Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ White Shadows and Black Reflections ❯ Böses Erwachen ( Chapter 9 )

Authors note:

 

Hi everybody!

 

In case you haven't noticed by now, this is going to be a rather long story. Right now, I'm focusing mainly on Farfarello and Jules, fleshing out their background and history. Necessary, I'm afraid, because those two are going to be the key to Pandora's Box for Schwarz. Still, I hope to be done with that in a chapter or two, so I can focus more on Brad and Schuldig. I have some wicked things planned for them…

 

The story as such hasn't progressed much yet, but still, I'd love to have your opinion so far: Any scene/idea you especially liked? Anything you find intriguing? Your impression of the characters? Theories you'd like to share? Everything is welcome!

 

 

 

As Farfarello had anticipated, he didn't have to wait long for the next encounter.

 

It turned out to be a pretty frustrating one.

 

The beginning was harmless enough. Somewhere in the woods, not to far away, someone was playing pan-pipes. The melody danced through the woods and the under-brush, lively and sharp.

 

Hell, I know this one. Shaun's mom used to sing that when she made us blackberry crumble for tea. She used to tell us that it was her favourite song because it spoke of love and defiance and of promises kept...she said it pulled right at her heart-strings…

 

I haven't …remembered that…in a very, very long time.

 

The melody seemed to swirl around him, envelop him and he briefly closed his eyes as he hummed along with it. He couldn't help himself. Even though it made other memories claw painfully at his guts, threatening to break through, he had to whisper along with the tune. He owed them that much.

 

“…step it out Mary, my fine daughter…step it out Mary, if you can….” he intoned in a low, rough voice. Kind of hard to believe that he had once sung in a choir.

 

Of course the vision didn't stick only with the pan-pipes. As he continued down the path, singing softly, he sensed a movement behind his back. Battle instincts took over and he swirled around.

 

Nothing.

 

Damn. Moves just as fast as I do.

 

A few heartbeats later, another movement, somewhere to his right. His sai flashed in his hand as he turned wildly, but there was nobody there.

 

What the…?

 

 

Then the music stopped and there was a rustle in a bush to his left. He lunged, but his pursuer was gone again.

 

Soft clip-clopping sounds echoed on the path right behind him and somebody snickered. He spun around.

 

Again, nothing.

 

Fuck this!

 

Patiently stalking a victim was one thing. Being stalked himself made his hair stand on end and sent his instincts screaming for the interloper's blood. His experience impatiently added that anybody dancing rings around him was bad news and would he please put an end to this silly game already? Unfortunately, like everything in this vision, aforementioned interloper wasn't cooperating.

 

If he didn't get lucky, this could go on for hours.

 

He was pretty winded by the time he finally caught a glimpse of brown from the corner of his eye. Happily he pounced, sure of his victory, only to feel something solidly punching him in the back. He found himself flat on the ground, his nose digging into the dirt.

 

Ouch. Kicked me like a mule.

 

And there were animal tracks right in front of him. Tracks that hadn't been there mere seconds before.

 

…or a goat rather. Damnation.

 

He swiftly jumped back to his feet again and crouched, ready for another attack.

 

To his disgust the forest around him now remained quiet, save for a soft breeze whispering through the leaves overhead. No more rustling in the under-brush. No attack. It seemed like the game of hide and seek was over.

 

He testily noted that he had lost his weapon during the assault and that it was nowhere to be seen. With a snarl and a shrug, he called out to it with his mind, confident that it would answer his summons.

 

It didn't.

 

Instead there was a soft *plop* and he found himself holding….a tin-whistle. A shiny, brand-new, fuck-the-stupid-pan-pipes tin-whistle.

 

Bloody heck. This is not my day.

 

Growling with barely contained anger he stared at it. Having his weapon replaced with a musical instrument was definitely an all-time low. He'd be buggered if he couldn't turn this to his advantage.

 

Cursing, he focused on the instruments' shiny surface and thought of the girl, hard. He was rewarded by images appearing in the metallic surface of his newest acquirement. Flames. Some kind of fight. Screams and gunfire. The girl, a blade in each had, one short, one long, both of them glinting in the fire-light as she stabbed, slashed and parried while darting past her opponents. The images sent battle-rage thrumming through his veins and he knew from her expression that she was held in thrall by the same ecstasy.

 

Yeah. I figured you for a fighter.

 

The vision ended and after a brief moment of contemplation, he slipped the tin-whistle into his belt and started walking again. The wood grew lighter and he could see that the path was coming to the edge of the forest.

 

Just as he stepped out of the trees, two ravens swooped down form the verdant canopy above, cawing. They flew right past him and in their wake, unbidden and unstoppable, came a veritable flood of long-forgotten thoughts and memories.

 

Oh, fucking bloody hell.

 

He was instantly caught up in bits and pieces of his past, each and every one of them clamouring for attention to the exclusion of all else.

 

They stopped him dead in his tracks.

 

He tried to fight it, to think of something else, to find focus in his rage and frustration but he couldn't help it. Not this time. These were intense memories which he had denied himself for too long, memories which he had buried in the screaming, bloodied presence of Rosenkreuz and his victims, and now they were back with a vengeance.

 

First came the taste of cherries in his mouth, sweet and sour and rich.

 

In summer we used to go on picnics to the country-side. Mostly on Sundays after church. And for the occasion Mum baked the best muffins I've ever tasted. Sis' loved the chocolate ones…but I liked Mum's cherry muffins best.

 

A warm weight seemed to settle in his arms as he remembered the day he had held his sister for the first time. He had been only three or so and yet his mother had allowed him to hold the newborn infant. His sister had been so tiny then, and she had smelled like milk and apple blossoms. Her cheeks were a rosy pink and she didn't have any teeth, but still she had the sweetest smile….it warmed him inside, all the way down to his toes, and he caught himself smiling right back. He would do anything for her, anything at all. He'd love and protect her forever.

 

I swear.

 

But somehow his arms were empty, aching for her embrace as the doors of the asylum loudly slammed shut behind him. The echo of that ominous noise seemed to go on in his head forever and it made him grow cold all over. His hands grew sweaty and he shivered.

 

I have to remember her name. I have to.

 

Frantically, he sought some kind of temporary anchor, some kind of comfort, and he blindly groped for the thin-whistle. The smooth surface of the instrument was familiar to his touch as he lifted it to his lips and played a few notes. A bit of warmth returned, answering his call.

 

This is not the first tin-whistle I've had.

 

After a few moments, it was as easy as breathing. He slipped into a melody he'd heard on the radio a few days back. “All Soul's Night” or something. He had liked it because it sounded irish and the melody was nice and soothing. On some days he liked nice things.

 

It was Sister Ruth who gave me a tin-whistle for my 7th birthday. Best present anyone ever gave me. And she enjoyed teaching me how to play so much that it felt like sunshine and cherries to me.

 

Once I got the hang of it, I also used to play for Shaun…and his mom….

 

They moved to the neighbourhood when I was 8 or so…

 

He lowered the instrument and clenched his hands into fists. Somehow, with the melody gone, the cold managed to creep back in, and his throat grew tight.

 

Screw it. Isn't there one fucking memory in my mind that isn't tainted with loss and regret?

 

Before…before it all happened we spent lots of time together, Shaun and me and my sis'.

 

He balked at the oncoming memories, but somewhere, he could hear a raven calling, and the past just kept coming at him. The tin-whistle fell to the ground with a clatter.

 

Shaun and him had gone to the same school, had been in the same class and had played together in the narrow back-alleys of their neighbourhood. When time and his parents permitted, which was rare, they had gone to fairs and markets with his sis' in tow. Once, Shaun's mom had even taken them pony-riding. His first and only time on horse-back ever.

 

I can still hear Sis' laughing and hollering as her pony fell into a trot. I remember how Shaun and I looked and grinned at each other at her antics.

 

And then Da' found out that Shaun was illegitimate…the son of a run-away priest who at some point returned to the forgiving arms of the Roman-Catholic Church, leaving his knocked-up girlfriend behind. Of course everybody said it was her fault, for leading the oh-so-poor priest astray.

 

 

(His voice had been so cold.)

 

(“That damn hussy and her devil-spawn will rot in hell. They'll suffer the fires of Satan, as is their due….And if you and your sister don't take care, so will you!”)

 

Everything went rapidly downhill from then on.

 

He could feel the subtle malice suddenly clinging to people, reeking like sour piss and rotten meat. Snide remarks and cold silences, hidden shoves and petty acts of bigotry…all of it directed at Shaun and his mom. The wrongness of it all burned away at him like acid.

 

Shaun was stubborn and tough for a 10 year old and he put on a brave face when things got bad, but Jei could hear him screaming and sobbing and pleading underneath, and that ate at him in the worst ways imaginable.

 

Determined to make things right again, he stood up for his friend where he could, even doing the unthinkable and getting himself into fights, but it just wasn't enough. For every idiot whose nose he bloodied there were two more to take his place. And against the grown-ups he could do nothing at all.

 

His best efforts were completely stymied once his father had heard about the fights. He forbade Jei any contact with Shaun and his mom, and he rigidly enforced that command. For the first time in his life, Jei found that he hated and feared his father.

 

Cornered, distressed and confused, he had turned to his one sure source of help and comfort. Hadn't Sister Ruth always taught him that God would protect the good and the righteous?

 

He distinctly remembered the day he had knelt on the cold stone floor in front of the altar, desperately praying for help to the Lord Almighty. And God had answered his prayers.

 

The sky had been grey and overcast. A cold, drizzling rain blew straight in his face, chafing his skin and the wind was ripping the old brown-and-yellow leaves right from the trees.

 

They pulled Shaun out of the river that day.

 

Naked, battered, bruised….and dead.

 

God had forsaken him.

 

His eyes were so flat…like those of the sinners suffering in hell…like in the fresco at church….and my mum just pulled me away….”Don't look!”…..don't look….

 

But I wanted to look…needed to look….

 

As if answering him, the kaleidoscope of his memories flicked and he saw.

 

The briefing room, a few months ago. Folders scattered on the table. Pictures of a red-haired young man, beautiful, shy smile….a girl, black hair twisted into braids, so sweet….like his sister….Schuldig flippantly admitting that he had botched the killing…Crawford's brief, chilly acknowledgement …..

 

We are going to kill that boy and the girl…sooner or later….

 

He remembered his own family, dead, lying in their blood, murdered.

It had been burglars, hadn't it?

 

But there was blood on his hands….

 

Couldn't keep you safe….broke my promise….

 

A brother and his sister….my sister…his sister…..what does that make me?

 

What does that make ME?

 

Why was it all so clear now?

 

His father's incomprehension in the face of death. The sightless gaze of his mother as blood pooled around her body. The confusion and pain in his sisters' face as he slipped his knife into her heart.

 

Come back to me….I didn't mean to…..please…just….

 

He could hear a small, keening sound escaping his lips and his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

 

I'd do anything, if just…

 

There was salt on his lips. Was he crying? Or was he bleeding?

 

It hurt, hurt so bad, and yet he was still here, still remembering, still knowing. He burned with it, but it didn't tear him apart, it didn't end like it always had, and he could feel tears seeping out from under his eye-patch because when he was 12 he hadn't cut out enough to stop the tears and now they were mingling with the tears that poured from his good eye and it HURT, but he was still here, he couldn't make it stop….

 

Everything went blank as the cawing of two ravens faded into the distance.

 

_________________________________________________________________ __

 

 

P.S.: I'd like to say “muchas gracias” to my reviewers on ffnet and mediaminer:

 

- Forgotten Sunrise

 

- Bombayoni,

 

- gonyos

 

- and Mandalorian.

 

Hearing from you was fantastic and it definitely made my day, each and every time. Thanks!!!

 

 

P.P.S.: Can anybody guess which deities I'm referring to in this story?