[Fic] Kekkaishi - Gen, OMC - Like a Sheep to the Rythm of the War Drums
Disclaimer : Kekkaishi and its characters belong to the awesome Yellow Tanabe.
Rating : PG.
Notes :
Written for a prompt chonaku_55 gave me for my AU meme, on the yet-untitled resurrection verse: "How Gen came back to life". (Sorry, no Masamori there - he appears later in the story).
He awakes in the middle of the night.
Above his head, the sky is black black black, moonless and lonely. (A hunting night, something purrs in the back of his mind.)
His body is laying in an open box of black wood, black sheets and shiny silver lining. It is soft and comfortable, and slightly oppressive.
His head is vibrating with the echoes of screams.
Then he takes his first breath, and he chokes.
Everything is drowned in the smell of fire and meat and old.
It is strangely familiar, almost nostalgic, and at the same time nauseating.
He grabs the side of the box to sit up, feels the wood and silk tear under his claws and topples over, out of the box and rolling on the ground. Ground - real earth, soft and humid under his palms, with blades of grass tickling his skin.
It feels natural. Safe. Much more so than a box reeking of old and burned things.
He wants to raise, but he can't remember how to balance his body. Every time he tries, he just falls back to the ground. (He doesn't mind. The ground is nice.)
After a few attempts, he grows tired of this game, and begins to crawl on all four instead.
It is easier. Much easier. His body takes to this position instantly. He leaps once, twice, enjoys the raw strength of his limbs and the wind brushing against his naked skin.
Then a hand falls on his neck, and a presence is looming beside him.
He bristles and tries to turn his head, but the hand is so, so heavy and then there is a voice...
"Up already? That's a strong boy."
The voice is deep and husky and special, all his instincts screaming in recognition of the power running through every word. It vibrates through his body, making him whimper and lean toward the hand, purr when it moves from his neck to his shoulder.
There's a rustle where the presence stands, and then the voice is laughing.
"Good boy, good boy... There, be still for a minute."
The satisfaction in the voice fills his mind with sweet, sticky warmth, relieves it of everything except the need to listen and obey.
Something cold closes around his neck with a metallic clasp.
A vague feeling of worry surges in his brain, but the hand slips in his hair, ruffling it slowly, and the warmth spreads to dispel his nervousness.
"Here, it's done. Don't fret, it'll warm up soon."
The hand leaves his head and he sits with a soft whine. He paws at his neck, numb and clumsy. The thing there is cool and smooth, except for some tiny marks at the bottom, against his collarbone. Words, he thinks, but he can't recognize any.
At the back of his neck, there is paper covering the metal. It burns his hand when he touches it.
"Hands off," the voice snaps. It doesn't sound pleased anymore; a sharp, cold wave of dread breaks on his mind at the thought. He cringes, whimpers and bows his head in submission as he brings his sore hand to his mouth to lick it. A short silence follows.
Then the voice resumes, softer: "It burnt you, didn't it? Don't whine. This is for your own good. The collar protects you - the fuuda will keep it from breaking open when you fight."
Fighting. The word echoes in his skull like an old lullaby, the voice of a mother he can't remember.
He's fast. He's strong. Quiet and resilient. Fighting is what he was born for - it's his nature, written in each of his bones, singing in his veins.
He's a demon, after all.
(There's a whisper at the back of his skull that's protesting - he's not a demon, he's...)
"Come on," the voice says, "let's take you to the nest so you can meet the others."
There's a promise of bloodshed in there, sending all his instincts into a gleeful frenzy.
(The whisper at the back of his skull fades out quietly.)
The owner of the voice steps in front of him for the first time.
The voice is definitely male, so this must be a man. It's the only clue that hasn't been covered up. Any features are hidden by a long black coat with a hood. Any body part is wrapped in long gray bands of- something. Something that smells of old and burnt and rot, and drowning any other smell.
The man looks him over, nods and turns on his heels to walk away.
He follows.
Rating : PG.
Notes :
Written for a prompt chonaku_55 gave me for my AU meme, on the yet-untitled resurrection verse: "How Gen came back to life". (Sorry, no Masamori there - he appears later in the story).
He awakes in the middle of the night.
Above his head, the sky is black black black, moonless and lonely. (A hunting night, something purrs in the back of his mind.)
His body is laying in an open box of black wood, black sheets and shiny silver lining. It is soft and comfortable, and slightly oppressive.
His head is vibrating with the echoes of screams.
Then he takes his first breath, and he chokes.
Everything is drowned in the smell of fire and meat and old.
It is strangely familiar, almost nostalgic, and at the same time nauseating.
He grabs the side of the box to sit up, feels the wood and silk tear under his claws and topples over, out of the box and rolling on the ground. Ground - real earth, soft and humid under his palms, with blades of grass tickling his skin.
It feels natural. Safe. Much more so than a box reeking of old and burned things.
He wants to raise, but he can't remember how to balance his body. Every time he tries, he just falls back to the ground. (He doesn't mind. The ground is nice.)
After a few attempts, he grows tired of this game, and begins to crawl on all four instead.
It is easier. Much easier. His body takes to this position instantly. He leaps once, twice, enjoys the raw strength of his limbs and the wind brushing against his naked skin.
Then a hand falls on his neck, and a presence is looming beside him.
He bristles and tries to turn his head, but the hand is so, so heavy and then there is a voice...
"Up already? That's a strong boy."
The voice is deep and husky and special, all his instincts screaming in recognition of the power running through every word. It vibrates through his body, making him whimper and lean toward the hand, purr when it moves from his neck to his shoulder.
There's a rustle where the presence stands, and then the voice is laughing.
"Good boy, good boy... There, be still for a minute."
The satisfaction in the voice fills his mind with sweet, sticky warmth, relieves it of everything except the need to listen and obey.
Something cold closes around his neck with a metallic clasp.
A vague feeling of worry surges in his brain, but the hand slips in his hair, ruffling it slowly, and the warmth spreads to dispel his nervousness.
"Here, it's done. Don't fret, it'll warm up soon."
The hand leaves his head and he sits with a soft whine. He paws at his neck, numb and clumsy. The thing there is cool and smooth, except for some tiny marks at the bottom, against his collarbone. Words, he thinks, but he can't recognize any.
At the back of his neck, there is paper covering the metal. It burns his hand when he touches it.
"Hands off," the voice snaps. It doesn't sound pleased anymore; a sharp, cold wave of dread breaks on his mind at the thought. He cringes, whimpers and bows his head in submission as he brings his sore hand to his mouth to lick it. A short silence follows.
Then the voice resumes, softer: "It burnt you, didn't it? Don't whine. This is for your own good. The collar protects you - the fuuda will keep it from breaking open when you fight."
Fighting. The word echoes in his skull like an old lullaby, the voice of a mother he can't remember.
He's fast. He's strong. Quiet and resilient. Fighting is what he was born for - it's his nature, written in each of his bones, singing in his veins.
He's a demon, after all.
(There's a whisper at the back of his skull that's protesting - he's not a demon, he's...)
"Come on," the voice says, "let's take you to the nest so you can meet the others."
There's a promise of bloodshed in there, sending all his instincts into a gleeful frenzy.
(The whisper at the back of his skull fades out quietly.)
The owner of the voice steps in front of him for the first time.
The voice is definitely male, so this must be a man. It's the only clue that hasn't been covered up. Any features are hidden by a long black coat with a hood. Any body part is wrapped in long gray bands of- something. Something that smells of old and burnt and rot, and drowning any other smell.
The man looks him over, nods and turns on his heels to walk away.
He follows.