Better the Devil You Know by Ravenbell, commentary by Veleda_k (Part two)

[veleda_k]

Story: Better the Devil You Know
Author: ravenbell
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei
Commentator: veleda_k

If you're going to read my commentary, then you must, must read the story by itself first. I spoil a lot of the twists and turns early on, and you deserve to be surprised. You can find it here.

My commentary is in bold.



Piece by piece, it's almost like putting the shattered porcelain face of a broken doll back together again. Oh, the cracks are still visible, and the finished product isn't going to be nearly as exquisite as the original, but it'll suit his purposes.

And to know that when he's finished, he'll have the supreme pleasure of breaking the pretty doll all over again, only makes the work more delightful. Even the most difficult fractures pose irresistible challenges.

These two paragraphs are a really nice look into Muraki's mindset. Muraki: still a creepy bastard. Ravenbell and I clearly both believe that this needs to be firmly stressed.

He can't alter the events of the past, but the addition of his presence allows him to put certain unfortunate incidents in a more favorable context. It takes Muraki considerably more effort to force the boy's unconscious mind to accept the next dream. However, once the scenario takes hold, it's like sliding back into a familiar groove. After all, this is a nightmare Hisoka has had countless times before.

We don't need to be told anymore than that to know immediately which dream it is.

It's a strange, unnatural night. The moon is full, but the shadow of the lunar eclipse has colored it a lurid red. The cherry blossoms are in bloom, scattering fragrant petals over the cold ground.

Muraki's own memories of this have faded, but he's watched Hisoka's nightmares often enough to retain many of the fine details. The contrast between the clarity of Muraki's memories of this night and Hisoka's shows just how twisted Muraki really is. He raped, tortured, and murdered a child, and he can't even remember the details. The changes he makes this time are not subtle ones. It's not himself that he adds to this scene, but half a dozen other figures: servants, groundsmen, and most importantly Hisoka's stone-faced parents, Nagare and Rui. They stand in silent witness with lanterns and torches as two faceless men drag thirteen-year-old Hisoka toward the grove of flowering cherry trees.

The boy's distraught and struggling, but Muraki's control forces him to stay silent. It's only when Hisoka is shoved to the ground at the doctor's feet, that he's allowed to speak.

Of all the supremely awful things that Muraki does to Hisoka in this story, controlling his ability to speak strikes me as one of the most disturbing. I'm not sure why.

"What's going on? What are they doing here?" he asks, looking around in bewilderment at the crowd.

"You saw something you shouldn't have seen," Muraki recites slowly. He makes no move to help the boy, expression cold and impassive. "There should have been no eyewitnesses."

"But I remember this! There wasn't anyone else here!" Hisoka tries to get to his feet, and is promptly restrained. The men standing guard force him roughly to his knees and secure his arms behind his back. "It wasn't like this! I was walking outside by myself. And then I saw you - "

Muraki cuts him off. "Why would you be allowed outside alone, by yourself?"

Hisoka looks stunned for a moment. "I - I couldn't sleep."

The doctor doesn't blink. "And your parents so agreeably let you out of your cage to skulk about in the dark, simply because you couldn't sleep?" His tone is not harsh, but Hisoka flinches at the words.

"I don't know." The boy stares at the ground. He looks so helpless, so lost. "I don't remember."

It's easier than expected to undermine his self-assurance, but then Hisoka's memories of this night are hardly his strongest. Distorted by nightmare, and forcibly suppressed for years, it's a wonder he remembers as much as he does.

Muraki drops to a crouch beside the boy. "You don't remember because I was the one who got you out," he explains softly. "I gave you pills to make you sleep and carried you away with me after one of our lessons. And we would have readily made our escape, if that woman hadn't been there and forced my hand. "

"Forced your hand? You murdered her!" Hisoka accuses. "I saw you stab her, the way you smiled when you did it!"

"She deserved death." Muraki points into the darkness, and the light shifts, illuminating the corpse of a woman several meters away. Blood stains her clothes and the ground beneath her crumpled form. Hisoka gasps at the sight. "You never knew who she was, but I did."

"It doesn't matter who she was. It doesn't change anything," Hisoka insists stubbornly. But Muraki knows the doubt is there, that awful need to know more about the most, cruel, senseless night of his young life. Even the smallest, most twisted shards of the truth are irresistible. He wants the truth, so he'll pay close attention, whether he likes it or not.

I'd say it's here that Muraki really begins to underestimate Hisoka. He assumes that Hisoka will just swallow anything Muraki tells him.

Muraki lowers his voice to a whisper, more appropriate for speaking secrets. "That woman was your father's mistress, one of the most vile, hateful creatures who ever walked the earth. When your father tried to end their relationship, she retaliated by terrorizing his household. She poisoned two servants in the space of a week, and tried to do the same to your mother. But no one dared to raise a hand against her." He pauses, noting that Hisoka is doing his best to make it look like he's not listening. "Your father let her get much too close. By the time he realized the danger, she had enough information to destroy his reputation and ruin your family. She would have exposed everything the Kurosaki family had to hide, including you."

"But how could you know that?" Hisoka is staring up at him, his trepidation now turned to more familiar adolescent antagonism. "Even if it's true, you didn't need to kill her! There's no way you can justify it!"

Muraki grabs him by the shoulders, forcing the boy to look him in the eye. "Listen to me! That night she finally threatened your safety, so I acted when no one else would. I tried to get you out, but she found us. The only choice I had was between your life and hers. I will not regret choosing yours!"

Hisoka stares at him numbly, mouth half-open in shock. That clearly wasn't what he was expecting to hear. Muraki finds it amazing the effect that a few silly lies can have with appropriately impassioned delivery. Encouraged, he continues.

Another look behind the caring mask Muraki is wearing, and a reminder of just how manipulative he's being.

"Besides, that isn't what you should be angry with me for." Muraki releases the boy and turns to look at the crowd. He waits until Hisoka follows his gaze to Nagare and Rui Kurosaki. "It wasn't until after the murder that I truly betrayed you."

It's time for his other dolls to play their parts. Time to pull the strings and make them dance.

"He should be put to death!" Hisoka's mother shouts, her voice ringing in the night air. "He should be crushed underfoot like the worm he is! We've waited far too long already!" Around her, murmurs of agreement can be heard.

"He has the face of a murderer!" one of the servants hisses. "Drag him down and make sure he doesn't try to escape again!" More mutterings then, more voices rising in volume and emotion.

Hisoka gasps audibly, and then makes an awful, strangled sound of disbelief. For in the faces of his parents and all the onlookers around them are identical expressions of hatred, disgust and fear. But they're not directed at Muraki, the killer, the monster.

The mob is out for his blood. The devastated look on Hisoka's face makes him look unexpectedly endearing, almost as sweet as Muraki remembers.

I love many, many things about this story, but perhaps what I love the most is that it shines light on so many facets of the way Muraki sees Hisoka. There is a terribly twisted affection here, but only as long as Hisoka is weak and vulnerable.

The next part isn't going to be difficult at all.

Muraki is assuming that overpowering Hisoka's will is going to be easy. He should know better.

"I was a coward." Muraki tries to sound contrite. "When your father's men stumbled across the scene of the crime, they thought that you had killed the woman. I tried to take responsibility, but they wouldn't believe me. None of them would." It's not very good lie, and Muraki knows it. But nonetheless it's possible, even probable. Any child so subjugated and scorned could hardly expect better from his oldest, most familiar tormentors.

"We can’t kill him." Hisoka's father, Nagare, finally speaks and the crowd falls silent. Even Rui holds her tongue, deferring to her husband. "The boy will live, but he has to be taught the price of disobedience. He must be severely punished."

The crowd roars in agreement. The taunts and catcalls begin again, drowning out Nagare's words.

Hisoka goes ghostly pale. Even if he can't hear what his father's saying, he knows what's coming. Even if the events are different, this nightmare will only ever end one way.

Ravenbell has a way of ending paragraphs like a punch to the gut. This one is no exception.

Muraki doesn't waste the opportunity. "They blamed you for her death, but they didn't dare turn you over to the authorities. It was a family matter after all, and the Kurosaki clan was quite capable of meting out judgment to one of their own. I know I should have gone for help, but I didn't have the nerve." A pause, to allow the emotion in his voice to build. "I didn't want to leave you here alone with them, at their mercy. And in the end, you suffered for my weakness."

"They wouldn't do this to me, would they?" Desperation is creeping into Hisoka's eyes. "I always knew they hated me, but I never thought that they would…" He trails off, unable to voice the accusation aloud. Suddenly he starts struggling, twisting in his bonds to get free. "I won't accept it. This can't be real!"

"Perhaps it's not real, but I'm afraid it's true." The guards move to subdue their prisoner again, but Muraki waves them away. Hisoka manages to get to his feet, but any route of escape is quickly closed by the circle of onlookers. With nowhere to go, he staggers to the foot of the cherry tree, and leans up heavily against it, as though the slender branches might provide some meager protection.

This is such a powerful, haunting image. I've said it before, but Ravenbell doesn't need to tell us how the characters are feeling. What they do and think, and how they relate to each other is enough.

Muraki follows. "I understand why you didn't want to remember their complicity!" he calls out to the boy. It's unthinkable. It's inhuman. But you must accept it!"

"This is only a dream. None of it ever happened." Hisoka's forehead is pressed to the bark of the tree, and his eyes are shut tight. If his hands were free, they'd be clapped over his ears.

And then the people in the crowd are silenced again, and their forms grow hazy and indistinct. Soon, they're winking out of existence one by one. Muraki manages to pull most of them back, but it's difficult to keep them stable. He realizes that the boy is unconsciously trying to return the dream to its original form, reversing the doctor's adjustments. On some level the willful brat is still fighting, even if he doesn't realize it.

Our first indication that Hisoka is not as helpless as Muraki has made him out to be.

Muraki can't let him win. "This is a dream, but it's your dream. Everything that happens here is a part of you, a part of your subconscious mind." It takes an effort not to sound strained as he struggles to keep the dream from fading. "You have to remember, boy. You have to remember and reconcile yourself to this part of your past, or you'll never be free of it."

The words have no effect. Muraki feels the ground tremble slightly beneath his feet, another sign of growing instability. It's clear that Hisoka is determined to shut him out, and can no longer be reasoned with. A different tactic is required.

"We've delayed long enough, doctor."

The boy opens his eyes to see his father walking over the damp grass, a grim expression on his face. The Nagare of Hisoka's memories is all sternness and disapproval, glowering with unvoiced contempt. In the face of such unassailable authority, the boy's resistance fails. I can picture this perfectly in my mind. Muraki can feel it slipping away as the crowd fills out again, the dark figures throwing long shadows over the ground. Hisoka glances back and forth between Nagare and Muraki, as though he's not sure which of them to be more afraid of.

"Please, don't," he pleads, on the verge of tears. "You can't let this happen - you can't - "

Nagare doesn't even look at his son. Instead, he gestures to the waiting guards. "Strip off his clothes, and hold him down." Then, without a shred of remorse or pity, he turns to Muraki. "As you've volunteered, doctor, I leave this distasteful task to you."

Even I'm a little frightened by the Nagare that Muraki creates.

"No!" Hisoka shrieks, but the men are already on him, pulling him to the ground. "I didn't do anything! Father, stop them, please!"

But Nagare has turned his back, already distancing himself from the unpleasantness. Instead it's Muraki who approaches, adjusting the moonlight so that the bloodstains on his white coat are illuminated. In his hand, he carries a gleaming, sharpened knife. At the familiar image, Hisoka freezes, and the guards move to tear away the boy's thin summer yukata.

But that won't do at all. "Leave us," Muraki orders his puppets.

Obediently, the men fall back, leaving Hisoka at the foot of the tree. He's trembling badly, but still hasn't given in to fear. "Why are you doing this?" he demands. "You said you'd protect me. You said you wanted to help me!"

"I still do." Muraki insists. "You must know that if it weren't me, it would've been one of the guards or the servants, or worse yet, your own father. I thought at least it should be someone who had some regard for your well-being. Someone who cared for you."

"Cared for me? You?" Hisoka laughs harshly. "You're such a liar. We both know what happens, what always happens! You hurt me and you enjoy it. You enjoy every second, and you're trying to make me believe that you care about me?!"

"Oh, child." Muraki shakes his head. "Of course I hurt you." Before the boy can protest, Muraki's on him, shoving him down into the grass, the blade of the knife at his throat. Hisoka's mouth opens, ready to scream, but Muraki claps a hand tight over his face, jerking his head roughly to the side. And he bends low, to whisper into the boy's ear. "Are you really so innocent to believe it's ever any different? All real love is pain."

The darkest, most chilling parts of the story are invariably my favorite, this paragraph included. And that last line... that's no lie. Muraki believes that.

Hisoka refuses to submit. Twisting and writhing, he tries to break Muraki's grip, tries to squirm away. But he's only thirteen, and small for his age. Despite all his training, he's still only a boy who never had the power to protect himself. In seconds, Muraki has him neatly pinned down, the knife cutting away clothes and underclothes to reveal untouched flesh. He's the perfect victim. And soon enough, he'll be the perfect doll.

But still, Hisoka fights him. "I won't listen to you. You're a liar and a killer and I hate you! I hate you! I wish I'd never met you!" His rage and despair are bleeding out into the dreamscape. The moon reddens from pale rust to a garish crimson, and the air grows colder by the second.

"Hate me, if you must," Muraki whispers, struggling to keep his immediate impulses in check. "Hate will keep you alive, but don't give in to despair. It would hardly suit someone as lovely as you."

"Stop it!" Hisoka's eyes are shut tight, but the tears escape nonetheless. Muraki takes great pleasure in forcing them back open, affording him no escape. Such beautiful eyes.

"Don't look at your parents," he murmurs softly. "Don't look at the others. Focus on me. Live through this night and come take your revenge on me. Make me suffer as I've made you suffer, and purge the evil from both our souls."

Muraki's hardly aware of what he's saying, not sure if he's reciting from his own script or from the boy's memories. But in the gaps between, who can really tell the difference between the truth and the fantasy?

Muraki is getting just as caught in the dream as Hisoka is, or more so. If he had remained as detached as he was in the beginning, perhaps later events would have gone differently... or perhaps not.

The anticipation is almost unbearable. Muraki drags the point of the knife over the hollow of the boy's throat, watching the first droplets of blood bead on the surface of white skin. "Someday you'll realize that I was the only one who ever really loved you. Someday, you'll understand, and you'll come to me willingly."

That is sick, disturbing, and utterly right for Muraki. Raping Hisoka is a pleasant enough way to pass the time, but Hisoka actually wanting him, that would be the ultimate victory and domination.

The rape is brutal, as it always is, a bloody, messy affair. Muraki enjoys himself thoroughly, giving full reign to his lust. But this time he draws it out, makes it last. The boy suffers beautifully, so sensitive to even the smallest hurts. It's very easy for Muraki to take what he wants, but the violation alone isn't enough. The lesson isn't done.

Pain and pleasure are fundamentally intertwined, more alike than they are different, and Muraki only needs to make the slightest adjustments to produce the desired results. The next flick of the knife elicits an aching moan instead of a scream. Of course the boy is horrified at his body's response, but it's only the beginning. Soon Muraki has him on hands and knees, leaning into every blow, anticipating every cut, and trying desperately not to beg for more. It's easily the most enjoyable part of the doctor's evening, conditioning the needful little whore to enjoy his own degradation. Hisoka's humiliation and self-loathing are almost as intoxicating as his despair.

Ravenbell never shies away from revealing to us just how horrible Muraki is. It's easy to want to tone down his cruelty and and madness, but Ravenbell is never afraid to show him as he is. It's the reason why her version of him is my favorite. Defanged Muraki is no fun at all.

Muraki never stops whispering, prodding and coaxing the boy to accept the dream as reality. And he can tell that Hisoka's listening now, taking the words to heart.

Because the lies are more convincing than the truth. Because his parents' continued injustice is easier to accept than a storybook villain appearing out of nowhere to inflict such senseless cruelty. Because a child would rather vilify a trusted friend and protector than admit that he welcomed his own violation.

Suppression and denial are the classic survival mechanisms. Better to hide away those confusing feelings than to admit the truth to himself. Better to push away the pain, even if it meant pushing away the pleasure as well.

By the time Muraki withdraws, Hisoka has grown quiet, staring up at the cherry blossoms and the tainted moon. He's in shock, the heat fading quickly from his skin, desire evaporating into nothingness as quickly as it descended. Muraki wraps him in his bloody coat, content to give the boy a few moments of peace.

What a considerate murdering rapist.

There's little more to be done here. This time the boy won't only remember the corrected version of events, but he'll understand why he let himself forget in the first place. From now on, memories of this night will not only stir fear and anger in Hisoka Kurosaki, but guilt and remorse as well.

But just as Muraki is ready to let the dream end, the strangest sensation of dread creeps over him. Something's wrong here.

Something's changed.

Muraki looks over the crowd, mentally counting his puppets. It's possible that he didn't manage to pull all of them back after Hisoka's earlier outburst. His unease grows as he counts and recounts, unable to find anyone missing but still under the distinct impression that something is amiss. It's only when he looks beyond the far edge of the cherry grove that Muraki sees a lone figure standing apart from the others.

It's not that there are too few in the crowd, but one too many.

The stranger is dressed all in black, his face obscured in the darkness. He doesn't immediately appear to be out of place, only a silent voyeur like all the others, but Muraki is sure that the man was never a part of the landscape before. And Muraki certainly didn't put him there.

Our second sign that Muraki is no longer as in control as he thinks he is. Oh, and given what we know by the end, how fucking awesome is Hisoka that he could manage to start his offensive right after Muraki brutally raped him and forced him to enjoy it? He must have been terribly shaken, yet he still managed to hold himself together enough to put a plan into action.

Of course, the moment the doctor tries to move in for a closer look, the interloper vanishes. Reluctantly, he turns his attention back to the boy, reminding himself firmly that things happen in dreams for no reason. He's exploited that truth often enough for his own ends.

And yet, he can't deny there was something familiar about the stranger's presence. It certainly wasn't one of the shinigami or any of Hisoka's other friends or allies. Muraki is well aware of their usual tactics.

Ravenbell made the right decision in removing the shinigami as candidates right away. They're the obvious assumption, and knowing that this mysterious figure isn't one of them heightens the suspense.

No, it felt like an old memory resurfacing, a distorted fragment of something long forgotten.

Something very strong. And very old.

Creepy. (What? It is.)

---

The night's journey is nearing its end, but there's time for one more dream, and one more lesson. .

As the new dreamscape coalesces and comes into focus, Muraki finds Hisoka is lying in a bed with metal railings quite similar to the one the doctor strapped him into earlier that evening. From his unhealthy pallor, it's clear that the boy is ill and has been afflicted for some time.

Muraki recognizes the vague whiteness around them as the hospital where Hisoka spent the greater part of three years, the precursor to the grave.

It's time for the final confession.

He draws the curtains to block out the harsh light of day, and then takes a seat next to the bed, overcome for a moment by nostalgia. Most of his time with the boy was spent like this, watching him slowly succumb to the inevitable. Ah, the memories of watching the child you cursed die slowly and painfully. Good times, good times. "I know it hurts, but it won't be much longer now," he promises.

"I don't want you here." Hisoka's voice is barely more than a rasp. "Go away."

"I know you're angry with me. You have every right to be after what I've done." Muraki moves the chair closer, so they're almost face to face. "After all, it's my spell that's killing you."

"Curse," Hisoka corrects him flatly.

"It is a curse, isn't it?" Muraki reaches out to touch the boy's arm, but Hisoka tenses and shies away. Nonetheless, their close proximity is enough to cause glowing red lines of spellwork to appear on Hisoka's skin, the proof of the dark magic slowly eating away his life. "Poor thing. I tried to suppress your powers, like you wanted me to when you were younger. I thought I'd finally found your cure for you, but didn't realize until far too late that it would do more harm than good."

Hisoka turns his face away, as his limbs begin to quiver uncontrollably. The lines of the curse spell burn brighter, and the boy's fragile body convulses, white hands fisted in the sheets. "It hurts," he whispers raggedly. "It hurts so much…"

Muraki sighs, hanging his head in the perfect picture of remorse. "I truly thought I could help you, save you. Instead I only brought you pain, and every thing I did to try to fix things only made it worse. I failed in every possible sense."

Hisoka frowns up at the doctor, still struggling to stay in control of himself. "What do want me to say? Am I supposed to forgive you because you're sorry now and you had good intentions? Am I supposed to forget that you raped me and tortured me because it was justifiable from your point of view?"

Yeah, that's my guy.

"I don't want you to forget anything, and I never asked for forgiveness." Muraki sits down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the patient. He meets Hisoka's accusing gaze and doesn't look away. "But I do want you to admit to yourself that I was never really the villain you tried to make me. I'm only the convenient scapegoat. Though if that's what you want me to be, I certainly won't complain."

"Stop that!" Hisoka snaps, but he's more frightened than angry. "You keep trying to confuse me, but it won't work. I know you're just toying with me. You must think I'm some kind of - " He falls silent as Muraki shifts closer to him on the bed. His whole body tenses, as though fearing the worst.

But Muraki only kisses him gently, on the cheek and on the temple. He keeps his hands resting lightly on Hisoka's shoulders. It's perfectly non-threatening, purely affectionate. Muraki finds the gesture quite tepid and meaningless, but it elicits the desired response. Hisoka's shoulders relax and his expression lightens. As the throbbing agony of the curse recedes, he all but melts under the doctor's touch.

"I want it to stop," Hisoka pleads softly. "You said you'd help me if I told you what I wanted. I'm scared and it hurts and I don't know what I believe anymore. I want just it to stop, please."

Now, what I wonder is whether this is just Hisoka acting, or if it's one facet of his psyche being honest.

"Shhhh." Muraki tucks Hisoka back into bed, willing him into a state of drowsy complacency. He wants the boy again, like this, warm and quiescent. His for the taking. His for now and for always. "It'll all be over soon," he promises. "Go back to sleep."

Muraki is not so naïve to think that only one round is going to accomplish all he wishes. He'll cycle through the dreams again a few more times tonight, making more adjustments as necessary. When the boy wakes up tomorrow, it will be determined how the treatment should continue. In any case, the revisions won't take more than a few days. Even his most strong-willed patients, subjected to the same technique, have been unable to discern their dreams from their actual memories after only two or three such sessions.

I really like that Muraki uses the word “patients” to describe the people he's destroyed. It's a reminder that there's no firm line between Muraki the doctor and Muraki the psychopathic, serial killing rapist.

And once the groundwork is laid, Muraki can start imposing changes on more recent events, providing the necessary context to turn their latest encounters to his own advantage.

He lingers over the boy to savor the moment, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Hisoka Kurosaki will come to respect him, trust him, and possibly even love him.

And in due course, so will Asato Tsuzuki.

This motivation for this whole scheme of Muraki's makes perfect sense. Tsuzuki is at the center of much of what Muraki does, and it's highly unlikely that he ever considers Hisoka without thinking of Tsuzuki. But there's a reason that this motivation takes so long to come up: it's not really the main point. This is about Hisoka. Ever since the prequel, looking into Hisoka's dreams has made Muraki much more interested in him than he was before. Hisoka has come to represent something bigger. Just what is that? Well, Hisoka has his own opinions, as we'll see later.

"It a wonderful scheme. Seems like you've thought of everything."

Startled, Muraki looks up at the intruder's voice, and suddenly he can't breathe.

It's the same man from the previous dream, the same shadow figure with his features no longer obscured. And now, out of nowhere, he's standing on the opposite side of Hisoka's sickbed. That arrogant sneer, and those feral eyes are unmistakable. He's older now, and more physically imposing, but his face is the same as always.

"Surprised to see me Kazutaka?" he asks.

It isn't possible. But there he stands, healthy and whole, and smiling like the devil he always was. "Saki Shidou," ”Ah, so that's who it is!” we say. “Wait, why is he here?” Muraki doesn't bother disguising the contempt in his voice. He gets up from the bed, circling around to confront the unwelcome phantom of his older brother. "Clearly I haven't managed to keep my own subconscious under control," he mutters under his breath.

"Oh, it's nothing like that." Saki waves his hand dismissively. "The amount of mental discipline you maintain would never let something like me slip through. Smart move. Feeding into Muraki's superiority complex is a good way to get him to drop his guard. No, I'm not here because of you. I was part of the kid's memories to begin with."

"What kind of trick is this? You can't have been at this hospital, and certainly not when the boy was here. You were dead." It doesn't make any sense, and Muraki is dangerously close to losing his composure.

Laughter rises from Saki's throat, harsh and unpleasant. "People come back to life all the time," he remarks flippantly. "It's a very common thing these days, especially with all the new medical technology and recent advances in black magic."

"I beheaded your corpse!" Muraki retorts.

"Well, it grew back." Saki shrugs. "Don’t dwell on it."

I love this line so much. It never fails to amuse me. It's also the ultimate dream logic: “So my head grew back. So what?”

Several tense moments pass in silence. Finally, Muraki exhales, pushing more violent thoughts to the back of his mind. It can wait until after he has answers. "What are you doing here?"

"Personal business." Saki nods his head toward Hisoka, asleep in the bed. "You weren't the only one who had an interest in the kid, you know." He smiles suggestively.

Muraki bristles. "I didn't have an interest in him. We only met by - "

"Shhh." Saki holds a finger to his lips and turns toward the door, motioning Muraki to follow him. "Don't want him to hear you, do you? Ruin all that work?" He doesn't wait for an answer, striding out into the hazy brightness. The details of the hospital are indistinct, blurred by too-bright sunlight like an over-exposed photograph. Muraki hesitates, glancing back at the sleeping boy, but surely he has a few minutes to spare. And he has to know for sure if there's any truth to Saki's claims.

He walks out into the blinding whiteness, following his brother's dark figure, the only thing that really seems substantial here. Even the white-tiled floor beneath Muraki's feet is only a suggestion of intermittent lines and echoing footsteps. Saki keeps talking, his voice echoing back along the hospital corridor.

"Did Father ever tell you the truth about who my mother was? He lied so often, you probably wouldn't have recognized the truth if you heard it. For the longest time I wasn't even sure myself. It was almost like a game. Maybe my real mother was one of his patients. Maybe she was a common whore." He pauses, and looks back at Muraki with a grin on his face. "Or maybe she was that demon woman in the lake out behind the Kurosaki estate, hmmm?"

"Yatonokami?" Muraki's eyes narrow. "I don't believe that particular demon was female."

Remember the beginning of the story, when Muraki held all the cards, and the reader had no idea what was going on? Well, things are reversed now. For the first time, we know something that Muraki doesn't. He clearly isn't aware of Kasane.

The grin widens. "I always liked you, Kazutaka. You were always clever enough appreciate my jokes." Saki glances back toward the doorway of Hisoka's room, now only a little rectangle of darkness in the distance. "But sometimes I wonder about you. I mean really - a savior, a tutor, and his own personal pedophile? That's what you think the kid needs?"

It never ceases to amaze Muraki how easily his half-brother can insinuate the most insulting things in such a causal, almost playful manner. "It's not what he needs. It's what he wants."

"Oh, no it isn't. It's what you want." Saki circles him, prodding him in the shoulder with his index finger to punctuate the remark. It's such a childish, silly gesture, but the rage it provokes is overwhelming. Muraki has to fight to keep himself from doing something he'll regret. "You want to be respected and admired and looked up to," Saki continues, still smiling like a fool. "You want your methods to be validated. And you want to punish the little freak because he actually stood up to you. And if you could trick him into putting out, all the better."

Well... damn. That's a new interpretation of the text. The possibility puts a new spin on everything that we've seen so far. And I find it completely plausible.

"That's enough." Muraki takes several steps back to put some distance between them, and is startled to discover that Saki's clothing - the dark trench coat, shirt, trousers, and even his shoes, are identical to Muraki's own. Only the colors are reversed, creating an almost perfect negative image.

This would definitely have a profound effect on Muraki.

Saki frowns at his retreat. "Or maybe you actually sympathized with him. Maybe you saw your own miserable childhood being played out all over again, and you decided to give him what you never had. Someone to protect you from the abusive mother and fill in for the distant father. Someone to give you a good fucking when you needed it. Really, I'm a little disappointed that you never came to me, Kazutaka."

Oh, that's vicious. Don't piss Hisoka off, man.

"Shut up!" Muraki stumbles away, back down the corridor. The light around him is pulsing, almost like a living thing. He tries to block it out, tries to manipulate the dreamscape to get rid of it, but nothing has any effect. The whiteness is disorienting, and his mind can't seem to focus. It must be the boy. He has to get back to the boy, to strengthen their connection and reassert his control.

We now have a total turn around from the beginning. Muraki's control is gone; he is the one at the mercy of the dream.

"Kazutaka!" Saki shouts, his voice mocking as always. "Kazutaka, we're not finished yet!"

Muraki ignores him, breaking into a run. His footfalls on the white tiles echo madly, a thousand reverberations crashing against each other until they're almost deafening. Hisoka's room and the comforting darkness lie just ahead.

Only a few steps more.

But when he passes through the doorway, he blinks for a split second, and finds himself somewhere else completely. It takes a few moments for Muraki to recognize that it's his own room in his parents' house, looking exactly the same as it did when he was a child. The windows are open, and a light breeze is blowing, disturbing the pages of the open book on his desk. It's a beautiful day outside.

And the smell of blood is heavy in the air.

"Oh yes, and there was something else you wanted, wasn't there?" Muraki turns around to see Saki step through the doorway, much younger now to fit in with the surroundings. He has an unsheathed katana in his hands, the blade sharpened and ready for carnage. Demonic bloodlust is shining in his eyes, and all the memories of murder and madness come flooding back.

"You killed them," he whispers.

"That's right." Saki nods encouragingly. "And then you wanted to kill me. You wanted it so badly, even the fact that I was dead didn't stop you. Well I'm right here, little brother. Why don't you go ahead and kill me now?"

Saki holds out the sword, offering the hilt to him. But it has to be a trick. He wouldn't just -

"Go ahead." Saki urges, strangely enthusiastic. "There are no servants to interfere this time. You can cut me down properly, as honor demands. Avenge your parents. And yourself."

It's only a dream. But whether it's Muraki's dream or the boy's or someone else's, he doesn't know and no longer cares. Muraki takes the katana in hand, and suddenly he's sixteen years old again. His parents are dead, and the monster who killed them must be slain. There can be no mercy for such senseless depravity. A wonderful feeling of rightness, of vindication envelops him. Remember when I said that Ravenbell's Muraki is so excellent because she remembers that he's monstrous? Well, the other reason is that she also never forgets the parts that aren't. Muraki raises the sword, and Saki throws his head back, throat bared. He's still smiling.

As the blade descends, Muraki catches a glimpse of his own reflection in the polished steel, the fleeting image of a lanky, pale, adolescent boy with terribly bright eyes.

Too late, he realizes those eyes are green.

Oh. Wow.

The blade slides in so easily, Muraki doesn't even feel the cut at first, only the heaviness of the steel penetrating his flesh. Then the blood comes. It's only a trickle, and then it's a gush, and then it's everywhere - soaking his clothes, pooling on the floorboards, and spattering the hands of boy gripping the hilt of the katana.

And with that first sentence, we realize that everything that we thought we knew has been turned around. Also, another amazing, dark image. I can see the blood pouring out in my mind.

Dreams are built from perceptions of identity and self, ever shifting, ever changing. Somehow the boy got into his head and pulled his strings. All the strings, all at once, and twisted.

Hisoka. Kicks. Ass.

Muraki sinks to his knees, clutching at his chest as his strength drains out of him with the blood. It's too late for spells and curses now, and his hold on the dream is gone. He should be angry. He should be furious at the little charlatan for playing such an obvious trick, and disgusted with himself for taking the bait.

But it's his own frightened face staring back at him, his own quivering fingers that let the katana fall to the floor with a clatter. How can he be angry when the final blow was struck with his own hand?

"I knew you had it in you," he tells the boy, feeling a perverse sort of pride.

And even at the very end Ravenbell is illuminating new aspects of this complicated relationship. And I believe all of them.

It's hard to make his lips and move. His tongue is a dead weight in his mouth, and he hardly has the breath to speak. His vision is failing too, but that makes it easier to pretend he's only talking to himself.

And it's only the echoes of his own voice that damn him to oblivion.

I do not have the words to describe what those last few lines make me feel, which is unfortunate in a commentary, but I assure you that this unnameable feeling is very powerful.

---

In the basement laboratory the door bursts open, sending splinters and shards of spellwork flying in all directions. Tsuzuki is the first one through, with the Gushoushin brothers close behind. "Hisoka!"

"Hey." The boy looks up and smiles, a little crookedly in the dim light. He's sitting up against the headboard, the sheets still tucked neatly around him. "What took you so long?"

Hee! Oh, Hisoka.

"Oh, thank god." Tsuzuki wastes no time rushing to his partner's side, but comes to a dead halt once he realizes that Muraki's prone form is sprawled inelegantly across the bed. He looks at the doctor, eyes widening, then at Hisoka, still tied to the bed. "How - ?"

"It's okay. He's only asleep." In Hisoka's voice is a mixture of revulsion and pity. "But I don't think he's going to wake up any time soon."

”A mixture of revulsion and pity.” That says so much about how Hisoka has changed, that nothing else is necessary. (Not necessary, but still wanted by me. Seriously, I would read a fic exploring Hisoka's new perspective on Muraki with utter delight, but, well, I'm like that.)

Tsuzuki nods and tries to look happy and pleased, but then promptly bursts into tears. He babbles something about other victims and broken dolls, and it's clear what he means to say, even if he's nearly incoherent. The Gushoshin are busy with the restraints, and the moment Hisoka's free, his arms go around Tsuzuki, and he's the one who whispers gentle reassurances into his partner's ear, and promises that everything's going to be all right.

The long night is over, and he's finally holding on to something real.

Aww, that's such a sweet line. Both a reminder that, despite how calm he is, Hisoka just went through something really horrific, and that things are all right now.

---

The End

Wow, what a ride. That's one of my favorite stories right there. The first time I was reading it, I kept hoping that Hisoka would find some way to save himself, and then he did in the best way possible. (Well, in my opinion.) But, do remember that this story has a very important moral, a moral that we must never forget: “Hisoka: more awesome than you.”

Thank you and good night!