult for me to live there, as you can no doubt imagine.” He paused, then turned to meet her eyes. “I was taken by the darkangel you know as Judah. At that time, I referred to him as Ryuzaki.”

Good and Evil
To tell the truth
there is little difference between the two
There are certainly acts of murder and violence
acts of charity and justice
but it is the shades of gray that we seem to grow blind to
It is the shades where the line between the pair grows blurred
until old fools like me can no longer tell the difference.


Light Yagami awoke to the faint glimmer of candle light, as his eyes blinked away the dark spots and his mind sought consciousness. The cold, immobilizing sting in his eyes receded to his finger-tips and finally out of his body altogether, replaced by a numb chill. His eyes began to see objects in the dimly lit cavern—tall, gothic archways carved in stone, leering and looming in their shadows; thin candelabras lined the walls, dripping pale wax onto the granite floor. On the walls hung portraits of men and women—figures surrounded by golden light, draped in colorful clothes that he couldn’t place.

Without realizing it, he found him standing in front of the portrait of a man with blood dripping down his face. Woven around his head was a crown of thorns, dripping blood from the jagged edges that pierced his tanned skin. Light’s pale fingers reached slowly to trace the man’s strangely serene expression before stopping. Slowly, he turned, and for the second time met the darkangel’s gaze.

Unnerving and demanding, the cold eyes bored through his skull with a will that must be obeyed. It was unquestionable that he should do otherwise. Half of his being wished to hurl itself to the ground and beg for mercy, but the other half, being the more practical one, took over and forced the boy to hold his ground. He would not lose his pride to a creature that wasn’t even human.

The darkangel seemed to be waiting for Light to ask something, or to say something, but Light Yagami had long ago learned that it is best to remain silent and observe before one strikes. At seven years old, Light had become a master of caution and precision.

Seemingly annoyed, the Icarus answered the unasked question with a tone of irate amusement. “‘What am I?’ I am an Icarus, a member of the proud race of Darkangels, black gods from the deepest pits of hell come to enact divine judgment on the human race; a monstrous beast who steals the souls of maidens and drinks their blood as a toast to mortality. As for ‘Who am I?’…. The world calls me Judah, but to those few who know me I am known as L.”

Once again, the vampyre stopped, waiting for a response of any kind. The human, though, remained cold and silent, his eyes glittering with the power of gained knowledge, stored away for later use to be used, no doubt, against the darkangel in a time he least expected it.

Finally, Light spoke. With clear hesitation, he repeated the syllable presented to him. “L?” It was a name he had not heard before—a single letter, something rather uncommon in his own language. Clearly, it meant that the darkangel was a foreigner. His accent would have marked him as a visitor even without the name; had he been seen in the human’s village, even without the wings, he would have been feared and shunned.

That’s not to say there had never been travelers within his village. Men and women who wandered the land every now and then stopped through each town along the way, but they had never travelled so far. Their accents were never too strong, their features were never too different, and their mannerisms and customs were a near match. Light had been more disliked than the rare nomadic passers-by.

Analyzing the vampyre once more, he realized he had never seen any human with such a pale visage; the darkangel’s bones seemed to almost tear through his nearly translucent skin, visible even through the baggy tunic and trousers; his eyes seemed larger than any human’s he had seen—more owl-like, wide and omniscient; his nose was slightly longer at the bridge, hardly visible against his snow white features. Perhaps strangest of all was the Icarus’ hair, which spiked out in all conceivable directions, each silver strand standing on end as if it had been entwined with wire, melding with snow-white highlights.

“You may call me Ryuuzaki, because frankly, your mispronunciation of my name will drive me mad. We cannot have that, can we?” The darkangel seemed to be amused by whatever thought had struck him; or, at least, Light thought he was amused. It was hard to tell with this creature that hid his emotions so well behind a mask of indifference. Interesting, that the creature would employ the use of a tool Light had never encountered in anyone other than himself—every human he had ever met left their thoughts for all to view. It was only Light who knew the meaning of what it meant to hide oneself.

“You are certainly not a muscle man, but then again, you are not needed for heavy lifting,” continued the vampyre with disdain, his thin hand reaching over to Light’s short tunic sleeve. The boy drew back from the icy chill that exuded from those hands, but the darkangel paid no heed. The icarus’ eyes narrowed and he clicked his tongue in what Light believed to be annoyance.

“Still, you should probably attempt to build muscle. Your arms look like toothpicks! What do they feed you kids these days?” The darkangel breathed out, shaking his head slightly and loosening his hold on Light’s clothing, allowing the boy to totter back from the vampyre. Had the vampyre been less imposing, Light may have voiced the hypocrisy of the situation, and how like skin and bones the darkangel himself looked.

The silence stretched between the two of them until finally the darkangel, still exasperated, broke it, “Ah, well, we have our work cut out for us.”

Diversity among humans is laughable
They all look the same
Like rabbits
It is bothersome to tell them apart
Of course
some people have tried to argue the same for us
But no one actually believes them


“Disgusting, are they not?” The darkangel’s whisper fell close to Light’s ear in a tone full of a bitter irony that the child was too young to place. “They were once very beautiful, all… with flowing locks of hair and luminescent eyes. Now look at them.”

They appeared as if they had once been women, exactly the darkangel had so aptly described. Their figures had long since vanished, leaving twig-like bones and torsos that seemed to disappear within the thin rags they wore. Each wraith-like creature rocked back and forth, issuing moans and dry sobs, and through their thin lips, Light could just barely catch the outline of their teeth.

What disturbed him the most was not the stiff, straight hair but the dark holes where their eyes should have been, with each empty socket seemingly pleading to him for something—release, respite, perhaps.

“At first, I thought it was the weather, but then I realized that maybe it is merely the fact that they have no souls or blood on their bodies, and have subsequently lost their minds.”

The Icarus’ words sounded far away, for the boy was lost in those dark sockets as they wept invisible tears, all visible expression of sorrow lost in the absence of liquid.

Walking corpses, things that should have been buried beneath the earth—they were disgusting.

He vaguely remembered a time when he had scoffed at the belief of such atrocities; snickered at the simple idea of the beings the nomads had whispered of. Beautiful women, taken from their homes and never seen again—taken as brides by the vampyres the wingéd dæmons who plagued the land. He had hardly believed the tales, except, perhaps, in wistful fantasy; he had horrified his neighbors by drawing a simple picture.

A horribly inaccurate picture, he now saw.

The Judah he had sketched had been much taller, perhaps stretching to seven feet. His arms, while being unnaturally long, hadn’t been as thin as the real darkangel’s, and his hair had been much more tamed in charcoal. To see reality was like being forced to look in an honest mirror and see just how ignorant he truly was.

Ignorance.

A day prior and he would have considered the word laughable when directed at himself. He was not ignorant of the suffering that lay around him, or so he had thought. It was only then, as he stared into the dark abyss of the wraiths’ eyes, that he truly saw himself for what he was: A small child, too young to know any better, in the hands of a creature who would abandon him to a fate worse than death.

Truth was a mirror, broken into fragments, with each piece portraying a different angle; every shard painted a different reflection, but an equal measure of reality. Distortion of this reality was the simple matter of rearranging the pieces, but to see the full picture was to mend the mirror, to pull the fractions back together, to complete the puzzle—an impossible task, intended only for dubious gawking.

All his life, Light had lacked the pieces to see past his own fragmented reality, instead choosing to believe that the one shard he held contained all the knowledge he needed to know. It was only now, away from everything he had believed real, that he discovered the sea of jagged glass.

“What do you want from me?” Light said, his eyes skirting back to the pale darkangel, whose expression had changed to something more easily read, something he himself had often seen while peering at his own reflection.

“You are rather quick to the point, Light-kun. Perhaps you do have your uses. As you can see, my wives are less than apt to movement in their current… state… for lack of better terms. I need you to deal with it, as I am much too busy.” Judah, L, Ryuzaki chuckled under his breath coldly. There was no sympathy in that voice, no inkling of pity for Light to cling to in his unfamiliar surroundings.

The wraiths moaned in unison, pitching every wail in a different piercing key. Light clapped his hands against his ears and they remained there, even after the cursed sounds stopped. The Icarus, seeing Light, simply quirked one corner of his lips then turned away from the boy and the remains of his wives.

“I do hope, Light-kun, that you are indeed as clever as you believe yourself to be.”

Lies are a gift with which many are blessed.
Truth is a curse that haunts us till we are dead.
They are too entwined to allow us to ignore one for the other.

After the third day, Light could no longer force himself to look at them.

The first day had been the worst (or so he told himself). The first instant of staring into their black eyes, watching their writhing movements as they struggled to make their way across the room, hearing their moans and unintelligible words—before puzzling out exactly what to expect. That was the worst (or so he told himself).

He didn’t even believe they could talk; they had somehow lost the ability to speak and now only spluttered and gurgled.

One of them had turned its head towards him and had began to crawl towards him; it had been at that moment that Light had realized the door was locked. The door was locked.

Furiously, he had banged against the wood; had shaken the handle and had glanced behind him at the shrieking women. As soon as his fist had pounded against the door, they had begun to scream out a sound that seared against his mind, fragmenting his thought process.

That had been the first day.

The second day had been easier, in a way; he had awoken to find himself curled against the door, facing towards the skeletal creatures. His limbs had been sore, and although they had ached, he had not moved from his position. The women had milled aimlessly on their own side of the room, glancing at him every now and then out of a vague curiosity. They had not approached him again—whether out of apprehension or disinterest, he didn’t care… so long as they did not touch him.

Light’s plan, at that point, had been very simple and childish: Run through the door as soon as the darkangel came to unlock it. It was pathetic, and he knew it, but there was nothing else to be done. Light had never drunk much, but the lack of water was taking its toll on his mind; his solutions were slower to arrive and lacked the painstakingly detailed air that normally came with the packaging. Light had never needed to be brilliant before, and now, when he had needed his birthright, it had abandoned him.

A child, a simple child, locked away behind a single door in a room with three corpses, awaiting the judgment of the darkangel.

In his sleep, he dreamed of rushing water, and clear glass lakes that lingered just an arm’s distance away… and yet never within reach.

By the third day, this day, he wondered if the Icarus had simply left him to die. It seemed an odd way to operate—kidnap him simply for the purpose of leaving him to die. Illogical, but then, the darkangel wasn’t human: Who said it had to follow human logistics?

The thirst would kill him before the hunger. A human could live without food for a substantial amount of time, but without water he could feel his mind slipping away, wandering from his body only to return with no memory of where it had erred.

What was the mind without the body, the body without the mind?

And yet, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care, even when his eyesight dulled and his memory fell to pieces. He found himself growing ever apathetic. If the darkangel wished him dead, so be it. What would he have done with his life instead—lived alone on the outskirts of civilization, wandering from village to village as a disgraced nomad with a foreign name? Perhaps it was better to meet an early than to draw the tedium out.

Somewhere behind the door, the vampyre crouched, laughing away at the demise of poor, human Light Yagami, and Light was quite certain that if he had the energy, he might be laughing as well.

To say I lied to him would be untrue
More or less
I
instead
opted to let him believe what he wanted to believe
Whether I was angel or dæmon was entirely his choice
Sometimes I think he could never tell the difference

“Welcome back, Light-kun. It would appear you are not yet deceased.” The darkangel’s impassive voice came to Light distantly, echoing off the lapse of conscious time.

“Dehydration?” asked Light, coughing through his dry throat, opening his eyes to search for water. Seeming to sense his intent, Ryuzaki quickly set down a clear container of water on the boy’s chest.

“Not enough to kill you, apparently. I am pleasantly surprised—I thought you would be dead by now. Three days is usually enough to do it for a hysterical child,” said the icarus in a dead monotone, seemingly bored by the information he drawled out.

The darkangel waited for Light to finish off the water before handing him another bottle and muttering, “Be careful not to drink it all at once. I would rather you avoided vomiting on my floor.”

“Why did you let me out?” asked Light bluntly.

Instead of being surprised, the darkangel seemed to have been expecting the question. “I believe I told Light-kun I need an apprentice,” answered the vampyre as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He raised his hand to his mouth, biting on his thumb in a childish gesture that did not match the creature’s appearance in the least.

Did such creatures normally imprison their apprentices and nearly kill them?

Light was slowly realizing the monolithic separation between human thinking and this creature’s process of cognition. He then began to do as any man of marginal intelligence who had brushed up against a contradiction would: Recalculate.

The spiraling figures told him it would be pointless to argue, that it would get him nothing, so he simply nodded.

“Good. I will not be required explain myself.” The darkangel seemed thoroughly pleased with himself, and drew closer to Light “There is little you are useful for. Light-kun is terrible with women and not built for any physical labor. In fact, I think Light-kun’s redeeming feature would be his intelligence, which is the last thing I need from him.”

The Icarus paused, then; whether for dramatic effect or acknowledgement, the boy was far too busy guzzling water to calculate. When Light’s supply of water was deplenished, the Icarus continued, sounding more irate than before.

“Light-kun will accompany me to cities and distribute a very rare and exotic fruit. An extreme few are grown, so I will expect Light-kun’s respect when dealing with them.” The darkangel pivoted and drew out a blood-red, spherical fruit. It gleamed dimly in the candle-light. Without thinking, Light reached out and grabbed the fruit from the darkangel to examine it more closely.

“Hmmmm. I had forgotten hunger kills humans. Very well. I have others. Eat it.” The darkangel then stood swiftly, hunching his shoulders in an informal stance, and slouched away, his great black wings obscuring all but the silver-spiked tips of his hair.

And with one bite the child condemned himself to a life distanced from humanity.



Author’s Note: You Pe2K people are rather neglectful reviewers.
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EmBreon is the maple syrup to my slightly undercooked crepe
{URPG Stats}--{ASB Stats}--{Fanfiction}
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yoface = broham

thegalleonman: (8:37:28 PM) How sad.
thegalleonman: (8:37:37 PM) I'm amused.
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Old 04-18-2009, 05:13 PM
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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


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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.
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