Lullaby A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 Alternate Universe story Sephy Chapter One …lost… The hem of her robe was damp, slick with mud, the end still trailing in the pond, her feet cut and numbed from where they’d broken through the thin layer of ice. Setsuka paid no notice, more intent on the steady drip from her fingers, rivulets of cooling, bitter-smelling blood trickling from elbow to the tips of her fingers, thick steady streams wearing over her skin until what was left was the shape and size of a teardrop, splattering fatly against the stone basin in front of the grave marker. The blood was drying now, growing sticky as it clung to her, freezing against her skin, the sleeves of her kimono already stiff with it. The garment itself was ruined; there was no help for that and she did not mourn the loss. Better that it be offered up as a sacrifice, something for him. She knew he would appreciate the gesture, the destruction of something beautiful to honor him. There had been so many beautiful things she’d given him over the years. It had become something of a game and a challenge. To find him something new, something worthy and befitting, each year’s birthday gift more beautiful or more extravagant than the last. Ordinary flowers or incense wouldn’t do; what blooms could she offer him that could compare to the Sakura that sheltered him? What smelled sweeter than offering of still warm lifeblood when his had been cold and frozen for so long? Setsuka liked to think he could taste it, that the Sakura let him wake from his slumber long enough to enjoy this night of all nights, the one night a year that she ventured forth for him and only him. The only him that would ever occupy her thoughts so completely. Her son. Her darling Seishirou. She closed her eyes, lifting her face, the wet chill of the night air nipping at her skin, tiny frost-biting kisses that made her shiver beneath the heavy, ornate cloth. The moon was there when she opened her eyes, nearly full, the slow rounding of it visible through the clutch of tree branches, casting silver shadows against soft glowing snow. It reminded her of him but then everything did. It was more than that, it reminded her of her own body, of the changes she’d first watched with fascination, the flat of her stomach swelling, growing plump and ripe like the first budding flowers of spring, waiting to burst, to unfurl. She seemed to remember more now than she ever had then, what it was like, those little details that she’d noted distantly, having to relearn what it was to be in her own skin. Like the slide of her fingers over her bare stomach, feeling him kick inside her, pushing upward against skin that seemed little more than a thin plastic sheath, each caress sensual, the skim of her nails against her nail too much as she broke out in a fine layer of goosebumps. Everything had been so heavy then, breasts filling out until one day she’d turned around and for all of a second, it had been a woman staring back her, a woman with a girl’s sweet face, her once delicate frame now curving, ample and ready and the irony of it all had struck her. Death carrying life, feeling it grow inside, irrevocable and demanding, far more demanding than any death she’d ever given, its tendrils as deeply in her as those of the Sakura that had blossomed for most of her pregnancy, the flowers a darker hue than she could ever recall. There were moments, seconds when she could swear she felt him with her still, buried deep and safe beneath her flesh, his heartbeat echoing in her ears, the heavy weight of her stomach almost painful, feeling as if she were going to split open, heart picking up until she was almost certain she would. Until she could almost feel him push out of her body, through her stomach this time, a monstrous, breathtaking struggle, her skin coming undone, giving way beneath his demands until he was laying against her, wet and strong, not a newborn at all but a young man. The young man he should have been. Still half inside her as he struggled to wriggle free, his breath hot against her neck and face, always whispering the same word, the one that inevitably jerked her into waking. Mother. There was never any hope of it being true, despite the way her robes were invariably open, nails digging furrows into her stomach as if she could help him along, as if her dreaming could become reality. There was never anything but the memory of that weight, of his weight, of how he should feel against her, solid and so strong, covering her body, hot lips pressed pleadingly against her ear, slick and damp. Pleading for life, for the life that had been denied him, for his chance, his chance to serve the Sakura as she did and beneath it all, Setsuka felt her own failure, her failure and the Sakura’s grief. It had never been said, not in so many words by anyone of her Clan but she felt their disapproval, the tense, clipped anger that she had not produced another heir; that every man they had sent to her was sent back, sometimes piece by piece until finally they’d stopped. Only to turn towards other, less natural methods, plying her with talk of in vitro fertilization, of letting some doctor shove a glass tube through her as if she were too infirm or barren to manage on her own, as if she wanted a mockery carried in the same womb as her Seishirou. Even now, eighteen years later, they were still pulling at her, demanding that she do something about the vacancy her son’s death had left in the family, in the fabric of destiny. As if she cared for any of those things. Setsuka knew that destiny would tend itself, it always had. There was no way to guide it, no way to shape it. Destiny simply was. You could no more direct it than you could the pull of the tide, you could only follow it. Shipwrecked as she was, she could no more abandon that belief than she could her faith in the Sakura, in what had always been and always would be. The Sakura looked after itself; it tended its keeper, and waited, just as she waited. One such as her son could not be so easily replaced. Kneeling down in front of the blue-gray stone, she reached out, dipping bloody fingers with reverent care over well-remembered grooves, as she did every year, tracing out each kanji until the name glowed wetly in the pale light. Sakurazuka Setsuka. His name was to the right of it, the one she had given him and his kamiyo, gifted to him by the priests before his tiny body had been committed to the fire. There had been no real bones to pick out, he’d been too young, the bones in him barely formed and all she’d been granted when they’d cremated him was ash, thick and cold, as if there had never been anything human in it at all. It was a poor offering, despite all her efforts, the only promise she could give to him sealed in rock and blood, as if he were her husband and not her son, waiting for the day when she could follow him, when she would see him again, lying and growing together in the embrace of the Sakura. Until that day, Setsuka had only the promise of life, left to feel it intensely, as if she were feeling it for them both, storing up memories of the sky and the wind, of the ground, and what it felt like to touch a pretty girl’s lips or smooth her hands over the strong sternum of a man full grown before she pushed her fingers through. The kill, ah that was to be savored. Savored and lingered upon so that Seishirou wherever he was would feel it, would know her love and devotion that she took just a little more time, just for him, so he could learn their ways. So that he would know that he was not alone, lost in the dark, that the Sakura which held him now was also his mother’s breast and that she would never let him go. Because there would never be another one like him. Never in a million years. *** …and found … She’d never seen the inside of CLAMP Campus though she’d heard stories, half-truths and whispers, snatches of a hundred different idle conversations and hidden in printed words. Setsuka knew the wealth that was behind it, the sweat and the blood behind the rising of each tower and the perfection of its walls. Walls that no one had ever stopped to question nor muse upon, invisible and light as air, tangible only as she’d passed through them, a spider web of glass wires and ancient spells, technomancy at its finest. Not enough to keep her out but it did give her an amusing tingle passing through those wards, toes curling in their tabi. Seishirou would have liked it here, of that she felt certain. There was so much to do here, so much to see. It was not hard to imagine these precincts filled with students, the planned walkways overflowing with voices and activity, so much to do and to see. It was not a place one could grow bored and if by some happenstance that did occur … Well, the Sakurazuka had always found ways of making their own entertainment. It really was a pity that she was only seeing it at night. “Although,” Setsuka murmured into the warm air, too warm for the season, tasting the salty, copper tang of blood on her tongue as she spoke, “I somehow doubt the invitation will be extended after this.” There was a burble, a faint bubble of air that seemed to gargle and Setsuka lifted an eyebrow, smoothing a wet hand over the well-worn leather folds of the easy chair, coming around the edge of it with one last regretful look out the latticed window dominating the wall behind her. The back of her fingers brushed against soft hair, almost shining in the dimness, curling mahogany locks seeming to glow in the faint stipple of the desk lamp. Setsuka tilted her head, watching as full lips reddened by blood and lipstick attempted to move, trying to suck in a last few minutes of air despite the gaping hole in the area where her heart and lungs should be. Chalky fingers gripped an ornamental fan, shot with gold and black lacework, golden tassels swaying gently as the other woman attempted to speak, to breathe, a fine trickle of blood splattering, collecting in the hollow of her throat. Still fighting, her other hands still trying to reach under her desk, probably for some hidden switch, Setsuka making a faint clucking noise with her tongue, sweeping that perfectly manicured hand up in hers, pressing it to her lips and stroking the back of it. “Your school is lovely though,” Setsuka continued, unaffected, conversational as if they were no more than two women sitting down to tea, “Truly, Rijichou, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life and I –“ her shoulders lifted, almost helplessly, “Well, I’ve seen almost everything in my line of work.” Glassy eyes tracked her, the body in the chair flopping, bouncing back against the leather with a wet slap, Setsuka smiling and reaching up to stroke her face, “Shh. It’s almost over now, all of it. You were very brave and I respect that. Because I respect that, respect how hard you’ve fought, I shall give you a kiss,” she leaned forward, watching those pained eyes flicker, a hand pressed beside the woman’s head, coquettish as she laughed, whispering, “I’m told I’m very sweet.” Passing her other hand over the woman’s eyes she felt another garbled jerk, leaning forward to press her mouth against those parted lips, fingers sliding over the woman’s face until she was able to pinch her nose shut. The body beneath hers flinched, more of a twitch than anything else, a faint whimper muted as they kissed, Setsuka tasting the blood on the woman’s lower lip thoughtfully, waiting until the movement beneath her stopped, her hand coming to rest against what was left of the woman’s chest. Nothing moved now, leaving her to sit back, frowning at the smear of lipstick and blood left by their kiss, tsking as she dabbed at gray-white flesh, still warm but that wouldn’t last long. Lifting her fingers to her lips, she wiped at the slimy residue there, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb, humming as she arranged the woman, lingering only when she got to the fan still clutched in her hand. Setsuka reached for it, gently opening the dead woman’s fingers, glossy nails glinting as the lamplight struck them. They were beautiful hands, white and smooth, the fingers long, almost tapering with no hint of roughage or any callouses beyond a writing indenture. Against the fan, she could only imagine how they must have looked, how vibrant and slender, flicking with a life of their own. It was the fan that interested her though, lifting it up and unfurling it with a sharp snap, the air stirring as she fluttered it, gilded edges seeming to twinkle out of painted lacquer, lace giving a satisfying swish as it moved and Setsuka nodded. It would do. It wasn’t much, more a pretty trifle than anything else but she had always been a bit of a magpie and she felt that Seishirou would appreciate something like this. Snapping the fan shut, she stretched, hand brushing against the outer edge of a frame to her left, wobbling back and forth until she caught it, picking it up and smoothing her thumb over the fine wooden frame. She smiled at the three boys in the picture, the blue-haired boy in the back glowering at two others, one blond and the other raven-haired, the first boy’s eyes softer than his expression led one to believe. Tracing a nail over their faces, she couldn’t help but notice the fan in the blond boy’s hand, resting against his lips as he gave the camera a secretive smile, blue eyes alight. She glanced at the fan she’d claimed, setting the picture down with one last lingering touch before straightening, hiding her prize in her obi. Skirting around the desk, she paused, hands crossed in front of her, taking in the room, the lush drapes curling around the window, just visible over the back of the chair, the woman’s head at an angle now, as if she’d nodded off, her hands resting against the chair arms, limp. The entire set of the woman’s body was loose, motion preserved, potential lost, soon to harden like amber. She wondered if he would come in here, that little blond boy with his fan, like and unlike the one she had claimed. Perhaps he was here even now, in this house, sleeping, dreaming away as he waited for another school day. Would he come in here, looking for a mother or a sister? An aunt perhaps? Knowing somehow that she would be here, maybe even thinking that she was sleeping as she might have done on nights past, the paperwork still piled and waiting to be signed on the edge of her desk. Would he walk up to her? Without knowing or realizing, somehow missing the blood staining the front of her kimono, only to rub the sleep from his eyes, that moment of realization crystallizing outward, claiming his innocence along with her life. Leaning over, she tugged the lamp pull and turned out the lights. *** She was at the foot of the stairs when she heard it, that softly shrill noise, so familiar that her heart seemed to freeze in her chest, freeze and then expand again, the breath she’d taken not enough and Setsuka gripped the banister to steady herself. The air split again and her feet were moving, drawn before she could even register that need, her kimono too heavy suddenly, too heavy and cumbersome, impeding her as she felt her way through the darkness, following that siren’s lure. There was no light here, the path beneath her feet taking a sharp turn, her hands in front of her as sight was taken, left in a pool of shadow that seemed to swallow her, the dappled play of moonlight lost here. The dark here was more than the absence of light; it was stuffy and oppressive, the air seeming to thicken around her, almost vibrating. No, she was almost vibrating, her fingers cold in a way they hadn’t been in years, cold and trembling as they felt along the smooth walls, the rasp of wallpaper and then the way it broke off giving her warning before she found the door, one that was already half open, waiting. Just as she had been waiting for so long and now she found she could do anything but as another fitful cry spilled into the air. It was a geas, a command, and enchantment, one she couldn't disobey, a rush of vertigo accompanying it, leaning just inside the door, having to catch her breath, eyes watering thanks to the flickering light a pale pink lamp in the corner spat out, harsh light that broke in and out, washing over the room in rose colors. The room itself was rather plain, as if decorating was an afterthought, an oddity given the opulence of the rest of the house. There was a bed to one side, only slightly elevated above a cot, something you would find in the servants’ quarters and it occurred to her that she might be in just that. But the crib…it was the crib against the wall, close to that winking lamp that was out of place, too fine and large to be something store bought, smacking of antiquity and use, something that had been polished and preserved over the years with loving care. It was alien here, no more belonging than she did, and yet here they both were, in this dingy cubbyhole, warmer than it was in the house beyond despite the new-ish vent she spied in the corner. Setsuka hesitated, listening to the low, choked cries, needy and insistent, almost coughing into a louder scream, one that moved her as a cold sweat broke out underneath her kimono, feeling hot at the same time, afraid to look, that this was one of her dreams, the crying too much like that one of her dreams. It was a baby. Of course it was a baby, small and delicate, skin all but translucent and she could see the fine webbing of veins running underneath scrunched features, whimpering howls seeming to resonate as tiny fists flailed. A very young infant, hair barely more than a faint thatch of dark color against its skull, a plush blue blanket slipping a little as feet and arms kicked. Blue was for boys and Setsuka was surprised at the choked half-breath, too loud for the child and too feminine, because it was her breath though her lungs felt frozen. The baby seemed to freeze, his cries dying to another whimper, face slackening and eyes moving under lowered lids, looking at her. She could swear he was looking at her, that he knew she was here, another murmur-gurgle sobbed in the back of his throat and she reached out, bloody fingers trembling as they met petal-soft skin, leaving a sticky residue of blood and gore along his forehead and eyes. Messy, but she could not stop touching his face, that curving round, too fragile and precious, just as Seishirou had been in those few, frantic moments afterward, when the world had contracted down to the heartbeat before she held him and all those after, until there had only been then, holding him, petting him, and knowing deep in her heart what loving him meant. Would it feel the same? Her hands moved for her, remembering the movements, sliding first under the head and then the body, remembering once again that surprising solidness, a weight that was everything and nothing at once, naturally fitting against the curve of her breast, cradled with care as she looked at him, listening to his muffled coos, perfect skin bearing the evidence of her touch, painted in shades of drying blood over his forehead and cheeks. He didn’t fear her at all; more than that, there was something strange, something exotic and possibility about this child, a sense of vital potency, an aura of unrealized power, just as Seishirou himself had possessed. Unchecked, little more than an echo of what he could become, but there, there and screaming across her senses, like sakura petals caught in a windstorm, the air fragrant with the sickly sweet smell of powder and baby but underneath it – underneath it – Death. “Seishirou.” It was a whisper, confused and longing, almost as loud as the echo of her heart in her ears. “Seishirou.” “Put him down.” Setsuka lifted her head, languid as her eyes swept towards the door, over her shoulder, still holding both baby and memory close, towards the door that had opened without her noticing, something that should have vexed her but meant nothing now. The woman blocking it was half-hunched over, long black hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts, the brocade of her crimson robe glowing in the half-light. She looked tired, pointed features drawn and worn, though there was a tightness around her full mouth and in the set of her hands, the way they were clenched, even around a baby bottle that hinted at danger. As did the narrowing of dark eyes, faintly blue around the fat dilation of pupils, the air in the room seeming to shift. This one for her all her haggard appearance had some power. Interesting. Setsuka smiled. “I don’t know who you are but,” The intruder sucked in a breath, attempting to straighten though it was obvious she was in pain, “put my son down.” “Your son,” Setsuka murmured, almost a question as she glanced down at him, fingers smoothing over the chubby cheeks and lips, the infant’s mouth wrapping wetly around the bloody tips of her fingers. “What a beautiful boy. So fine and healthy. My son,” She trailed off, voice dying away before returning, her smile now rueful, “he was very beautiful, too. And strong. So strong –“ “Put Kamui down,” the other woman interrupted, a shrillness creeping into the edge of her voice, panic sharpening the peril, the tension between them. Setsuka frowned, offended as she clucked her tongue in chastisement, “It’s rude to interrupt. You’ve done it twice already. I forgave you the once but twice – that’s bad manners and if there is one thing I cannot abide in any form, it’s rudeness.” The other woman froze as that last word all but snapped in the air between them, the child in Setsuka’s arms oddly quiet, cloudy blue-violet eyes scrunching at her as his tiny mouth opened and closed, his breath a gurgle-gasp. It would not take much to silence him forever, to lift her hand and smother him or perhaps just break that tiny neck. Or even easier, to just dash him against the floor, that soft warm head in her hands splitting like an overripe melon. So easy and there would be nothing this woman could do to stop her, not in time. Something jealous and spiteful in her almost wanted it, lifting the child higher in her arms, arms growing taut with unreleased energy. The woman caught her breath, wavy hair snaking around her, eyes too wide in her head, the bottle in her hand clattering to the floor. The room breathed but no one in it seemed to, time skipping for the flickering of that broken lamp, waiting. The baby yawned, sound seeming to rush back with it, sound and life, small hands finding Setsuka’s hair and clutching it, blinking up at her before closing his eyes. There was something beatific in his features, even smeared as they were with blood, beatific and peaceful, the dried tracks of his tears still visible but he wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t crying at all; if anything, he seemed content. Would her own son have been so if he’d stayed, if she’d fought to keep him? Would Seishirou be alive even now? There was no way of knowing now, not even through the most precise practice of her art. Sometimes the dead stayed dead and only in her innermost thoughts did her son speak at all. What would he say to her now, in this one moment above all others, with the promise of power, of life and death, in her hands, the burgeoning knowledge that in this there might be the solution to all difficulties? Perhaps he was speaking now, in twinges, in the way her magic seemed to flare, aura growing brighter, stronger around this child, cleaving to his own untapped reserves, to gifts that had not been explored, wanting it, the branches and roots of the Sakura digging in deep, networked deep in her skin, pulling at her with fierce resolve. Setsuka lifted her head, some of the light fading from the other woman’s eyes, resignation settling between them and she could feel the room shift, the other preparing herself. But it would not be enough. In this, it would never be enough. “I will not let you have him,” The words were a formality now, they both knew that, stupid and useless and yet required. There was a script, Setsuka felt that as if it had been pressed into her hand but it was unneeded, unneeded and unwanted. “I know. You will try.” “I will –“ “Try,” Setsuka whispered, adjusting the baby into the crook of one arm, smiling at him before lifting her other arm, sleeves pooling around her. All she needed was that one arm and the hand attached to it, that and the blessings of the Sakura and she had that. She could feel it tickling against her as if she wore nothing at all, a wave of petals, as though warmed by a summer day, clinging to her skin. “You will try. You will not win. But you will try, of course. He is your son, after all.” “For as long as you live, he will always be yours,” Setsuka continued, fingers dancing, making light, careless patterns in the air before her, “Even after both your bones are nothing more than dust, something will linger, crying, ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ I know because I am the same. You want this child but I need him. And those are two very different things.” Her fingers curled in silent invitation, the sharp tips of her nails glistening in the gloom. Come. The air in the room picked up, bit by bit until it seemed to swirl, Setsuka’s hair being drawn, caressing her face as she blinked, watching the faint gathering of energy fade into life, a dim violet that grew darker and darker in intensity, swirling like smoke, the tendrils spiraling around the other woman, who despite her obvious pain was attempting to stand erect, hands pressed together in front of her, her face dropped in concentration. The walls of the room creaked, the strain of contained power loosening some of the plaster above their heads, flakes of powder falling like soft rain. It would not be long. It was not. Her own wards came up with a flick of her wrist, bolstered by the blood of a fresh kill on her hands and the child in her arms, shielding made briefly visible as a blast smacked against it, lavender streaks dispersing over her head like weak fireworks. The other woman’s chest heaved, the cost of that obvious as she struggled to catch her breath, though the glitter of her eyes, glowing electric in the reflected surge of power promised she was far from done. “Interesting but not interesting enough. You are not in any shape to continue this.” “I will not stand down,” The words were all but snarled, the woman lifting her hands again, hair floating around her, the curls seeming to straighten with the current, her expression ugly, desperate and angry. “You will give Kamui back or I will take him.” “Kamui?” Setsuka canted her head, tasting the name, all but hearing the Sakura now, singing in the back of her mind, smug and desirous. “So you are Kamui then, Little One? No wonder I was told to kill the one upstairs.” There was a choked sob, almost a gasp except that there was no surprise on the other woman’s features, only hopelessness as Setsuka smiled sympathetically, “It was for you and for him, was it not? That she had to die?” There was no reply save another groan from the room around them as yet another blast bounced off her shields, drilling a hole in the back wall. “Careless,” Setsuka tsked, touching her lips, “Must you be so loud? You’ll upset the baby.” There was no warning, the woman silent as she launched herself across the small enclosure, a gesture born of pure desperation and they both knew it but Setsuka still flinched, almost admiring the token effort even as she tired of this pantomime. Drawing her hand back, the other woman moved to slam it against Setsuka’s wards, gathering what strength she had, enough that it might actually have broken through had she but taken into account something. Setsuka was not alone. A shriek cut through the seething air, the talons of Setsuka’s shikigami burying themselves in her attacker’s face as the bird appeared, grey wings spread wide, beating and pushing, claws staining with new blood as the woman fell backward, all her power sputtering, threatening to go out as she raised a protective arm to fend the bird off. “I think this little play is just about over,” Setsuka murmured, stepping forward, her hand moving outward, all those careless patterns now meaningful as they were traced into the air, “I do so find repeat performances tiresome.” A sakura petal floated past her outstretched hand, grazing her skin as it danced in the air before her, first one and then another and another until the air became cloying, fluttering in excitement as they filled the room like excited insects looking for a flame. Setsuka watched them, twirling about in the air, almost swarming above her head, as if looking for direction and she smiled at the prostrate woman, pressing her fingers to her lips as if in farewell. The Sakura descended, a cloud of pinks and whites that circled their victim first in wide loops then ever smaller ones, the makeshift shield the other woman attempted to throw up shattering as the magic controlling them moved faster, swift, brutal lunges as they attached themselves to her, surging into the mouth that opened to scream, into her mouth and nose, covering her eyes like coins, landing like thousands of deadly butterflies, the body beneath each petal twitching and shuddering. The baby in her arms, Kamui, stirred, opening his eyes to slits and she cooed at him, adjusting him and lifting him so that he too, could see, murmuring to him, “It’s beautiful, is it not? The way the Sakura finds renewal? That something so small and delicate could be so deadly but then perhaps you know something about that, Little One. Still, there’s so much to teach you.” “But it can wait,” Setsuka sighed, rubbing her cheek against his forehead as she edged around the body on the floor, noting with some interest the twisted set of the woman’s limbs and the faint trickle of blood spilling over her lips, an errant cherry blossom resting there, all but crimson now. “First, we’re going to take a small trip so that I might introduce you to your brother. I know you’re going to love him just as much as I do.” ***End of Chapter One Next Part return to splash page