Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction / Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Monozuki ❯ Tsuzuki and Angus Castus ( Chapter 16 )

Monozuki - An Idle Curiosity

A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover.

 

By Lisa

 

Monozuki 16: Tsuzuki and Agnus Castus

 

 

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Author's Note: A little rough, a little raw…. and a heck of a lot later than I'd planned it to be… With many thanks to Literary Eagle, Gay, and Kelly for beta reading.

 

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`Soka-chan must be in a lot of pain.

 

A truism, but oddly enough, one that carried a measure of comfort within it, because hard on its heels came a second part that the first could not exist without:

 

Hisoka is strong.

 

There was no point in trying to explain it; Tsuzuki had realized that a long time ago. His partner was strong, and that was that. And, much though the older Shinigami wished that there were some way to stop the pain wracking the small body, it didn't really matter.

 

Because Hisoka was strong.

 

He repeated the litany one more time, willing his ears to block out the angry hiss of his beloved's voice, coming from somewhere above and behind, most likely on the stairs that lead up into the depths of the building. `Soka-chan wouldn't thank him if he was stupid, and allowed himself to be distracted, no matter how much he might whine and offer excuses later. Just now, Tsuzuki had a curse to contend with, and that meant not thinking about how odd it was that the four youngest of the combined teams were the ones the most damaged by events, or how sooner or later one of them would end up offended over it. That was a problem for later.

 

Truthfully, it would have been a blessing to be able to utilize Kyo's unique awareness. The four of them were a good combination on missions precisely because their abilities complimented, and Kyo's nearly symbiotic relationship with four of the Elements was especially useful in situations like this. He could see and sense things that Tsuzuki could only guess at. But to take advantage of him required the giving of trust, and sadly, that was the one thing that the senior Shinigami could not do. His own partner might scowl and offer terse complaint that the Commander of the Divine Twelve was `too damned willing to take the word of anybody - even a General of Hell,' but honestly, Tsuzuki wasn't a complete idiot. There were some chances that were meant to be taken, and then there were those that amounted to suicide, and he'd moved past the urge to do that. Shaking his head a little, he peeled off first his black coat, then the suit jacket underneath, and tossed them carelessly half onto a chair that had been pushed far to one side, away from the battered kitchen table and its burden. With his tie at half mast, all there remained to do was to roll up his wrinkled white shirt sleeves a turn or two, and then he was as ready as he was ever going to be.

 

Tsuzuki took a deep breath, and reached for the bag he'd abandoned on the kitchen counter. Whatever the case, the frozen curse wasn't going to wait all day for him to get his act together.

 

“Is that one of Tatsumi's economical, one-size-fits-most kits?”

 

The low, sarcastic murmur from Takashi brought a momentary lift to the corners of the taller man's mouth. “Aa.” he replied cheerfully. “The latest model, in fact.”

 

Takashi snorted derisively, adding too softly for the remaining Weiss to hear, “I'm still trying to get over the idea of disposable packaging, myself.”

 

The man had a point, Tsuzuki had to concede as he snickered and fought to keep a suitably solemn face. Who would have thought that the ever-practical Secretary, in his quest for cheaper methods would end up borrowing the mortal concept of a ready-to-use bio-hazard kit? But he had. And now the Shokan stocked easy-to-open plastic bags filled with latex gloves, a disposable smock, plastic goggles - and neatly calligraphed ofuda and generic protective amulets - all ready and waiting to for a field operative to use when cleaning up nasty spills of magic. The requisite paperwork, together with a cheap pen, was even included, in an effort to eliminate the excuses of agents like Tsuzuki himself, who had raised avoiding reports to an art form.

 

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Tsuzuki would have been rolling on the floor, howling with laughter. As it was, the corners of his eyes crinkled, giving him a look that was almost as fractured as one of Kyo's wide grins.

 

Takashi shuddered, theatrically.

 

A low growl reminded the two Shinigami that they did still have an audience, and one that neither understood the gravity of the swirling miasma centered in their kitchen, nor the value of a little humor as a method of keeping from running away, screaming hysterically. The taller blond of the remaining Weiss, `Kudoh' as Tsuzuki recalled, had been the source of the noise, staring with thin-lipped displeasure, but it was the fury in the red haired one's glare that was really frightening. Tsuzuki shot a quick glance at his own colleague, impressed that not only had Takashi kept his temper while dealing with the other redhead's idea of `helping,' but that he'd come out of a scuffle with the mortal with neither of them seriously injured. With Kyo acting as oddly as he had been, it was nothing short of miraculous that the elder of that pair hadn't snapped, too. Violet eyes narrowing thoughtfully, Tsuzuki spread out the selection of ofuda that Tatsumi had provided on the white tiled counter, but it was not Sanskrit and rice paper that he was seeing, rather it was a memory of two of his dearest friends, broken and dying the Final Death, as Enma granted them salvation under his personal seal. It was not something that he ever wanted to witness again.

 

“Asato. You're procrastinating.” Takashi said severely from behind his shoulder.

 

“Eh…” Sheepishly, the taller brunet scrubbed at the back of his neck and tried on a repentant grin, like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. Folding his arms over his chest, his friend gave him a stony, unforgiving glare.

 

“Today, Asato. I'd like to have my appetite back by dinner time, if you don't mind.”

 

Ouch. At the mention of food, it abruptly became impossible to ignore the stench of corroding iron and corruption, mingling with the sweetness of flowers. It was every bit as stomach-churning as the fouled magic knotted into a web over air and table. The choked gagging from Kudoh made it clear that he was just as affected by the suggestion, and hastily, Tsuzuki snatched up an ofuda for a low-level kekkai, snapping the shield into place around the table. While far from strong enough to contain the malevolence of the curse, it would at least ensure breathable air.

 

The only problem was that there was really nothing else usable in the selection of spells within the kit, and he said as much, apologetically, “Takashi-sensei? We'll need something a bit more powerful, I'm afraid. Could you possible anchor the containment field while I see to it?”

 

“Yes. Of course.” replied the former doctor, moving carefully into place across at the far side of the table. His hands settled gracefully into the mudra: two fingers pointing upward, with the palm of his other hand to serve as a capstone. With a quiet sigh, Tsuzuki released the kekkai into his control and scratched at his forehead.

 

The obvious thing to do would be to create a more permanent seal than the temporary stasis that Kyo had placed on the curse. Yet, the best source of the power to craft a seal was his own blood, and with Muraki involved, that didn't seem wise at all. The insane doctor would be counting on anyone trying to disarm the spell taking the easy way out. And if there was one thing the Shinigami had learned through their encounters with the man, it was that simple and direct were usually steps on the path to Hell. But that left actually dismantling the horror as the only viable choice, and his skin crawled at the thought of it.

 

“I thought you were in a Hell of a hurry, Mr. Expert.” The slow, insulting drawl snapped Tsuzuki's attention back to the pair of mortals waiting impatiently to one side. Kudoh was leaning against the edge of the counter just to one side of the sink, masking his impatience and discomfort behind a leer and ever-present sunglasses. To one side, standing in front of the brushed steel of the refrigerator, the one with eyes that were unnervingly like - yet unlike - Tsuzuki's own stared back with hostile suspicion.

 

Having them there like that was not making things any easier.

 

“You have to leave.” The older Shinigami said simply.

 

“Excuse me?” Shocked out of his negligent pose, the blond Hunter stared. Tsuzuki fought off the urge to sigh again. His companions sometimes teased that he was too old-fashioned, in both the Japanese dialect he spoke, and the occasionally excessive politeness, but really, good manners made the world easier to get along with, and if there was one thing he abhorred, it was quarrelling. It always made him feel as if it were his fault - for not being good enough, or clever enough. For not being human enough to be what the people around him demanded. Yet at the same time, there was no way that he would be able to do his job with the tensed, angry suspicion hanging in the air like a second curse. Tsuzuki eyed the two men, noting not only their anticipation of a fight - weight balanced on the balls of the feet, muscles coiled and ready - but the slightly too great distance between them. He had no particular training in combat arts, but he had worked in tandem with another for more than seventy years as a Shinigami; he understood how teammates bolstered one another's strengths, and covered for weaknesses. Yet, the mortal Hunters were not unified. Until fortune had brought Hisoka to him, Tsuzuki had been the same way - working beside, but never really with his partners. He could recognize it when he saw it in others.

 

And he wasn't about to trust the safety of any of them - his own team, or theirs - to the chance that they would manage to function when the chips were down.

 

But much to the tall brunet's surprise, it was Takashi who spoke up swiftly. “Asato, you can't make them leave - it's their home.”

 

“But this will be difficult enough as it is.” he protested automatically. “It would be like Muraki to create something subtle, but lethal, merging symbols that have the power of belief behind them, with the miasma of death from the sacrificed cat. I'll have to use something like the kuji to take this apart safely.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Kudoh again, interrupting with a fierceness that spoke of having reached the end of his metaphorical leash. Takashi glanced his way, answering with equal intensity, but so low that the blond Hunter was forced to shut up to hear the reply.

 

“The kuji is a spell of Taoist, not Buddhist origin, which at some time was adopted by the Shugendo, and assigned its nine mudras. It creates a gate, through which energy can pass, but evil cannot. It's dangerous.”

 

“Ah…” The playboy blinked. Gates? Energy? Spells?! If the cause of the incredulity chasing across the man's face hadn't been so potentially lethal, Tsuzuki would have laughed. Even so, smiling faintly, he decided to take pity on the baffled looks shooting his way.

 

“What was done here, this curse, is built using a system of magic based on homonyms - that words which sound the same can have radically different meaning. Originally Chinese, this kind of spell structure was already in use in the Heian period, more than a thousand years ago, here in Japan. The onmyouji - Yin Yang sorcerers - formalized a great deal of it.” Tsuzuki gestured vaguely at the table with its gruesome burden, safe within the kekkai that his partner was anchoring. “The curse is built around patterns of four, because the word for `four' - shi - is the same as the word for `death.' The text is written four times, there are four lilies signifying hatred, four clusters of orange blossoms for deceit, and unless I am mistaken, the cat was slain using four strokes. That there are also four of you is an unfortunate coincidence. I think we will also need to perform a cleansing for tsumi - for the pollution of death and blood - so that you will all be less attractive to the animosity summoned by this curse.”

 

When the Shinigami paused for breath, he was surprised that it was the red haired swordsman who said slowly, “We are familiar with the meanings of the flowers, and I know the rituals for tsumi. But I fail to see the point. If the purpose of this thing was to kill us, there would be no need for such an elaborate play. Why toy with us when there are more efficient ways to destroy us?”

 

Smile fading utterly away, Tsuzuki met his gaze, sorrowful violet against violet. “Revenge, Fujimiya-san. Muraki-sensei is seeking revenge.”

 

“What the fuck- ?!” Kudoh exploded. “He's out for revenge? We've never even met the man. What- ”

 

Snapping up, Fujimiya Aya's arm became a bar of iron, catching the taller man at chest height, and effectively stopping his angry advance. But his hard stare never wavered from Tsuzuki's as he hissed, “Yohji. Enough. There has to be a reason- ” and here his attention sharpened, becoming as razor edged as his katana as he addressed the rest of his words to the wary Shinigami, “ -and you will tell us what it is.”

 

Takashi sighed. “This is not the best time to be discussing this, but yes, we do think that there's a reason Muraki is interested in your team.”

 

The response was obviously inadequate as chill fury narrowed the long eyes that would be better used illuminating a face that was nearly as beautiful as a Shinigami's. And more stubborn. Sending a warning glance Takashi's way and abandoning the paraphernalia that littered the white counter, Tsuzuki ambled over, only stopping when he was close enough to force the swordsman to tilt his head back slightly. “You killed a man in Kyoto recently.”

 

“Yes.” Fujimiya's arm tensed, holding back his partner's instinctive jerk of protest at the admission. Tsuzuki ignored the blond.

 

“This man, he was very well connected. Very influential.”

 

“Yes.” repeated the slim kenkaku, his tone flat. “We were given the mission because he was influential. Too influential. He was tied to an extortion and blackmail ring run by Kansai area yakuza.”

 

“Perhaps. I won't debate with you as to whether or not your information was accurate.” Tsuzuki paused, recalling the horror that he had felt, himself, when the report had landed on his desk, and also the sharp curse from Hisoka when he'd told his young partner. No, the circumstances really were not important - only the result. “I will not argue with you. Not when the important thing is that this man that you executed was the lover of a powerful, and very, very insane practitioner of Dark Magic. And that is why Muraki will not be satisfied with merely killing you. He wishes that you suffer.”

 

The honest bewilderment on the features of both young mortals made Tsuzuki feel terribly old, and more than a little jaded. To them, Mibu Oriya had been merely a Dark Beast, legitimate prey. They had never met the man, never seen the depths of his honor, nor that of the doomed feelings he had harbored for the madman, Muraki. But Tsuzuki had, and so had Hisoka. And to the two Shinigami, it had bordered on an obscenity that a man whom they had genuinely liked, in spite of his relationship with their nemesis, had been slaughtered.

 

And `slaughter' was the correct word, as well. It had not been a clean death. Tsuzuki hadn't seen the actual crime scene; that had been cleaned up hours before the Shokan had gotten wind of the case from the human investigators of the Kyoto police; but he'd seen the photos, both of the destruction at the Ko Kaku Rou, and of the inn's master. Oriya had fought very hard indeed, against someone who had been even better with the blade than such a skilled swordsman. It had been Hisoka, staring at a reconstruction of the running battle based on blood splatters and the gouges hacked in the restaurant's walls, who had pronounced that the murder bore a disturbing resemblance to a similar case in Tokyo…. Which had led the Shinigami finally to Weiss' sword-master, Fujimiya Aya.

 

Who felt nothing for the life that he had snuffed out, extinguishing its flame in the Hall of Candles.

 

Tsuzuki shook his head sadly. Truly, in some ways the handsome redhead was more of a Shinigami than he was.

 

The man in question startled Tsuzuki back into an awareness of his surroundings by taking a slow step toward the table, reaching out one deceptively slim hand, fingers fanned to grope for something that couldn't be seen. Moving with supernatural haste, the flustered Shokan agent interjected himself between mortal and sure death, yelping, “What do you think you're doing?” The cold violet gaze snapped up to meet his, becoming even more glacial - if that was possible - as they assessed him.

 

“There's more that you aren't telling us.” the flat voice accused. “If you won't, I'll find it out for myself.”

 

“But it's dangerous!” The automatic protest had hardly passed Tsuzuki's lips before his opponent had stepped neatly around him, dismissing Enma's master of the Divine Twelve as if he were nothing more than a… a bus-boy in Tsuzuki's favorite Earthly restaurant. It was galling, and also a little disconcerting that Fujimiya had accomplished it so easily.

 

“Why target all of us, if I'm the guilty one?” The sharp demand was tossed over the sweater-clad shoulder. His hand hovered entirely too near to the feeble containment in a blatant threat that if he didn't get an acceptable explanation, he would take that final step. Never mind that the assassin would be its first victim; an answer would be forthcoming, or there would be consequences. Takashi sighed his exasperation and replied before the elder brunet could.

 

“Asato told you; revenge is sweeter than simply balancing the books would be. Muraki-sensei wants to hurt you more than he was hurt.”

 

“Incorrect.” The swift negation was accompanied by another of the swordsman's time-freezing glares. “I don't `love' any of my co-workers. Weiss represents nothing more than a business arrangement. If he truly wished me to suffer, my real weakness is my sister. Yet when I called her guardian a little while ago from the basement, there had been no attempt to tamper with her. I repeat, `why target all of us?' ”

 

Aya's blunt denial of the importance of his companions was just plain wrong. Tsuzuki's mouth opened to say exactly that, until common sense caught up to his run-away urge to meddle; the imaginary Hisoka shouting `Baka!' in the back of the Shinigami's mind was a powerful deterrent when nothing else worked. It was true that this Fujimiya was harsh and unforgiving, much like Hisoka. Yet the coldness in them was two very different things, in Tsuzuki's opinion. The mortal redhead's was a kind of cold that froze everything around him - something that was willing to cut down any opposition - while the Shinigami's was just a shell to protect the child inside.

 

Hisoka's ice was thin, and brittle; easy to break. This Aya… it was almost to the core.

 

Gently, Tsuzuki opted for diplomacy, saying, “I don't know. But wouldn't you agree that it would be wisest to discuss the matter when there is less risk of all of us ending up splattered across the metaphoric landscape? It will be hard to do anything about the situation if it kills you first.”

 

Thankfully, logic prevailed where shouting would have failed. Grudgingly, the wine-dark head inclined in agreement, and he withdrew to again lean against the counter near - but not too near - the baffled blond. Too smart to think that the swordsman had actually given in - Enma forbid he be that sensible - Tsuzuki gave Fujimiya a small, grateful bow. The other Hunter, Kudoh, smirked at the unintentional sarcasm behind the gesture. Really, did no one take Tsuzuki at face value?

 

But whether they did, or not, made no difference to the fact that there was still a malignant curse waiting to be defused, and - Tsuzuki's stomach rumbled alarmingly - no way that he was going to be able to eat until the stench was cleaned up. The pancakes made by the smaller child-assassin had been a long, long time ago. But an even bigger incentive was his own partner practically radiating exasperation through the intervening floor.

 

“Hai, hai…” he sighed. “I'm getting to it.” Tsuzuki shot a quick glance at Takashi, noting his continued readiness, and exchanged a tiny nod with him. A slow breath out, and the eerie, orchid colored eyes rolled back into his head as the Shinigami slipped easily into the light trance necessary. Trapped within his eyelids, an unseen landscape of flickering energies unfurled: cool silver, and the sunlit warmth of gold, black-streaked reds… mortal, and immortal.

 

Just, and profane.

 

Against his inward vision, trails of fireflies flickered, lingering in four dimensions in the arcane patterns that could not be replicated in the mere two of paper and ink. They followed each graceful swoop and twist of undead hands as Tsuzuki built the nine mudra, slowly chanting “Rin-byou-toh-sha-kai-jin-retsu-zai-ZEN!” On the final syllable, two stiffly outstretched fingers swiftly made the shape of the Gate, four vertical slashes, and five horizontal. His voice rose to counter the roar made as displaced air rushed through the spatial distortion, dragging the leading edge of the swirling miasma with it.

 

Somewhere, on the edge of his awareness, Tsuzuki felt the… wobbling… of reality, like a spinning top that lacked sufficient momentum. Sparks were no longer hovering in space, but falling, like shooting stars trapped within the well of the astral plane's Earth. But whereas a real meteorite would be consumed by its journey into the atmosphere, these strengthened and grew brighter. The farther away Tsuzuki got, the hotter they burned.

 

Contradictions.

 

Realization slammed the older Shinigami between the eyes; the trigger for Muraki's trap wasn't touching the dead cat, at all. It lay in not touching, in trying to disarm the puzzle from a safe distance. Pulling back was like over-stretching a rubber band - the longer it got, the greater the danger that it would snap, and the worse it would sting when it did.

 

He had to close the Gate, and now. Before the spell reached its breaking point. Frantic, clutching at the energy spinning past into the vortex, Tsuzuki grunted, “Ah-un!” the first and last syllables of the Sanskrit alphabet, encompassing all of the universe between them, and theoretically capable of shutting the damned barn door before everything escaped--

 

Too late… his subconscious whispered, feeling the burst of despair an instant before it hit.

 

A blinding flash and Takashi's outraged cry of pain had the tall brunet wrapping his arms protectively around his head, hunching away from the flaming table. It was all the warning that the other Shinigami had that the spell packed a final sucker-punch; the kitchen filling rapidly with noxious, magic-laden fumes. The barrier that the sensei had been anchoring was gone, its splintering backlash having slammed the man into the corner of the brushed steel stove. The thick smoke was inconvenient for a Guardian - not fatal. But to a fragile human, it was without a doubt lethal, and" Tsuzuki groaned out loud. Humans. Enma be merciful, he had against better judgement allowed two of them to remain as observers.

 

He had again killed the ones he wanted to protect.

 

“Namu amida butsu!” The shouted invocation of Buddha's protection wrenched Tsuzuki from his self-recriminatory haze, and it startled him, but nowhere near as much as seeing the pale violet glow of a weak barrier flickering between the pair of mortals and the expanding miasma of the curse.

 

It was not coming from Takashi, still struggling to get his legs under him against the stove.

 

And it sure as Enma's Hell wasn't coming from Tsuzuki…

 

Who would have thought that Fujimiya followed the Pure Land sect - or that he had sufficient spiritual power to call upon that sanctuary in reality, and not merely in piety? The snarling redhead, arm outstretched less to defend than to out-and-out repulse, sprawled half across the lap of his blond co-worker, oblivious to the expression of shock on the man's face.

 

Wearily, Tsuzuki scrubbed both palms over his face, smearing the sooty residue and no doubt looking like a raccoon as a result, and groaned. Tatsumi was going to have a field day over the mess - and that would mean weeks of filling out forms and reports.

 

There were days when it simply didn't pay to get out of bed.

 

To be continued…

 

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(Weird observation - in the Side B manga, Ken calls Aya “Shinigami Aya” at one point. Hmm…)

 

Agnus Castus: Coldness, indifference, life without love.

 

Bibliography:

 

The Catalpa Bow: A Study of Shamanistic Practices in Japan - Carmen Blacker.

London : George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1975. ISBN 0-04-398006-6

This book is full of information about various magical practices, both historical and present day. Excellent resource! Warning, however, that the particular spells and applications of spells used here in Monozuki are the product of my own feverish imagination, and are not to be taken as exact.