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Description
A sky of crimson flickered as rain slashed through it, only to shatter on the broken earth below. Eyes of two colors turned skyward. Rain pricked his cheeks and stole the role of tears as they left tracks through the thin layer of grime that stained such pale skin. Dark eyelashes flutter closed, sending shadows cascading down his cheeks. A small sigh escaped from scarcely parted lips.
For that small moment it seemed as though the world was frozen. No sounds could compete with the steady fall of the rain, no light threatened to overcome the dark, no movement dared to be detected. A small breeze ruffled his black hair, dragging long locks of his hair behind him. He reopened his eyes. The sky above was distorted by the rain, causing small blights to scar before disappearing.
It reminded him of an old contraption that had long died. He believed the name to be a film projector, but he could always be wrong; he never did pay much attention to passing trends. Still, the way the rain warped the sky, forcing a veil of imperfections to be worn was much akin to the look of the film before it overheated and ate away at itself.
He lifted his hood, catching a last glance at the blood red sky before the black of the hood obscured his vision. The rain, now amplified by his hood, continued to fall as he shoved his fist in his pockets and stride purposely up the street.
The moon, a pearl caught in the embrace of a sea of blood, lit the way that he traveled. No soul dared to appear as he turned into a dark alley. As he swung onto a slighter larger street two children rush to hide in the very trash bins they had been trying salvage a scrap or two from.
He ignored them, not even caring as a ray of lost moonlight draws the picture of two orphan children, barely above the age of eight, and suffering from hunger, into view. Throughout his life he had seen too many stories of despair, many more tragic than the one before him.
He passed through two more alleys and jumped over a rusted chain link fence. His gait is of purpose, but he seemed to be wandering aimlessly, like one looking for a lost treasure.
Just as he passed another alleyway, this time voting to keep straight, he heard angered shouts.
"Devil's spawn!"
"Demon!"
"Monster!"
He paused for a moment, letting his eyes capture the scene before him. A small boy, around seven years of age, dressed only in rags that resemble old skins, slowly backed away from an advancing crowd. Anger murmurs rippled through the throng, rising like waves then crashing down on the boy.
"Burn him!"
"Witchcraft!"
"He mustn't live!"
"Death!"
"Burn the demon!"
A memory tickled at the back of his mind as he watched the boy. A crowd, much like this one, threatening his own life. He decided to watch for a few more moments, more out of curiosity than an actual interest in the boy's life.
"Grab him!" a discontented voice in the crowd yelled. Several arms, aroused by the command, grabbed the boy. They hefted him into the air; he could have only weighed fifty pounds at most judging by his stick like frame. The boy struggled but made no sound as he was roughly shoved against a wooden post crudely carved into the shape of a cross.
The cross flashed across his mind. He tapped a finger against his bottom lip as his curiosity morphed into interest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was the boy he was looking for. He turned towards the scene displayed before him, like a stunning theatrical performance, leaning against the wall to his left side.
Heavy rope bound the boy to the cross around his middle. One man held the boy's arms as nails were driven through his wrist. Blood spiraled down his arm, creating morbid tattoos, and dripping onto his face. His feet, which were left to dangle, scrambled over the wood, trying to find some purchase but finding none.
A spark of fury kindled in him before it was smothered by years of indifference. Instead he readjusted his position and settle back in for the show.
Straw and scraps of wood were piled around the base of the cross. The boy's eyes widened in fear as a man touched a torch to the pile, setting the whole thing ablaze. As the first flames licked the boy's feet his body was thrown into shudders as he tried to escape his bonds. The nails holding the boy's wrist threatened to carve a line of destruction through them as the boy yanked furiously on them. Blood stained the wood beneath. The boy withered against the wood as he tried to free himself, scraping himself raw. Flames wound their way even higher, caressing the boy's legs.
In a fit of anguish the boy cried out, his words as feeble as a kitten's mewling's, almost lost in the whispering of the flames and jeers of the crowd.
"It wasn't my fault…"
Upon hearing those words uttered, he stiffened. A scene of a past life flashed before his eyes, overlapping reality. A young boy, crucified, being burned alive, tears streaming down his face as he tried to fight free. The pain of the nail, the blood running into his eyes, the flames feasting on his flesh, all of it burned into the soft tissue of his memory, reminding him of the injustice that was once done to him.
Unable to be a spectator for any longer, he abandoned his post, pushing himself off and using the momentum to propel his way into the crowd. He had to shove past the first person. They turned to protest only to be silenced by the deadly flames of hate burning in his eyes. From there the crowd parted for him, reenacting Moses and the Red Sea.
He paused in front of the boy, a wall of flame creating a thin veil that seemed to stretch for an eternity. The boy lifted his head to observe the newcomer.
"It's not my fault," the boy mouthed as his eyes plead.
"I know," he said. He stood making no move to help the boy. The boy dropped his head back onto his chest.
He stepped through the flames, knowing that they could no longer harm him as was. With a movement untraceable to the human eye, he ripped the nails from their home and caught the boy as he fell. The boy's eyes snapped open as he was freed. With the boy tight in his arms he crossed back through the flames. The people congregated back away in fear, some tripping over themselves, but none could tear their eyes away as he walked away.
He quickly lost himself within the shadows of the alleys. The boy had fallen unconscious, either due to the smoke, shock, pain; it was most likely a mixture of all of them.
Due to the boy in his arms he walked a lot slower than he was used to, trying not to jostle the child too much. A block from their destination a dead end rose to create a barrier. He sighed in annoyance before tensing his muscles. Like a snake striking he uncoiled, launching himself at the side of the alley. His feet only touch for a moment before he connected with the other side and finally plunged over the other side of the fence, landing lightly on his toes.
In the time era before he would have been considered an assassin or some other plausible explanation, but this new world no longer took condolences in a stable reality, now they believed in evil of Satan and the shadows. To them he would have been thought of as a demon, not that it was very far from the truth.
He straightened up and made his way to an abandoned bomb shelter. The boy was laid on the bed inside and the door was locked firmly against bandits and gangs.
Taking a deep breath and feeling as though his work was done for time being he collapsed onto a rotting couch, ignoring the rusted springs that threatened to break his skin and infect him. He closed his eyes and threw an arm over them.
He felt weak, drained, and shaky. It had been quite a long time since he had felt so much emotion. He wasn't use to it and it had settled a thick fog over his bewildered mind, numbing him. Slowly he tumbled into a dark oblivion, not sleep, but similar.
The rustling of sheets brought him unwilling back to his senses. He opened his eyes, moving his arm to his forehead to allow light to enter. The ceiling was the first image to register in his mind. His eyes wandered from that to the bed that stood on the opposite side of the room. The boy was sitting up, his confused eyes trailing over the room. They boy's eyes meet his and he watched as the dawning of a memory lit up those dark brown eyes.
"W-what h-happened?" the boy's voice shakes with tremors.
He chooses not to answer, instead watching as the boy slowly turns his palms to the ceiling. Two bloody holes still gaped there. The boy bites his lip against the sight, cupping a hand over the wound to hide it. A minute later the hand revealed skin unmarked. The boy does this to his other wrist, and then his legs and feet. Once the boy is done he looked expectantly at him.
Not sure what to say he shrugged. Good job, kid,"
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
"Doesn't matter," deciding he is bored with this conversation he closed his eyes again, resting his arm over them.
The boy fell silent for only a moment before piping up again. "Why did you save me?"
He shrugged, not giving an answer to that.
"My name is Hikaru!" the boy volunteered, making another stab at conversation.
He opened his eyes a slit, observing the boy. At a first glance he was adorable, dark brown hair with a dusting of cinnamon hues, skin was tanned from the sun, huge, childlike bambi eyes blinked sweetly at him, framed by dark eyelashes. After taking another glance all the imperfections glared back; the hollowed out cheeks and eyes, making him look like a raccoon, his pencil thin limbs, every bone clear underneath the skin that seemed to hang off of his frame.
His eyes roamed over the boy, looking for one particular mark. He paused as he saw thin black lines peeked from beneath the rags that clothed him.
In one fluid movement he was on his feet and moving towards the boy. The boy gave a startled scream, surprised by his saddened movement. He grabbed the rags that covered the boy's upper body and strip him of them.
Underneath was a series of black lines that marked his back, neck, and ribs. The lines drew designs of what many see when the term alchemy comes into mind. A complicated series of circles, diamonds, and lines made an intricate pattern on the boy's skin, marring it for life. His finger slowly traced one of the designs as his mind raced ahead.
"Yamino Hikari…" he finally whispered. This was the boy he was looking for.
The boy puffed out his cheeks and pouted. "No, my name is Hikaru."
He shrugged, not caring either way. He crouched down besides the boy, resting on the balls of his feet. "Where's your parents"
The boy shook his head. "I don't have any parents."
"Any family?" he asked.
The boy thought about this for a moment. "Well, there are the disciples, they're like family." His youth marred the word 'disciples' neatly beyond recognition.
"Well, where are your 'disciples'?" he asked.
"I lost them," the boy said, looking away, a clear sign that he had uttered a lie.
"You lost them?" he asked, not believing his ears.
"Yes…" the boy said slowly.
Unable to help it he burst into a quick bark of laughter. Not only were the disciples being forced to babysit, they were being outsmarted by a child!
"What?" the boy demanded.
"Nothing," he said, cutting off his laughter. He stood abruptly, startling the boy. "Let's get you out of those rags and into some clothes."
The boy nodded and hopped out of bed. He walked over to a box filled with clothes and began to dig through it. The boy waited behind him, standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder, but still too short to see anything.
He found what he was looking for and pulled it out. An oversized white shirt unfolded as he shook is loose of its folds. The boy cocked his head to the side curiously.
"Here, put this on," he ordered, throwing the shirt over his shoulder. The boy obeyed without question, stripping off his rags and pulling on the white shirt.
He looked at the boy and shrugged. "Good enough," he said, even though the shirt goes down to the boy's knees. The boy nodded and followed him back to the bed.
"Alright, get in bed and go to sleep." He said.
"Do I have to?" the boy asked. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, the fingers curled into the palms.
"Yes," he said curtly.
The boy nodded and yawned again as he shuffling into bed. He makes sure the child is under the blankets before sitting on the couch.
"What is your name?" the boy asked. He looked over at the boy.
"I don't have a name," he said. "Not anymore…" he added on, much quitter.
"Then what do people call you?" the boy asked.
He shrugged. "Heartless,"
The boy stared at him for a moment before a yawn turned his serious expression into a loopy grin. "Good night Heartless." He whispered, his eyelids already slipping shut.
"Night Yamino Hikaru," he said softly.
He watched the boy until he was certain he was asleep then he stood. His feet glided silently across the floor and out the door.
Outside it was still raining, the first beams of the sun shimmering on the horizon. A deep breath of the rain scented air flooded his lungs. Shoving his hands in his pockets he began to walk away from the rising sun, blending into the shadows. As he walked away a small ting of emotion pricked at him. Guilt.
He lifts his head to the heavens once more, his hood falling, releasing the cascade of a black waterfall that is snatched up by the wind and whips around his face.
"Sorry Yamino Hikaru," the winds tore the words from him, scattering them throughout. "Too bad I have to kill you…"

Description
A sky of crimson flickered as rain slashed through it, only to shatter on the broken earth below. Eyes of two colors turned skyward. Rain pricked his cheeks and stole the role of tears as they left tracks through the thin layer of grime that stained such pale skin. Dark eyelashes flutter closed, sending shadows cascading down his cheeks. A small sigh escaped from scarcely parted lips.
For that small moment it seemed as though the world was frozen. No sounds could compete with the steady fall of the rain, no light threatened to overcome the dark, no movement dared to be detected. A small breeze ruffled his black hair, dragging long locks of his hair behind him. He reopened his eyes. The sky above was distorted by the rain, causing small blights to scar before disappearing.
It reminded him of an old contraption that had long died. He believed the name to be a film projector, but he could always be wrong; he never did pay much attention to passing trends. Still, the way the rain warped the sky, forcing a veil of imperfections to be worn was much akin to the look of the film before it overheated and ate away at itself.
He lifted his hood, catching a last glance at the blood red sky before the black of the hood obscured his vision. The rain, now amplified by his hood, continued to fall as he shoved his fist in his pockets and stride purposely up the street.
The moon, a pearl caught in the embrace of a sea of blood, lit the way that he traveled. No soul dared to appear as he turned into a dark alley. As he swung onto a slighter larger street two children rush to hide in the very trash bins they had been trying salvage a scrap or two from.
He ignored them, not even caring as a ray of lost moonlight draws the picture of two orphan children, barely above the age of eight, and suffering from hunger, into view. Throughout his life he had seen too many stories of despair, many more tragic than the one before him.
He passed through two more alleys and jumped over a rusted chain link fence. His gait is of purpose, but he seemed to be wandering aimlessly, like one looking for a lost treasure.
Just as he passed another alleyway, this time voting to keep straight, he heard angered shouts.
"Devil's spawn!"
"Demon!"
"Monster!"
He paused for a moment, letting his eyes capture the scene before him. A small boy, around seven years of age, dressed only in rags that resemble old skins, slowly backed away from an advancing crowd. Anger murmurs rippled through the throng, rising like waves then crashing down on the boy.
"Burn him!"
"Witchcraft!"
"He mustn't live!"
"Death!"
"Burn the demon!"
A memory tickled at the back of his mind as he watched the boy. A crowd, much like this one, threatening his own life. He decided to watch for a few more moments, more out of curiosity than an actual interest in the boy's life.
"Grab him!" a discontented voice in the crowd yelled. Several arms, aroused by the command, grabbed the boy. They hefted him into the air; he could have only weighed fifty pounds at most judging by his stick like frame. The boy struggled but made no sound as he was roughly shoved against a wooden post crudely carved into the shape of a cross.
The cross flashed across his mind. He tapped a finger against his bottom lip as his curiosity morphed into interest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was the boy he was looking for. He turned towards the scene displayed before him, like a stunning theatrical performance, leaning against the wall to his left side.
Heavy rope bound the boy to the cross around his middle. One man held the boy's arms as nails were driven through his wrist. Blood spiraled down his arm, creating morbid tattoos, and dripping onto his face. His feet, which were left to dangle, scrambled over the wood, trying to find some purchase but finding none.
A spark of fury kindled in him before it was smothered by years of indifference. Instead he readjusted his position and settle back in for the show.
Straw and scraps of wood were piled around the base of the cross. The boy's eyes widened in fear as a man touched a torch to the pile, setting the whole thing ablaze. As the first flames licked the boy's feet his body was thrown into shudders as he tried to escape his bonds. The nails holding the boy's wrist threatened to carve a line of destruction through them as the boy yanked furiously on them. Blood stained the wood beneath. The boy withered against the wood as he tried to free himself, scraping himself raw. Flames wound their way even higher, caressing the boy's legs.
In a fit of anguish the boy cried out, his words as feeble as a kitten's mewling's, almost lost in the whispering of the flames and jeers of the crowd.
"It wasn't my fault…"
Upon hearing those words uttered, he stiffened. A scene of a past life flashed before his eyes, overlapping reality. A young boy, crucified, being burned alive, tears streaming down his face as he tried to fight free. The pain of the nail, the blood running into his eyes, the flames feasting on his flesh, all of it burned into the soft tissue of his memory, reminding him of the injustice that was once done to him.
Unable to be a spectator for any longer, he abandoned his post, pushing himself off and using the momentum to propel his way into the crowd. He had to shove past the first person. They turned to protest only to be silenced by the deadly flames of hate burning in his eyes. From there the crowd parted for him, reenacting Moses and the Red Sea.
He paused in front of the boy, a wall of flame creating a thin veil that seemed to stretch for an eternity. The boy lifted his head to observe the newcomer.
"It's not my fault," the boy mouthed as his eyes plead.
"I know," he said. He stood making no move to help the boy. The boy dropped his head back onto his chest.
He stepped through the flames, knowing that they could no longer harm him as was. With a movement untraceable to the human eye, he ripped the nails from their home and caught the boy as he fell. The boy's eyes snapped open as he was freed. With the boy tight in his arms he crossed back through the flames. The people congregated back away in fear, some tripping over themselves, but none could tear their eyes away as he walked away.
He quickly lost himself within the shadows of the alleys. The boy had fallen unconscious, either due to the smoke, shock, pain; it was most likely a mixture of all of them.
Due to the boy in his arms he walked a lot slower than he was used to, trying not to jostle the child too much. A block from their destination a dead end rose to create a barrier. He sighed in annoyance before tensing his muscles. Like a snake striking he uncoiled, launching himself at the side of the alley. His feet only touch for a moment before he connected with the other side and finally plunged over the other side of the fence, landing lightly on his toes.
In the time era before he would have been considered an assassin or some other plausible explanation, but this new world no longer took condolences in a stable reality, now they believed in evil of Satan and the shadows. To them he would have been thought of as a demon, not that it was very far from the truth.
He straightened up and made his way to an abandoned bomb shelter. The boy was laid on the bed inside and the door was locked firmly against bandits and gangs.
Taking a deep breath and feeling as though his work was done for time being he collapsed onto a rotting couch, ignoring the rusted springs that threatened to break his skin and infect him. He closed his eyes and threw an arm over them.
He felt weak, drained, and shaky. It had been quite a long time since he had felt so much emotion. He wasn't use to it and it had settled a thick fog over his bewildered mind, numbing him. Slowly he tumbled into a dark oblivion, not sleep, but similar.
The rustling of sheets brought him unwilling back to his senses. He opened his eyes, moving his arm to his forehead to allow light to enter. The ceiling was the first image to register in his mind. His eyes wandered from that to the bed that stood on the opposite side of the room. The boy was sitting up, his confused eyes trailing over the room. They boy's eyes meet his and he watched as the dawning of a memory lit up those dark brown eyes.
"W-what h-happened?" the boy's voice shakes with tremors.
He chooses not to answer, instead watching as the boy slowly turns his palms to the ceiling. Two bloody holes still gaped there. The boy bites his lip against the sight, cupping a hand over the wound to hide it. A minute later the hand revealed skin unmarked. The boy does this to his other wrist, and then his legs and feet. Once the boy is done he looked expectantly at him.
Not sure what to say he shrugged. Good job, kid,"
"Who are you?" the boy asked.
"Doesn't matter," deciding he is bored with this conversation he closed his eyes again, resting his arm over them.
The boy fell silent for only a moment before piping up again. "Why did you save me?"
He shrugged, not giving an answer to that.
"My name is Hikaru!" the boy volunteered, making another stab at conversation.
He opened his eyes a slit, observing the boy. At a first glance he was adorable, dark brown hair with a dusting of cinnamon hues, skin was tanned from the sun, huge, childlike bambi eyes blinked sweetly at him, framed by dark eyelashes. After taking another glance all the imperfections glared back; the hollowed out cheeks and eyes, making him look like a raccoon, his pencil thin limbs, every bone clear underneath the skin that seemed to hang off of his frame.
His eyes roamed over the boy, looking for one particular mark. He paused as he saw thin black lines peeked from beneath the rags that clothed him.
In one fluid movement he was on his feet and moving towards the boy. The boy gave a startled scream, surprised by his saddened movement. He grabbed the rags that covered the boy's upper body and strip him of them.
Underneath was a series of black lines that marked his back, neck, and ribs. The lines drew designs of what many see when the term alchemy comes into mind. A complicated series of circles, diamonds, and lines made an intricate pattern on the boy's skin, marring it for life. His finger slowly traced one of the designs as his mind raced ahead.
"Yamino Hikari…" he finally whispered. This was the boy he was looking for.
The boy puffed out his cheeks and pouted. "No, my name is Hikaru."
He shrugged, not caring either way. He crouched down besides the boy, resting on the balls of his feet. "Where's your parents"
The boy shook his head. "I don't have any parents."
"Any family?" he asked.
The boy thought about this for a moment. "Well, there are the disciples, they're like family." His youth marred the word 'disciples' neatly beyond recognition.
"Well, where are your 'disciples'?" he asked.
"I lost them," the boy said, looking away, a clear sign that he had uttered a lie.
"You lost them?" he asked, not believing his ears.
"Yes…" the boy said slowly.
Unable to help it he burst into a quick bark of laughter. Not only were the disciples being forced to babysit, they were being outsmarted by a child!
"What?" the boy demanded.
"Nothing," he said, cutting off his laughter. He stood abruptly, startling the boy. "Let's get you out of those rags and into some clothes."
The boy nodded and hopped out of bed. He walked over to a box filled with clothes and began to dig through it. The boy waited behind him, standing on tiptoe to look over his shoulder, but still too short to see anything.
He found what he was looking for and pulled it out. An oversized white shirt unfolded as he shook is loose of its folds. The boy cocked his head to the side curiously.
"Here, put this on," he ordered, throwing the shirt over his shoulder. The boy obeyed without question, stripping off his rags and pulling on the white shirt.
He looked at the boy and shrugged. "Good enough," he said, even though the shirt goes down to the boy's knees. The boy nodded and followed him back to the bed.
"Alright, get in bed and go to sleep." He said.
"Do I have to?" the boy asked. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, the fingers curled into the palms.
"Yes," he said curtly.
The boy nodded and yawned again as he shuffling into bed. He makes sure the child is under the blankets before sitting on the couch.
"What is your name?" the boy asked. He looked over at the boy.
"I don't have a name," he said. "Not anymore…" he added on, much quitter.
"Then what do people call you?" the boy asked.
He shrugged. "Heartless,"
The boy stared at him for a moment before a yawn turned his serious expression into a loopy grin. "Good night Heartless." He whispered, his eyelids already slipping shut.
"Night Yamino Hikaru," he said softly.
He watched the boy until he was certain he was asleep then he stood. His feet glided silently across the floor and out the door.
Outside it was still raining, the first beams of the sun shimmering on the horizon. A deep breath of the rain scented air flooded his lungs. Shoving his hands in his pockets he began to walk away from the rising sun, blending into the shadows. As he walked away a small ting of emotion pricked at him. Guilt.
He lifts his head to the heavens once more, his hood falling, releasing the cascade of a black waterfall that is snatched up by the wind and whips around his face.
"Sorry Yamino Hikaru," the winds tore the words from him, scattering them throughout. "Too bad I have to kill you…"