No intention of copyright infringement. All rights reserved to Hino Matsuri.

Summary: Thousands of wars in thousands of dreamless years. Both unable to continue without the other. YuMe.


He died in his sleep.

When the sour effect of closed eyes seeped into his skull, and he breathed kindly to the darkness winning over the lost world for the last time.

The blackness of his soul was indistinguishable than the starkness behind his eyelids. He'd thought of a reflection of his younger self, but only saw the unsheathing mind of a pariah who'd never fit in.

Then there was bright light, burning and steep like a blade digging on skin, and he could've sighed lightheartedly if he wanted, only to remember that the brightness alone was a born enemy.


She came alive in the sun.

Laughing, running free, dancing among wildflowers. Caught on and desperate with fervor, the wind a servant of her feet.

Madmen prowled streets, black and silver fretters in islands of stormy winters. She hunted and disemboweled their souls from their bodies, coagulated limbs into piles. Reset mysterious pasts, before halos, ungodly transformations; before unrest, temperaments, lustrous hunger; before soils were life remainders, not aching to join the debris; before blood resulted in touch.

The moon quivered over their carcass.

Under the quiet amber sky, she knelt and touched her bloody knee. Her cold fingers burnt and peeled, another disintegrating grain of youth. She looked upon the flowerbed with a smile shallow from bits of adoration that caressed it from graveyards. Wearily she lay down on the grass, listening and humming to the rolling world.


The blade is long and sharp that steals blood and life from the Worthless.

His fingers twisted, melted, now disfigured and listless, a jagged wire thrown on the sands of forever, idle and waiting in the wallowing universe.

At first he felt it wrap around his throat, a touch similar to the ones he bequeathed. When snow and trees bloated him with talent through untraveled, wondrous roads diverged and fell over cliffs, glossy with journeys his wishful heart clamored for. His gelid mind squirmed with the disease of memory.

He thought he had seen it somewhere.

Shadows crept closer, swathing in tendrils of sweet snow, dying moon, dragged and dropped from streams of blood, and it fell in his palms, soft, hot, wet and seductive like love, potions, agony and ecstasy. He'd drink with a lion's thirst and pretend it filling his belly.

He thought he had felt it somewhere.

The reed-sized graze on the inside of his thigh, the skinning tension around his ankles. A sentimental plow of immorality over the hellish souls he had freed, finally wind his pitiful eyes shut in prayer for refutation and stoop over the summit of eternal wait.

He leaned and swayed like a dancer there, drunken from parades of morbidity, blind with remorse, broken by longing for a premature cessation. The slick tightness of raw hands stalled his wait.

When he knew death came true and clear, instead of waiting, he opened his eyes.

Something about the lurching colors made him alert, his mangled body, hallow wounds gorged by light. Detached its power from his throat, it sank in the floor, from this world, beyond. Another forgotten memory entangled scarred, weak fingers.

He begins again in the loveless rue of repugnance. Hot daggers scale and wail as they eat his body through and through.

This time it's different.

He has tasted the pain somewhere.

The undying ardor in the blade he spent months sharpening and subduing Worthless, melted in him, chopped him from vein from vein, organ from organ, ligament from ligament, flesh from flesh, until the horror of his mangled corpse was no more.

And for the first time, he wondered if his unsightly, rotten body restored the tarnished world.


The blade is old, ruined, and overused from before. Within her burnt fingers, she hears it weep for surrender, for rest.

Gathering the wind around her feet again, she leapt into the sky and cut open the elusive portals that sequestered serenity for the Free. The rest of the kind draped the corners of the world, shivering, coiling, dissipating and squeaking in slow death.

When she spoke, the sky screeched, snatching stars from the unremitting universe.


"It's not right for creatures born of out darkness to worship the light."

She thought she had heard this story somewhere.

Return she did, back to her dreamless, sightless and heartless world. Sank she did, on the grass chiseled by waves of footprints of the dead from ages ago. Cry she did, a bruised child lost in the storms of snow.

She burrowed into esoteric rivers of the world, finally coming to a stop after three thousand years over a mountain and hunched over, weak, forlorn like smokeless wind, drying ink, pebbles under water and chains melting in fire.


"You can't escape who you are."

She screamed, maddened by grief, lost in the sickness of eternities, traumatized in her own wily thirst, and in caves and tunnels of wars, she trudged in fatigue, overworked like the crying blade.


She dug the soil heartlessly, reaching for the well of the sleepers. Her bone clicking claws disjointed one root after another, without reason to stop and propelled through wood, over cold skin like the blade she owned, searching a carcass and grasped for a grip. A leap of hope, a starless flight, some feeling of suffocation and poison in blood, her fingers clenched knowingly, thrilled, easy, flushed and warmed.

She thought she had seen him somewhere.

At the eyes peering from the shadows of the earth, she whispered again for the fourth and the last time. "Why?"

It could not speak, it dare not move.

She couldn't understand the tongue of shadows. Malleable like water flooding the world, she joined him, in him, saturated him in her light, her fragrance.


He thought it was familiar.

This time it was the same.

His rotten body and her sinewy flesh fit deep between his legs, hips, arms and chest. One entity, one form in one smoldering pit of bones and blood.

Her decayed fingers fastened, turned and stilled in his, undiscerning ugliness from his to hers. He held her tight and hungrily, numbness faded, curtains of history rippled.

Yet it was she bearing herself to him, unclothed, fragile, untouched and new.

Then another few centuries passed. When he laid quiet, filled and feeling the softness of her life upon her body, the blisters of sins she bore, united and broken from immeasurable woe he weaved through wakeful eyes.


She loved that familiarity.

It was the same, the same, the same.

Like reposing under a shade, coming up for air from under water, old wounds healing.

His hair fell in her gnawed fingers, the sheen of crisscrossing bones on chest, the wavering tilt of his hips, the feverish drowning eyes she returned to.

He filled her with his coldness. She clung to him with her claws, unhooked her thorny heart, smoothed the corners and bandaged it in his chest. He drank her dry again and again, she moaned with relief, coming again and again.

She licked his wounds like old times, her songs quivered on his brow.


He smelled snow falling above. "Purebloods live forever."

From within the web of his arms, she shifted, drawing him inside her body and sighed in his ear. "I know."

And it was all very real again.

The promise to share an eternity together. The life they lived as children and lovers echoed from the dark. The sadness in her blood after he left to slumber. The forgoing, dispirited years while the world wheeled, and she lived on continuing his duties without him.

One Worthless pile over another. One distinctly chilling nightmare after another.

Her thighs clenched, begging for his acceptance.

It was similar, it was young, it was taxing yet disparaging.

Somehow despite enduring torture, something in him was alive, and it welcomed sentiments and reciprocation. A fragment she controlled within him. She had been searching for thousands of years for it, and it lay buried where she had last left it, safe, calling out to her.

Born out of hopelessness, he was beautiful for being able to love even now, and loved her he did.

For in the death of sleeping, instead of fading, he woke up from dreams of her.


They can live in the spaces of the underground. Locked in memories, haunted and hunted by each other's love.

It was fine, her soul was weary from traveling and killing.

He wouldn't ask her to go anywhere, never.

Leaning over his sleeping face, she warmed his lips with a kiss.

© Nur Misurr

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