Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ New Rules, New Ruler ❯ Chapter 25 ( Chapter 25 )

Part Twenty-Five

"Ye did this?" Farfarello demanded.

"Emotional openness is very important," Tash insisted, gesturing towards Aya and Yohji, who were murmuring sweet nothings to each other.

"They're assassins. Emotional openness will be t'e death o' `em! They kill for a living. How do ye imagine they feel?"

"Well, of course, I'm not encouraging that openness. Don't they deserve to be happy?"

"-"

Farfarello stared at her. Did she honestly believe? Yes, she honestly thought what she was doing was right. Farfarello felt an odd sort of pride at having the strongest grip on his sanity out of every one in the room. It was an extremely unusual feeling. No, the usually repressed inner voice hissed, they don't deserve to be happy. They have to ask God for forgiveness- Farfarello cut off the voice, but he recognised its point.

"Ye're coming wi' me," he told her gruffly.

"I don't want to," Tash told him blandly.

"Need ye te put Schuldig back together agen."

"No." There was an odd sound. Farfarello recognised it as silence. The Weiss boys and girls (i.e. Manx and Birman) were staring at him.

"Never forgive the bad ones," Omi growled.

"Hunt the tomorrow of the dark beasts," Manx muttered.

Farfarello stared around. "Ye've made them angry, ha'n't ye? Ye've filled them wi' hate."

"Pretty much. Don't worry, once you're dead they'll be happy again."

"I won't," Farfarello objected.

"True, but I don't really like you." Tash smiled. "Sic `im, boys" she murmured in English. Farfarello glowered at her. Aya raised his Katana, Yohji coiled his wire around his hands and pulled it taught, Ken's bugnuks slid out and Omi raised his crossbow to site down it.

Farfarello considered his options, grabbed Tash bodily and jumped through the shop's front window. She screamed and kicked but he kept running, pursued by Weiss. If Schuldig's life hadn't been at stake he'd have slaughtered the lot of them, but he knew time was running out. He out ran them quickly, and without Tash's emotional encouragement they were more than willing to give up. They had a lot to sort through, especially Aya and Yohji.

Farfarello slowed down. Tash was hanging over his shoulder, kicking his chest and punching his back. He barely registered it. Passers by stared at him in horror, but he barely registered them either. Now, Crawford's BMW wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, but there was a garage here, and along with two motorbikes there were two cars. After a brief moment's consideration, Farfarello hopped into the Porsche. If he drove it like he drove the BMW its `pure' white paint would soon be `dirty'.

Farfarello hotwired the car as a grizzled Irishman had once shown him how to do and dumped Tash in the passenger seat. She clawed at him and tried to push her way back out of the car, but Farfarello hit her with a car jack. She went limp. After checking he hadn't killed her, Farfarello climbed into the driver's seat and after a few tries managed to find first gear and hit the accelerator at the same time.

He realised the garage door was shut. Oh well.

* * *

Nagi was asleep, and dreaming of Omi. Crawford knew this because both Nagi and Schuldig were calling Omi's name from time to time. Crawford watched the fire and wished he could sleep as well, but he didn't want to dream of Schuldig any more. His loss kept echoing round and round in his head, replaying and repeating ever time Crawford stopped concentrating. He desperately wanted Tash to come, to put a stop to this.

He stared at Schuldig. No. Schuldig had died trying to kill Tash. As soon as Farfarello brought her here, he would shoot her, finish what Schuldig had begun. It was only right. He watched a tear land on Schuldig's face, and realised he was crying again. You'd think a man would run out of tears after a while, but he'd been sobbing silently on and off for more than six hours now. He hugged the inert body of his chest and rocked back and forth.

He was falling apart. He knew it. Nagi knew it. Farfarello knew it. Schwarz was supposed to have died when the Ancients did, but it survived. Now it was dying. It died with its members, and its members die with it. How could he have thought that it would have been better without Schuldig? He bowed his head and screwed his eyes up, trying to shut out the painful truth.

Not good with the truth, are you? A voice from the past hissed. Brad shot a fearful look towards the hidden bathroom door. Coming here had been a huge mistake. Can't cope with being a failure, a freak, not good enough. You weren't good enough for me when I was alive, and you weren't good enough to stop me from dying.

Shut up! Brad screamed within his own head. Father, shut up! I was a good son! I did well! I excelled, but I was never good enough for you. Ever. Bitterness swallowed him whole. Never good enough. Not for his father, not for SS, not for Schwarz. No matter how well he did, no matter how far he outstripped his peers, he wasn't good enough to keep bad things from happening to people he cared about. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not powerful enough…

"…Not smart enough. Not foresighted enough. Not caring enough. Not there enough…"

"Shh," Crawford murmured, cradling Schuldig's unresponsive body. "Shh," he said to himself. He was good enough. There were just some things you couldn't prevent no matter how hard you tried.

"I owe you a burial," he told the bathroom door. "Not something I relish doing now, I must admit." Carefully depositing Schuldig on the floor and checking the fire, he walked to the bathroom. Heaving the armoire out of the way he entered.

It was always cold up here, Brad remembered. That's why there was still flesh clinging to a ten year old body. That's why part of one eyeball still gleamed in an otherwise empty socket. That's why shreds of hair hung lankly over a dripping face. No, Crawford wasn't looking forward to this.

Steeling himself, he lifted the corpse from its decade long position. The head fell off. Crawford dropped the body and leant against the wall. His stomach rolled. He dealt with thousands of corpses since the day he saw his first, that is, this one, but none so old. Suddenly he wanted to quit. He didn't want to do this any more, this random killing, this lawless existence.

He stood up straight again and fetched a black plastic bag from the storeroom. Grimacing, he stuffed the corpse bit by bit into the bag. He hauled it out of the bathroom and through the front door. Liquid seeped out of a small tear in the bottom, leaving a noxious trail across the cabin floor and out into the woods.

Brad stared up the mountain. Well. It would be a good gesture. It would be fitting. It would be bloody hard work and he'd never really liked the man, for all that he was his father. Right. Brad fetched a shovel, wandered a short distance into the woods, and started digging. After about an hour he had a hole deep enough to serve as a grave.

He walked back to the cottage and collected the bag. Emptying it over the hole he wondered if he should say a few words. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he whispered. "I'm only burying you because I must," he spat. It took considerably less time to fill in the grave and he stamped the earth flat with an air of finality.

Taking out a penknife, given to him by the man now six feet below him, he carved into a tree: "Bradley Crawford, Senior. A demanding husband and dissatisfied father. May he rest in the peace he never gave those who tried to loved him." It was bitter and to the point. It was all he could do to not write `may he rest in pieces', but the dark humour was a little too morbid with a much dearer man to him lying inside. He shied away from the thought that soon enough he might have to do this for Schuldig.