fic: Fruit of The Vine
Mar. 17th, 2009 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Fruit of The Vine
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Character/Pairing: Saki, Kazutaka
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 655
A/N: 03 Cain.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
alphabet_love. Draft I circa...05? I got tired of it sitting about my folders and needed something to break the unlucky thirteen
a lot of inspiration taken from The Poison Tree by William Blake and has gratuitous biblical imagery.
A long time after the world was created, Saki was born. He was first, but he was cast away as Ishmael was driven into the desert with his slave mother Haggar. He lived hidden away in a wilderness of backstreets where rust clung to the walls creeping like ivy and slithered over pipes even permeating deep under the skin of all the inhabitants,
Hatred grew inside him, it feed on his fears and anger, drank up his uncertainty and the bruises that appeared on his skin whenever the landlord drank too much or one of his mother’s boyfriends’ would visit, their eyes glassy from the drugs that they couldn’t live without. His hatred flowered and unfurled its dragonfly wings. So small and seemingly delicate, but soon it consumed him, twisting and twining around him, choking and clinging around him. It was a bramble slowly conquering the expanse until there was nothing but itself and the walls reverberated with the sound of its breathing. And it bore fruit. It was sweet fruit, sweet as poisoned honey, for there is no food sweeter to hatred than vengeance.
Kazutaka was born mere months after Saki, but to someone else. Kazutaka was born to a silver haired witch of a woman, with her long bony fingers and curls. Her face was too still to be realistic, cold and hard as if it was etched in porcelain. She dressed her son up in lace and silken shirts, things more attuned for a doll than a son, even one as noble as him.
“That’s where you father lives ”his mother spat out, as if the words burned on her tongue, as if they were some bile or mucus that her body only wanted to expel, and she wanted nothing more than to be rid of them
And everyday Saki would pass by the gates, the intricate filigree of letting his fingers touch them, let them tarnish he thought, let them rot from the inside, let me be their spore of decay.
He imagined a tree of death, with sickly sweet fruit, the kind of fruit that mankind could fall. He imagined Kazutaka spread out there, beneath the tree and the vengeance tasting more delicious than any honey, so close he could feel it on his tongue like blood, thick as molasses and just as savory.
The day when his mother finally got about to expiring and he was finally sent to his beloved father’s house he saw that same boy and marked him for death. He looked over the frailness, the pale and sickly pallor and couldn’t help but feel smug. He was the elder, the stronger and the more worthy. Nature would take care of its own. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable gave in.
“I’m Kazutaka,” the boy said. He was a little shy, and still held tightly to his innocence like a child’s toy.
Saki didn’t respond or leave his name. It was pointless to tell tales to the dead, they would hardly remember such a thing. It would be a waste of breath
Saki stared back and thought of the many ways he would make their death artful, like the kinds of religious paintings of the torture of saints. He looked at Kazutaka and planned his brother’s death a thousand times over. A tree spread its vile roots deep in over the corpses of a family. Their bodies made the perfect food, the fertilizer for it to grow and spread its thorny branches high into the sky above.
.
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Character/Pairing: Saki, Kazutaka
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 655
A/N: 03 Cain.
alphabet_love. Draft I circa...05? I got tired of it sitting about my folders a lot of inspiration taken from The Poison Tree by William Blake and has gratuitous biblical imagery.
A long time after the world was created, Saki was born. He was first, but he was cast away as Ishmael was driven into the desert with his slave mother Haggar. He lived hidden away in a wilderness of backstreets where rust clung to the walls creeping like ivy and slithered over pipes even permeating deep under the skin of all the inhabitants,
Hatred grew inside him, it feed on his fears and anger, drank up his uncertainty and the bruises that appeared on his skin whenever the landlord drank too much or one of his mother’s boyfriends’ would visit, their eyes glassy from the drugs that they couldn’t live without. His hatred flowered and unfurled its dragonfly wings. So small and seemingly delicate, but soon it consumed him, twisting and twining around him, choking and clinging around him. It was a bramble slowly conquering the expanse until there was nothing but itself and the walls reverberated with the sound of its breathing. And it bore fruit. It was sweet fruit, sweet as poisoned honey, for there is no food sweeter to hatred than vengeance.
Kazutaka was born mere months after Saki, but to someone else. Kazutaka was born to a silver haired witch of a woman, with her long bony fingers and curls. Her face was too still to be realistic, cold and hard as if it was etched in porcelain. She dressed her son up in lace and silken shirts, things more attuned for a doll than a son, even one as noble as him.
“That’s where you father lives ”his mother spat out, as if the words burned on her tongue, as if they were some bile or mucus that her body only wanted to expel, and she wanted nothing more than to be rid of them
And everyday Saki would pass by the gates, the intricate filigree of letting his fingers touch them, let them tarnish he thought, let them rot from the inside, let me be their spore of decay.
He imagined a tree of death, with sickly sweet fruit, the kind of fruit that mankind could fall. He imagined Kazutaka spread out there, beneath the tree and the vengeance tasting more delicious than any honey, so close he could feel it on his tongue like blood, thick as molasses and just as savory.
The day when his mother finally got about to expiring and he was finally sent to his beloved father’s house he saw that same boy and marked him for death. He looked over the frailness, the pale and sickly pallor and couldn’t help but feel smug. He was the elder, the stronger and the more worthy. Nature would take care of its own. It was only a matter of time before the inevitable gave in.
“I’m Kazutaka,” the boy said. He was a little shy, and still held tightly to his innocence like a child’s toy.
Saki didn’t respond or leave his name. It was pointless to tell tales to the dead, they would hardly remember such a thing. It would be a waste of breath
Saki stared back and thought of the many ways he would make their death artful, like the kinds of religious paintings of the torture of saints. He looked at Kazutaka and planned his brother’s death a thousand times over. A tree spread its vile roots deep in over the corpses of a family. Their bodies made the perfect food, the fertilizer for it to grow and spread its thorny branches high into the sky above.
.
