Tsubasa Chronicle Fan Fiction ❯ Et Ainsi Nous Allons ❯ The Journey Begins ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I own nothing! Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles is owned by the wonderment that is CLAMP, and Phantom of the Opera is owned by Leroux, Kay, Webber, and anyone else who had a hand in making Phantom what it is today. The only thing I own in this is the plot, and even that is just me playing around to satisfy my own fangirl-ish tendencies.

 

And now, let the story begin! Hope you like it!

 

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Et Ainsi Nous Allons

Chapter 1

The Journey Begins

 

Earth. Paris, France. 1872

 

His hands came crashing down on the keys in frustration, sending a dissonant cacophony of clashing notes echoing through the air. Head in his hands, he sighed. Everything, it seemed, was going wrong. The opera had burned to the ground two years ago and no one wanted to rebuild it. Something about insufficient funding. Insufficient intelligence, more likely. Months ago, the chief of police had ordered a squad of his men to comb the sewers for nights on end in the vain and severely misguided hope that he would be stupid enough to venture outside his home. However, they were little more than a mild irritation. The Cretin Brigade, he called them. Thick, brainless louts, the lot of them. Didn't they know that the great Erik could never…

  Erik's internal rant came to a skidding halt. A song, unlike anything he had ever heard, sounded through the otherwise stagnant air. No, it seemed as though it was within him, not without. Haunting and beautiful, the mere sound of it broke his heart, stirring long-repressed memories that had taken him years to forget. He felt a faint tugging on his mind, as if the music was trying to lead him somewhere. Like a blinded fool, he followed the sound.

Is this what it is like? A small part of his brain murmured. He had often wondered how it would feel to be controlled in such a way, to lose his own free will to a beautiful, haunting melody. The rest of his mind shoved such thoughts out of existence. Nothing could compare to my music, he repeated to himself.  But no matter how many times he insisted upon his superiority, there was a part of him that acknowledged this music was far lovelier, far purer. It was unlike anything he could have ever created, and though he didn't want to admit it, he was jealous of its beauty.

He stopped when he came to the edge of the lake. Everything beyond the sphere of candlelight was empty darkness; every time he looked into the void, he couldn't help but feel as though the way out, the way into the outside world, was the very mouth of hell itself.

He gasped. A light, little more than a faint glow, appeared beneath the surface of the lake. It grew brighter and brighter as it rose from the depths. When it broke through the water, he finally realized the source of the music: a feather, purest white save for the delicate design etched into it. Tiny droplets, not unlike tears, slid down the feather's frame, causing ripples in the lake as they fell, one by one, into the water.

The music grew louder as the feather began floating towards him. Time seemed to slow; the many tiny candle flames behind him dimmed as the feather's glow swallowed their yellow light. The feather continued its approach, drawn to him as though by an invisible magnet, and he just stood there, spellbound, like some grotesque caricature of a deer caught in the headlights, watching it draw closer. And closer. He could have reached out and grabbed it if he had wanted to.

And then it touched him. It penetrated his chest as easily as a hot knife through butter. It didn't hurt, though he had suspected it would, but it felt strange, as though his entire body had turned to liquid. The music still sounded, but this time from within him, humming in his spinal cord and making his brain vibrate in his skull. It wasn't unpleasant, but he didn't know if it was an experience for which he would volunteer in the future.

Despite his misgivings of the sensations, they left an almost euphoria roiling in his mind, filling him with an unfamiliar warm happiness. Erik felt himself collapse as the absolute bliss filled his entire body. Sleep took him gently, shrouding his head like a lover's embrace.

He dreamed. At least, Erik assumed that it was dream, though it felt more like a memory. If it was a memory, it must have happened a long time ago, because the edges of the dream were blurred, and many parts of it were difficult to decipher. The deeper he went into the dream, the hazier it got, as if the memory was fading…

 

“Come on!” a little girl shouted. Her excited laughter filled the cavernous hallway as she ran. Every so often, she would look back, as if expecting someone to follow.

“I want to show you something!” She came to a stop in front of a doorway that led onto a balcony.

“Look!” She ran to the railing at the edge of the balcony, pointing to something in the distance. Ruins sat on the edge of the horizon, silhouetted against the setting sun. They looked like an angel's wings spread full span, as if they were bidding the waning sun farewell.

“Isn't it beautiful?” The little girl stared out at the horizon, her large, jade green eyes drinking in the expanse. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. Looking over to her right, she smiled as if there was someone with her, yet she was entirely alone.

“I'm happy that I can share this with you…”

 

Erik opened his eyes as the memory faded. He envied that little girl, whoever she was. So blissfully unaware of the world's cruelties . . .

Sitting up, he found that he had collapsed at the edge of the lake. Many of the candles behind him were smoking, yet their flickering flames had been snuffed out of existence. However, those that were still lit were enough to light his way back to his home.

A gentle warmth pulsed lightly in his chest. The feather. Such a thing should not be possible. It shouldn't even exist, yet there it was, humming gently just beneath his heart.

Erik frowned, and then his thoughts came to a skidding halt for the second time in less than an hour. How could it be that the mask was suddenly so uncomfortable? He undid the cord that held it to his face and examined the firm white material. No change. It was exactly the same as it had been for years. If it wasn't his mask, then it could only be…

He ran to the nearest mirror, yanked the curtain covering it to the side, and stumbled backwards in disbelief.

 

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Clow. Approximately one year after Sakura-hime's return.

 

“What happened here?” Syaoran murmured to himself. Even from a distance, he could see that Clow Country was not as he had left it. A think column of black smoke rose from behind the city; it seemed to be attempting to fill the sky and blot out the sun. The air was perfectly still.

Stagnant.

“It feels like death,” Kurogane muttered, echoing Syaoran's thoughts. “And there's been a lot of it.”

“Well,” Fai sighed, “Perhaps Sakura-chan will be able to fill us in.”

Once inside the city, Syaoran had to keep from grimacing for things were worse than they had initially appeared. The streets were deserted. Were it not for the echoing infant's cry from inside one of the houses, he would have thought that they were back in the illusion constructed in Rekord Country to stop them from stealing the Book of Memories. Syaoran's recollection was hazy - he had seen it through his clone's eyes rather than his own - but it was clear enough to evoke an awful sense of déjà vu as he walked through the abandoned streets.

Again and again they passed door after door with large X's. Many were painted blood red, and yet many others had black X's painted over the red.

“I wonder what they mean.” Mokona pondered.

She hopped onto a windowsill and peered inside the abode. The door next to the window was painted with black. “It`s empty.”

“You won't find anyone there,” a voice croaked.

Syaoran looked up to see a man handling a cart full of what, at first glance, appeared to be mounds of clothing. The door behind the man, painted with a red X, opened, revealing a second man carrying what looked like a large, ugly doll. The second man placed the doll on the cart, and Syaoran realized that the cart was full of, not bundles, but corpses. At least a dozen of them.

And the doll was the emaciated remains of a child.

“Why?” Syaoran asked, though he felt he already knew the answer.

The second man chuckled darkly, his voice sleazy and oily. “Cause they's all dead, those thats got the black marks on they doors.” He laughed again as he picked a brush up out of a bucket that hung from the side of the cart, running it over the door's red mark. When he was finished, a wet black X bleakly reflected the cloudless blue sky.

“Is the princess still alive?” Syaoran asked. The first man growled, refusing to meet his eye.

“How the hell should I know? I'm in charge of clearing the dead, not chasing after royalty.”

The second man replaced the brush in the bucket of black paint and gave a disconcerting smile at Fai. “This ones a pretty fellow, ain't he boss?” The first man rolled his eyes.

“I think he's trying to ask if you have taken away any dead from the palace,” Fai clarified, ignoring the second man as his eyes fell unconsciously on the corpse-child in the cart.

“Of course, pretty. None of them looked real royal-like, ya' know, but no one looks likes they oughts to, once they're dead.” The second man answered. He was far friendlier than his compatriot, if less articulate. His eyes continued to rove over Fai's form; he seemed to be encouraged by the mage's obvious discomfort at being examined in such a way.

Neither of the two men said any more as they took hold of one end of their cart and moved on, but the second man slipped another glance to Fai, making the latter shudder.

As the cart trundled away, Syaoran fixed his eyes to the ground. It was starting to hit that Sakura might have died along with most of her city.

No, he thought, shaking his head. Sakura isn't dead. I won't let her be. He started walking in the direction of the palace, keeping his eyes trained on his boots, all the while letting his feet choose the path they took to get there.

 

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“Are you sure there is nothing you can do?” Sakura sat at her brother's side, eyes downcast. She couldn't bear to look into her brother's face and she was too afraid to look the doctor in the eye. To do either would threaten to bring back the ever looming tears.  She had cried enough in the past weeks.           &nb sp; 

“I'm afraid not, Hime,” the doctor replied. He stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “This plague has attacked most of the city, and we ran out of the necessary medicines two months ago. With the quarantine, we can't afford to bring in any more for danger of pandemic.”

Sakura shut her eyes, frustrated. “Thank you, anyway.”  Her voice was soft, but there was strength nonetheless. “If there is nothing you can do, then please leave. Perhaps there is someone you can help elsewhere.” The doctor bowed out of the room.           &nbs p; 

“Sakura.” She took her brother's thin hand. It had become little more than skin stretched over bones. His voice was reduced to a harsh rasp of a whisper. She forced herself to look into Touya's face. It was difficult to remind herself that this shrunken corpse with sunken eyes and waxy, pale skin was her brother; the dull, broken light in his black eyes betrayed his fading hope. “Has Yukito managed to find a cure?”

“No,” Sakura replied. “Nothing he's tried has worked. Not even a little. No one he has managed to contact has any idea, either.”

Touya shut his eyes and sighed. “I suppose it was just wishful thinking. But, I imagine I will be grateful for death… once it comes…”

“No!” Sakura cried, releasing her brother's hand and flying to her feet. “You won't die! If Yukito-san can't find a cure then… Then I will!”

“Sakura-” Touya painfully pushed himself onto his elbows.

“No!” she said again. “You can't give up hope. I won't let you.” She shut her eyes against the tears that were creeping down her face. “If you die, I'll have no one left in this world.”

She laid her head on his lap and wept. It was like they were children again: Sakura crying into her brother's clothes and Touya stroking his little sister's hair as he waited for her tears to cease.

A loud rap at the door made Sakura jump.

“Come in,” she said, wiping the last of the tears away with her already salt-water-soaked sleeve.

A guard, one the last half-dozen or so that were still unaffected by the plague, entered. “Princess, there are three young men at the gate. They claim you are expecting them, but their attire suggests they are not from Clow Country.”

Three young men? Oh Kami, please. Please! Sakura kept her back to the guard. “Did they give their names?”

“Yes. One of them said his name was Syaoran-”

“Let them in,” Sakura interrupted. “I have to speak with them.” The guard bowed to her and closed the door behind him.

Syaoran… 

 

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Author's Notes:

`Ello! Huh. Author's notes at the bottom… Never really did that before… Eh, well, first time for everything, I guess!

Ok… Just a couple things I ought to mention:

I shall be referring to Mokona as “she.” I am well aware that Mokona (both black and white varieties) are genderless, but I find that it is much easier for me to pick a gender and stick with it. “It” just seems cruel, seeing as Mokona doesn't really seem much like a thing, despite Kurogane constantly referring to her as “white manju” (that's “white meat bun” for those of you who don't know).

Also, I will not be listing any pairings prior to their appearance. I feel that it would be too much of a spoiler to list them beforehand, plus the whole pairing ordeal is just going to be too complex to think about before I actually get to them in the plot. So, you'll just have to wait and find out! To tell the truth, I don't even know where this story is going to go. I mean, I have a general idea, but who knows? It might take a completely different turn than what I have in mind right now.

And on the subject of honorifics and titles…

When this chapter was first written, I had decided to forgo the usual Japanese honorifics and simply provide the English equivalents, and they are easier to follow in many cases, and I find them easier to write. However, I feel that something was lost in ignoring those honorifics, so I added them to this chapter, and they shall be present in this story from now on.

Siahae, fair readers! Please review for me!

… Siahae means “farewell,” by the way. Anyway, until the next chapter!