kinkfest | The Valley of the Shadow of Death [Shonen Onmiyouji, MasahiroxGuren, T]

Title: The Valley of the Shadow of Death
Author: Pixie-blade
Rating/Pairing: T/ Masahiro x Guren
Warnings: None
Word count: 816
Prompt: 6/5; Shonen Onmyouji; Silence
Summary: After memory loss, why are you so familiar?
AN: Posting a few hours early so I don't forget about it. :)

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”--Psalm 23:4

I did not understand it. What could I have possibly done to deserve being set upon by this, this, child? Seimei refused my questions; he merely patted my arm like an invalid and sent me back to his side. So I sat. I watched and I waited. Show me why I should bother with you, child. Show me why everyone is so deferential to you and trusting of you and completely fooled by that impossibly large smile and those clumsy antics. Show me why I should care.

He slept most of the time. The bandages slowly replaced by clean flesh, no scars left to mar his alabaster skin. That must have been Ten’itsu then; her healing magic is far superior to human skills. He still has fevers though, scorching ones that burn my hand as I smooth his hair away from his eyes. I don’t know why they all insist on growing it out, short is so much easier to manage.

Why I bother to touch him I can’t even fathom, but I do. He murmurs when my claws lightly graze his chin, “mokkun,” and though I don’t know what it means it pains something deep within me, so I stay a bit longer, touch him a bit more, and slowly he settles down into a deep, calm, dreamless sleep. Always during these fits the only thing that calms him is his head cushioned on my knee, smaller fist twisted in my sash. I find the silence during these moments almost overwhelming.

It’s a full seven days before his eyelids flutter and he moves on his own. It’s only for a moment, but we lock eyes and there’s a deep sadness there that I can’t understand. I open my mouth to speak but there are no words. His touch, shaky, tentative on my lips is heartbreaking in its sincerity and longing. And then he’s asleep again and I’m alone in the quiet-my own internal monologue the only sound.

She’s there, standing in the background; long flowing auburn hair that rivals the deepest mahogany swishing as she comes to our sides and places a gentle hand on my shoulder before leaning down and softly brushing her lips across his forehead. Surprisingly, she doesn’t look offended when he shudders and pulls away from her, borrowing deeply into my side even in sleep. There’s a small smile on her sakura stained lips as she grips my shoulder tightly and levers herself up, the motion fluid and perfect in its control.

“Masahiro.” She whispers and the sound is deafening to my unused ears. She turns and that smile is gifted on me as she reaches out and runs a slender finger around the golden circlet ringing my head.

“You’re all he ever needed. Even if you don’t remember.” It’s a stab to my heart those words. So soft, so understanding and yet so forlorn that I find my cheeks wet and my hands clutching the sleeping robe of my charge and I don’t know why, but she seems to understand and holds me for a moment, great god of Hell’s Fire I am. Why do these human’s frailties emphasize our own inherent weaknesses so much?

We are born from their dreams and desires, why then must we also feel their emotions? Haven’t they corrupted us enough as it is? I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

“Mo..kkun…”

And then he speaks, and no amount of anger or frustration can prepare me for the self-abasement I see in his eyes. She doesn’t speak again, the floating specter of her shadow wafting away from us like tattered incense on a breeze, and then she’s gone and it’s just us, like so many other nights and for once I don’t flinch when he touches my bare skin. I don’t tell him I have no need for children when his lips claim mine, and I don’t run away when the fever burning through him claims me too.

I am the god of Hell’s Fire. I am use to the burning and I am use to him. As I give in I have one last coherent thought and in the silence I hear my own voice for the first time in ages.

“Let us burn ourselves out…together.”

How funny that my face is wet again as he whispers in my ear, against my mouth and deep down in my soul, “Yes, yes.”

And finally, we are whole.