[Soul Eater/Yami no Matsuei] "Godfather Death Beneath a Blood-Red Moon" (PG-13)
Author's Note: This is a rewrite of another fic which I found in a journal full of unfinished fragments. I've speculated that Stein and Muraki might be brothers by the same mother, and it tickled me that they might even be... Well, I'll let the story speak for itself. Set well before either anime. Rated for supernatural weirdness.
Twin boys. Yukiko had been in labor for hours, and even now, it was uncertain if she would last the night, in her weakened state. Sato, Yukitaka Muraki's student sat by her bedside, taking his turn keeping watch over her, while Yukitaka kept an eye on his grandsons.
The babes lay nestled in their cradle, sleeping peacefully, tired from the ordeal of entering the world and worn out by all the strange new sights and smells and sounds. The elder by several minutes, Kazutaka, lay on the left, a red thread tied around one tiny, pale-skinned wrist, since at this point, the two looked so alike they would be easily confused. The other, younger twin, unnamed as yet since his parents had not anticipated twin sons, lay on the right. Twin bundles of promise, wrapped in soft white blankets, huddled in a square of moonlight cast by the window, light the color of fresh blood.
"Yukitaka-sama, why is the moonlight so red?" one of the maids asked, approaching him with a pot of tea and a clean cup, the dishes rattling on their tray.
"It's only an eclipse of the moon," Yukitaka said, looking up to the wintry sky, black gone scarlet-tinged, a square of blood-stained velvet framed by the window.
"But it happened as Kazutaka-kun and his brother were born," the girl noted, setting the tray on a nearby table.
"Don't tell me you're superstitious, child," Yukitaka scolded, gruff but good-natured. He did not fault the girl for clinging to the old ways. Times were changing and they changed quicker now, now that their country had had to adapt, following its horrible defeat during the war in the Forties. It had left its mark on Michitaka, his son, the still-callow boy who had fathered the babes lying in the crib. Their father still paid the price of their country's follies and arrogance. No girl would marry him, knowing that he was hibakusha, marked by the black rain that had fallen on Nagasaki and the silent plague that ensued. The young man had turned to whatever girls would accept his attentions, usually Mibu's courtesans or his own too-grateful patients. No wonder he had married the first woman who do more than give him the time of the day and a lifted hem, even of that woman was a pale creature whose origins he did not know, but which his father knew only too well.
But why did it have to be her, the creature who lay on the bed in the next room, why did it have to be one of their kind, the fallen angels who had tempted him with their forbidden knowledge? A flawed one, no less, whom twin children had nearly killed.
Nephillim: the word meant 'miscarriage', in Aramaic, since the offspring of the union of an angel in a male body and a human woman usually meant death to the mother. The twin boys, as pale as their mother, had nearly been the death of her, these creatures as beautiful and unsettling as angels. If he had known this flawed creature would have suffered so, he might not have let his son marry here, but life itself was an experiment, and one found this information only through trials and tests.
The angels' blood showed strongly in these children: would the angels themselves come to him, rebuking him for keeping one of their flawed creations and for allowing his son's blood to mingle with that of his son, just as they had once rebuked him for confining one of their stronger descendants?
A black cloud fell over the bloodied face of the moon, casting darkness over the room, like a sack thrown over the head of a kidnapping victim.
No. Not a shadow. A figure clad in black, white mask shaped like a skull, eyes narrowed at him, as if the eye holes served as the eyes.
The wind rose, pushing at the halves of the window, trying the latch that held them, until the catch gave way and the wings of the window flew open. Yukitaka leaned over the infants, covering them with his body, shielding them from the cold wind.
The figure in black approached the window, no footfalls, no tracks in the snow. "Yukitaka Muraki: I am Lord Death, the collector of the souls of they dying and guardian of the gateway to the land of the dead," the figure announced. "You held one of my kind as a captive for eight years, and the time for clemency has ended."
"One of yours? Who do you mean?" Yukitaka replied, feigning confusion.
"The Guardian of Death known as Asato Tsuzuki: his shadow was sealed while he was in your care, or should I say, while he was a captive at your hands," Lord Death replied, eye holes staring at him unblinking.
"He was too mad to be released and no one came forward to claim him," Yukitaka replied, hiding half the truth.
"And that madness continued because of what you did to him during those eight years," Lord Death replied. "For that crime, we are here to claim the last of your line to pay the debt which you owe."
"Please... spare one of them," Yukitaka pleaded. "My son deserves an heir after what happened to him in Nagasaki. Hope was taken from him, and having a son would renew that hope."
A half-truth: he knew about his son's dalliances, the mistress whom he had impregnated about the same time that Yukiko had conceived the twins.
The mask tilted down, the narrowed eye holes unmoved, holding this position for the longest time.
At last Lord Death looked up. "Very well: the younger twin will come with me. But you will still pay the debt: you will live to see many candles of life snuffed out in your house, before your own light is extinguished."
And with that, Lord Death held out his hands, white-gloved compared to his shapeless black garments. Yukitaka straightened up, reaching down and picking up his younger grandson. The child stirred and awakened, opening his pale eyes and looking up at the black-clad stranger. Lord Death reached out, slipping his hands beneath the child, one hand under the infant's head, supporting it as a parent would. Only when he felt the weight of the child transferred to the other's hands, did Yukitaka withdraw his own hands.
The elder twin awakened, snuffling sleepily, his small arms moving, slipping free of their wrappings, as if reaching out to feel the other who had shared his mother's womb. Hands feeling an empty place that should not be, he emitted a whimper.
And then, as if a black flame had snuffed out, Lord Death vanished, taking the younger twin with him.
Something snapped, as if the fabric of the world had stretched and released. Yukitaka looked about him: the red moon still poured out its dim light, and the twins lay at peace in their crib. No chill air from the window, which stood closed.
But when he touched the cheek of the younger twin, the child felt ice-cold to the touch. No sign of life, as if Death had left a homunculus in its place.
Twin boys. Yukiko had been in labor for hours, and even now, it was uncertain if she would last the night, in her weakened state. Sato, Yukitaka Muraki's student sat by her bedside, taking his turn keeping watch over her, while Yukitaka kept an eye on his grandsons.
The babes lay nestled in their cradle, sleeping peacefully, tired from the ordeal of entering the world and worn out by all the strange new sights and smells and sounds. The elder by several minutes, Kazutaka, lay on the left, a red thread tied around one tiny, pale-skinned wrist, since at this point, the two looked so alike they would be easily confused. The other, younger twin, unnamed as yet since his parents had not anticipated twin sons, lay on the right. Twin bundles of promise, wrapped in soft white blankets, huddled in a square of moonlight cast by the window, light the color of fresh blood.
"Yukitaka-sama, why is the moonlight so red?" one of the maids asked, approaching him with a pot of tea and a clean cup, the dishes rattling on their tray.
"It's only an eclipse of the moon," Yukitaka said, looking up to the wintry sky, black gone scarlet-tinged, a square of blood-stained velvet framed by the window.
"But it happened as Kazutaka-kun and his brother were born," the girl noted, setting the tray on a nearby table.
"Don't tell me you're superstitious, child," Yukitaka scolded, gruff but good-natured. He did not fault the girl for clinging to the old ways. Times were changing and they changed quicker now, now that their country had had to adapt, following its horrible defeat during the war in the Forties. It had left its mark on Michitaka, his son, the still-callow boy who had fathered the babes lying in the crib. Their father still paid the price of their country's follies and arrogance. No girl would marry him, knowing that he was hibakusha, marked by the black rain that had fallen on Nagasaki and the silent plague that ensued. The young man had turned to whatever girls would accept his attentions, usually Mibu's courtesans or his own too-grateful patients. No wonder he had married the first woman who do more than give him the time of the day and a lifted hem, even of that woman was a pale creature whose origins he did not know, but which his father knew only too well.
But why did it have to be her, the creature who lay on the bed in the next room, why did it have to be one of their kind, the fallen angels who had tempted him with their forbidden knowledge? A flawed one, no less, whom twin children had nearly killed.
Nephillim: the word meant 'miscarriage', in Aramaic, since the offspring of the union of an angel in a male body and a human woman usually meant death to the mother. The twin boys, as pale as their mother, had nearly been the death of her, these creatures as beautiful and unsettling as angels. If he had known this flawed creature would have suffered so, he might not have let his son marry here, but life itself was an experiment, and one found this information only through trials and tests.
The angels' blood showed strongly in these children: would the angels themselves come to him, rebuking him for keeping one of their flawed creations and for allowing his son's blood to mingle with that of his son, just as they had once rebuked him for confining one of their stronger descendants?
A black cloud fell over the bloodied face of the moon, casting darkness over the room, like a sack thrown over the head of a kidnapping victim.
No. Not a shadow. A figure clad in black, white mask shaped like a skull, eyes narrowed at him, as if the eye holes served as the eyes.
The wind rose, pushing at the halves of the window, trying the latch that held them, until the catch gave way and the wings of the window flew open. Yukitaka leaned over the infants, covering them with his body, shielding them from the cold wind.
The figure in black approached the window, no footfalls, no tracks in the snow. "Yukitaka Muraki: I am Lord Death, the collector of the souls of they dying and guardian of the gateway to the land of the dead," the figure announced. "You held one of my kind as a captive for eight years, and the time for clemency has ended."
"One of yours? Who do you mean?" Yukitaka replied, feigning confusion.
"The Guardian of Death known as Asato Tsuzuki: his shadow was sealed while he was in your care, or should I say, while he was a captive at your hands," Lord Death replied, eye holes staring at him unblinking.
"He was too mad to be released and no one came forward to claim him," Yukitaka replied, hiding half the truth.
"And that madness continued because of what you did to him during those eight years," Lord Death replied. "For that crime, we are here to claim the last of your line to pay the debt which you owe."
"Please... spare one of them," Yukitaka pleaded. "My son deserves an heir after what happened to him in Nagasaki. Hope was taken from him, and having a son would renew that hope."
A half-truth: he knew about his son's dalliances, the mistress whom he had impregnated about the same time that Yukiko had conceived the twins.
The mask tilted down, the narrowed eye holes unmoved, holding this position for the longest time.
At last Lord Death looked up. "Very well: the younger twin will come with me. But you will still pay the debt: you will live to see many candles of life snuffed out in your house, before your own light is extinguished."
And with that, Lord Death held out his hands, white-gloved compared to his shapeless black garments. Yukitaka straightened up, reaching down and picking up his younger grandson. The child stirred and awakened, opening his pale eyes and looking up at the black-clad stranger. Lord Death reached out, slipping his hands beneath the child, one hand under the infant's head, supporting it as a parent would. Only when he felt the weight of the child transferred to the other's hands, did Yukitaka withdraw his own hands.
The elder twin awakened, snuffling sleepily, his small arms moving, slipping free of their wrappings, as if reaching out to feel the other who had shared his mother's womb. Hands feeling an empty place that should not be, he emitted a whimper.
And then, as if a black flame had snuffed out, Lord Death vanished, taking the younger twin with him.
Something snapped, as if the fabric of the world had stretched and released. Yukitaka looked about him: the red moon still poured out its dim light, and the twins lay at peace in their crib. No chill air from the window, which stood closed.
But when he touched the cheek of the younger twin, the child felt ice-cold to the touch. No sign of life, as if Death had left a homunculus in its place.