Yu Yu Hakusho Fan Fiction / Rurouni Kenshin Fan Fiction ❯ Summoned ❯ Chapter 2

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Category: Anime, Rurouni Kenshin, Yu Yu Hakusho, AU, Yaoi
Warnings: violence
Pairings: will be SanosukexKenshin, KuramaxHiei
Author: Arigatomina
Email: arigatoumina@hotmail.com
Complete Archive: www.geocities.com/arigatomina

Summoned

Part 2

The flames leapt at him, striving to consume him as if starved for blood. Always fire, heat of blazing battle, destruction, murder and near mindless blood lust, they tasted kindred in his shape and craved to devour that strength. But it was in vain. The bloody flames never touched a strand of his same-colored hair, he wouldn't allow it. Glints of amber sparked at the heat, striking a simultaneous blow as his sword arched before him, one circle of speed that scattered the flames into nonexistence. His glaring gaze fell on a speck of ember that fell beyond the enclosing blocks, and he stared at it, immobile till the last spark of life burned itself out. Only then did he turn his gaze to the one who'd summoned him, the fool who'd carelessly summoned his own death. He didn't turn along with his eyes, staring to the side and through strands of blood-colored hair as he pinned the kneeling man. Sightless eyes were aimed on him, a wide smile greeting his presence with evil intentions oozing from it. And he greeted yet another who misunderstood, greeting the old man by slicing his black-haired head off so it rolled among the thrown bits of ash.

The screams were slow in coming, but he waited for them, not lifting his hot amber gaze until the first robed man gave a horrified cry. He answered it with a darting flick of his sword, leaving the deadened fire to dispatch his would-be masters. So much time had passed that he felt a drift of casual surprise at how easy it was. The sheep of his previous summonings had flown much quicker. But this herd had less unity. The figures ran, not as a group of comrades, but as individuals desperate only to save their own lives. The sight almost made him enjoy killing them.

The last man fell in a shower of blood that added to his damp clothing, joining the darker stains that had long since turned the faded magenta a lovely rose madder shade. His gaze dropped for a moment as he found himself standing over the headless man. He'd moved, yet he was again near to where he'd started. And it had lasted seconds. But he'd purposely allowed them seconds, time enough for a gasp of regret, a terrified scream, and a blazing painful death. All deserved. The dampness on his chest proved that, blood of the victim joining stains from the others. There had been many others since the days when men understood his purpose. So many innocents had died, and all because men like the one at his feet misunderstood. Lifting his left hand for the first time, he touched the blood on his chest, swiping the smooth skin beneath his open robe. And yet another victim added to the count. There was no point looking to the other side of the blackened fire.

A flashing swipe cleared the flecks of blood from his blade, and he stepped back into the circled pile of ash. Without the necessity of speed, he slowly sheathed his sword, fingers relaxing on the detailed hilt. And he heard a breath, soft, faint, but it split the silence of the darkened chamber, joined by a second, then a third. Had he not been deadened by the years, he might have allowed his disbelief. He'd never failed to kill in one blow, yet that whispered breathing continued until his eyes snapped open in slits of amber. Had he missed one? Had the years somehow tainted his skills? There would be no forgiveness if such were true, the faded stains of innocent victims wouldn't allow it. His gaze searched the shadows, multiple places of darkness seeming to have crept into existence along with that impossible breathing. The robed bodies were still, pooling as they drained, but still nonetheless. It was as he stared at the red creeping into the cracks of the wooden floor that he caught movement on his own form. The fresh blood on his chest was blooming, not the last bits leaving a corpse, but the slow drain of a dying man. And he turned, eyes flickering between amber and violet as he finally looked to the victim. It *was* a man, but a man large enough that hope tried to join his awakening disbelief. Such a man could very well have enough blood to summon him without immediate death. And the victim was the source of that breathing, the sound of which slowed even as he took the first step toward the sacrifice.

Thick brown hair covered the man's bowed head, a scarlet ribbon knotted in the back, held by the cloth gag so the tails fell down the middle of broad shoulders. The cuts tracing those shoulders seemed to gape despite the vague thickening of the blood, and his hands hovered over them. It was true, then, no matter the mistake. After dozens of innocent deaths, he'd been truly summoned once again. His eyes flickered once more before settling into cool violet as his fingers brushed a bit of mahogany hair, palms pushing the man's head back. Youth whispered at the edges of the man's pale face, displaced by the imminent death that was soon to be averted. The man was young, but not so young as the last who'd honestly called him, the girl-child who'd set him on a rampage for revenge, summoning him with the death of her most beloved kin. And this one had done the same, but without sacrifice. It was unheard of, but he couldn't deny the lack of evil in the man. If it had been there, he wouldn't have been summoned. Only pure blood could summon him, and this man had done so with his own. What would the man ask of him? Clearly he hadn't willingly summoned him, the bindings proved that.

His face eased slowly, eyes calming from their narrow glare as he pressed his right palm against the man's cool forehead. And his wonderings were replaced with dull throbbing pain as the wounds transferred to him. Pain was alien to him, but he recognized it as his legs tried to falter suddenly, the man seeming to shift in front of him. It was his own vision that wavered and he stiffened his knees, eyes narrowing in concentration as he felt himself growing weak. Could he die if he lost as much blood as this man had? Surely not. He existed to deliver evil to death, surely he couldn't join them. But his heart pounded in his ears, dampness spreading and trailing down until he could feel it seeping into his pants. Gasping, he fought to maintain his balance, nearly reeling back so he gripped the fingers of his right hand in that thick brown hair to keep his palm in contact with the man's forehead. Was death meant for him, after all? There was movement beneath his hand, and his wide eyes met dazed brown ones before he lost the battle. He hit his knees, vaguely aware of a muffled sound above him before he pitched backwards, eager blackness oozing into his mind and consuming all thought.

* * *

Wisps curled around him, lapping his crouching form, warming his face as the black flame swallowed all hints of red in that previously cool fire. He might have bathed in the heat had the breath of cooler blaze not reached him, out of place. His lips curved into a slight frown and he opened his eyes, staring at the last hints of orange as they were swallowed by his burgeoning youki. What sort of fire was that? Sounds assaulted his ears, not the expected sound of flight, desperate cries as he was recognized. There was no fright in the quick voice he heard, and his red eyes widened as he felt the air, so stale around him, as if he were enclosed somehow. That voice grew louder and his teeth clenched in anger, eyes snapping to the side to glare at the excited male. The language was wrong, but it was the laugh that hit him, fury rising in a blaze of ebony fire. Had this one summoned him? This fool who dared to laugh and gabber in that foreign tongue? The male didn't even have a youki he could detect. Insult at the man's excitement was overcome by sudden disgust, and he rose slowly, a twitch pulling his left eyebrow down. He'd been called to kill someone *this* weak? If that were the case, there was no need for power, his youki easing until it cooled, his long black cloak settling over him. His eyes flicked down to the last bit of that wrong-colored flame, and he felt a prickle along his neck, the displacement finally making itself known. This was wrong. He had no need to look; this was no battlefield he'd arrived on, and the welcoming scent of blood permeating the room came mostly from him.

He'd spent so long in stasis that he barely understood how difficult it was to lift his hand, and his arm shook when he felt dampness covering the front of his cloak, winter rose seeping into the bandages on his right hand. Why? It was unthinkable that he might have sustained injury enough to explain the blood, and his eyes narrowed suddenly, finally placing the catch in his breathing. Fear was an old acquaintance of his, but he rejected it in an instant, a spark of green throwing his hair back as his namesake opened. And with that third view overlaying his sight, he saw what he'd missed before. No youki had summoned him to this stale enclosure, and how the spell of his calling had managed to fall into ningen hands was not nearly so important as repaying them for their folly. That he'd somehow been drawn into the wrong world didn't matter either. Few humans had slipped into the Makai during his distant youth, but he'd seen their form before, enough that he should have known immediately. Though, these men, hooded shapes that had moved closer to the excited man, were much weaker than the ones he'd seen. To kill them would be equal to slaughtering children. For the first time since his liberating imprisonment, he didn't know what was expected of him. Then that loud man stepped into his circle with such careless impudence that his eyes flashed and he held his sword without thought.

Blue eyes danced over him, and his hand tightened on the hilt of his katana as he stared with growing disbelief. The ningen thought he was his to command? The words uncurled in his mind, meaning swimming forth to widen his eyes. Magic, a sacrifice, and he their God, their demon to control and send out into the world. Youkai he was, but subject to no ningen. No one so weak could have called him forth, yet he could see the shadow surrounding the man, breath of evil, death, blood of future victims staining the ningen's aura. Whatever power the male had, he recognized the evil. And that was enough cause, even if he hadn't felt the need to repay his continued sense of displacement. A flick of his wrist and those blue eyes seeped, wetting the sharp edge of his blade. And a scream sounded in the enclosed area, his eyes snapping to one of the hooded forms. Father. The world curdled in his mind, but he gave no hesitation, flashing to halt the taller male, dispassionate stare taking in the tears as the boy's face was visible. This, then, was the Ningenkai, humans who put their offspring in such danger. It was enough like his own world that he smirked before hitting the child, a choking gasp the sound of fading consciousness as the figure crumpled.

There was confusion, panic and terror, but the fleeing shapes lacked the aura he'd seen on the blue-eyed man. They held hopes of greatness, but no thought of the bloodshed necessary for that greatness. Did they forget their participation so quickly? A second passed as he looked to the other side of the dark circle. Their sacrifice had not fallen, held to dead wood by cords, pale skin marred by a fall of red hair a shade lighter than the lines of blood. The rest of that blood covered him. His red-flecked bandaged hand tightened on the hilt of his sword and he moved, ending the killers' flight. There would be no second attempt. Even the child would die if need be. The wounds showered the dusty floor, missing him as he flitted back, watching them fall. He'd never killed humans before, but they died the same as any of his previous targets had, a shower of blood and lifeless fall. Only the sacrifice and the child remained. And he knew without looking that both lived.

Hints of white shown through blood-soaked pants, but his eyes were on the basin, the markings carved into the metal that was not silver. He dared not touch it. Shallow breathing grated in his mind, and he glared at the object that kept him back. A kekkai formed by ningen hands? But the man had thought the sacrifice dead, had exclaimed with pride over the murder. Why bind the body so he couldn't touch it if they'd thought it dead? And the answers didn't matter. The sacrifice was dying, the damp blood deepening until he could feel it against his skin. The pale ningen was held to a pillar of sorts, wooden and straight along that curved back. With one move, he sliced the dead wood beneath the bindings, sheathing his sword even as the kneeling figure fell forward and out of the raised basin. A sidestep allowed him to catch the form, and he bent to lower it to the floor. He couldn't break contact with the clammy skin pressing his bare left hand.

His legs gave as abrupt pain split along his shoulders and he stared in shock, thick red hair nearly touching his chin. Youki flickered around him, not his, but it *was* youki, growing steadier as his pain increased. And there was movement, a hand closing over his shoulder, making him wince as he fell back on his right arm, his left palm as if sealed to skin that warmed as cold swamped over him. And his youki was dropping. How could a ningen take his youki? Silk brushed his chin as that head lifted and he stared into glaring green eyes seconds before the forced contact was broken. His elbow shook as weakness flooded him and he gnashed his teeth, striving to match the glare so close to him. He'd sensed no evil from this one, but he'd obviously been tricked somehow. His eyes blurred, jagan closing as the third sight ended, and he barely saw those glaring green orbs widen, didn't acknowledge the brace that caught his back as he lost his strength. He wasn't aware of catching a hand in thick red hair as all awareness ended.

* * *
TBC
--notes--
The parts will get longer, guaranteed, and *much* more dialogue included.