Rebirth (Kuja)

[Black Waltz No. 3]

Water dripped from his every surface. Damp feathers clumped together, dark blue, frettered patterns taking shape. He shivered. He sneezed. He was moist, shuddering, like a new born babe burst forth from the womb. His mouth was shaking, twitching out soft-bled prayers. Words, words without meaning, strung together to form garbled murmering. The impossible struggle was soon far done, the motherless beast relaxed, the placenta-waste of his life now sloughed.

Opened where his dewy eyes, fresh burning with intense white and mellowed ochre. The beast without a birth was reborn. His goddess was blown away, the flame-dancing colours on the wall gobbled up by monsterous black.

He had been alone, all night. Alone with only his mind. He had come learn a lot about himself, unable to escape inside the Goddess or be perpertually tortured by her melody. She would not come to him, nor would she ever come back to him. How could she? The unkillable? Be fallible?

He had learned to hate himself. Learned to love himself. Learned there was an I and a himself.

He resolved, he planned, he escaped. He trecked through the forest at night, owls guiding his way with their low crawing. Treno's lights attracted him like a fly to its buzzing death. Most seemed to ignore him here, he was a creature verging on death, they had seen worse. He stepped cautiously over a drunkard with white-yellow foam spewing out his mouth, his crumpled eyes staring like paper.

There where no lips to kiss. No birds singing. No steeple-topped crown.

The crown upon his head was cracked and bent so awkwardly, hanging by a mere thread and threatening to poke his eyes out. He slid into an armor shop, greated with a grunt.

"Buy somefin or geet the fuck oout."[/b] he snorted, I don need no tramps crowdin' ma st-"[/b]

His pig eyes turned wild at the small, brown money-bag tossed on his table. "Good evening sir! You are looking fine today, could I tend to you in any way?"[/b]

Three's head twitched, "A hat. I want you to repair this hat."[/b]

"Are you certain sir? We have plent-"[/b]

"I don't care about your cheaply-made produce. Fix me. Now."[/b]

So the Waltz trundled out sporting a shining new hat, his feathers still ripped and shreaded, his back still cracked and his left wrist still broken. His money depleated, he considered his options. He had nothing to sell, besides perhaps his silk pants, they where the least damaged from the journey. His robe-thing could easily be considered a dress right? He'd look a bit slutty but he could deal with that, and anyway, he was was a Black Waltz, if he wanted to walk naked around a city he damn well could.

He concluded it probably wasn't the best idea, but out of curiosity more than anything else he drew himself towards the auction house. He had the slightest hope that a staff might be for sale, perhaps an Oak or High Mage Staff, for the very little gil he had remaining. He mourned the loss of his old staff, the wounds quickly healing.

The nobles tutted and stared, but stil he held his head high, prentious eyes narrowing beneath that ostentatious hat.

[Kuja]

Despite all signs indicating otherwise, Kuja knew very well he was losing his mind.

Or lost. Or could lose. Actually, there wasn't much he knew except that this wasn't the way he used to be; he had a brilliant mind, an intellect far surpassing any other living thing on Gaia or elsewhere, and the cunning to take the whole wide world into his own two hands and mold it the way he wanted. He could even crush it into dust, if he so desired -- he had the power, even now, or at least he had the potential.

But he no longer had the mind.

However much of a grasp Kuja had on his current situation, it was uncertain how long that grasp would hold. Every day he seemed to deteriorate a little more, forget a little more about everything he'd learned -- about what it meant to live. It just seemed too right for him to die back then, torn apart by the withering Iifa Tree's wrathful roots; he no longer had a place in the world, no crown to wear or throne to claim, nor any reason to continue existing at all. He should have died.

Should have. But like everything else, he was denied even sweet oblivion. He thought, perhaps, that at least Zidane would have stayed for him, helped him find a place in the world -- but no, no. Zidane had his own life to live. He certainly didn't need Kuja leeching off of him, after all Kuja had done; not to mention, just because Zidane had forgiven him--not forgiven, never forgiven, but gave him a second chance--that didn't mean the rest of the world would. Gaia bore too much resentment towards him; he was a monster, a despised god of death -- at the very least, a war criminal. They would execute them, with or without a trial.

He should have died, but Kuja still feared death. He had no thoughts of ending what should have ended long ago; the notion of suicide was every bit as terrifying as any other mode of death, and he wouldn't dare dream of it. But in a world that would now and always reject him, living seemed just as frightening.

Ten years in the ruins of his once-glorious Desert Palace. Ten years locked away, never once feeling the sunlight touch his skin. It was his sanctuary, his retreat from the hostile world, where he could quietly hide away until either the world forgot, or...

Or...he'd die.

Garland's words still haunted him. The possibility that he would just die -- that he would just stop, like his black mages did, and he would never be able to predict the instant that he would, put more fear in him than any other truth ever did. Sure, he doubted, he contemplated, he agonized over it, and for a short period of time he had nearly convinced himself that it was all a lie -- that Garland had intended to instill fear in him. To weaken him. To make it easier for Zidane to usurp him. Surely it was just a lie.

But what if it wasn't?

He feared the world. He feared death. Alone, without guidance, without reassurance, without anyone to speak to but himself, Kuja lost his mind. He wasn't sure when it happened, or just how bad it had really gotten, but he knew, he knew something was wrong. He doesn't remember when he realized it, if he'd noticed and forgotten and noticed and forgotten and noticed -- finally noticed -- when the cracked hourglass in his palace told him there were hours and hours and hours disappearing, and he didn't know where they went. Maybe it was when he found himself standing before his hourglass one moment, and in a blink he was before the Warring Triad, without having remembered moving there or even thinking about moving there, and finding the hourglass long run out of sand when he returned to it once more. Consciousness slipped capriciously in and out, sometimes ever-elusive, sometimes never-ending; he could spend hours with his eyes wide open and never see a thing, immerse himself in darkness and never find sleep, but he should at least remember every second spent awake. He no longer did.

Maybe it was when, in a rare epiphany of self-awareness, he realized he had been talking to absolutely no one at all. Maybe it was when he awoke with a parched throat, voice raw and tongue devoid of moisture, and realized he didn't remember a single word he'd said. Maybe it was when he started listening to his own thoughts, and no longer recognized them as his own; they sounded foreign, as if he were listening to someone else speaking to him. He was an audience to his own insanity.

It scared him.

Eventually, Kuja's desire to live and live well won out over his phobias. He did not forge his own identity just for him to lose it to something as disgustingly weak as fear. He would not wither away alone. He would not die alone.

He would live.

It still took an eternity to emerge from the Desert Palace, and another to decide where to go. He had no desire to seek out any of his puppets--his black mages--nor any of his brothers or sisters, sans Zidane. He needed Zidane. Zidane could help him. Zidane was the only one that could help him. But he could not simply waltz into Alexandria's castle and demand that Zidane be brought to him...actually, he could, but was that a legitimate thought or was it one birthed from his madness? He could not carry out any such course of action until he made a thorough, organized plan, and with his mind currently anything but organized, he needed time to think.

Perhaps he needed a little reminder of just how great a god he really was.

Treno, once his home away from home. Treno, once his miniature kingdom, with a league of loyal followers that would do anything for him in a heartbeat. He had once been their Lord King, loved by both the so-called nobles and the immoral scum of the earth that thrived under the sinful environment he nurtured in the city's underworld. Surely he would be welcomed back with open arms, even now. Surely there was still luxury he could bask in; there was still a throne and a crown with his name on them, and a full court of vassals waiting for his return. For a moment, he wondered if anyone had claimed the title of Lord King in his absence. In the next moment, he was in Treno.

Treno's darkness was a welcome change from the harsh sun that he hadn't seen in a decade. The shadows swathed him, soothed him, made him comfortable even in the lapses where he didn't know where he was. Funny, how he used to know this city like the back of his hand, and how everything screamed with deja vu, but he couldn't seem to remember any of it. The slums. The shops. The waterfront. The Stadium. The Auction House. Maybe the reverse would be true; maybe Treno didn't remember him, either. Maybe they wouldn't recognize the haggard shell he currently was; his divinity seemed hidden by the clean but unkempt hair that now flowed down nearly to his thighs, the once perfectly-polished nails that were now chipped and split and devoid of his favorite lavender hues, and the faded, stained colors of his garments that raggedly hung from his too-gaunt frame. He certainly looked like a relic of a bygone era.

But he wasn't ancient history. He would make them remember. And then he would have his servants attend to their king, their god, and restore him to his former glory. It was inappropriate for a god to look this tarnished, after all; he certainly didn't need to be associated with the usual scrounges that littered the slums, the filth that currently brushed elbows with him as he tried to make his way into the Auction House. He intended to confront the auctioneer, once one of his most trusted servants, now only a nameless face in his memory; maybe he could help Kuja yet. He would be more help than anything else, Kuja thought -- moreso than any other acquaintance, or Genome, or black ma...

black...mage.

Insomnia-ringed violet eyes widened upon sighting those wings. The darkness beneath that unmistakable hat stung Kuja's memory and made him stop dead, frozen in the middle of the doorway, staring uncomprehendingly at the puppet that still walked without strings. Time, ever a stranger and enemy to the Angel, ceased to exist; he could have stared for a minute, an hour, a day, with only the trickle of patrons counting the seconds like grains of sand in an hourglass.

black mage.

movement, emotion, music, three-four, three-four, three...

"Bird," Kuja mumbled at first, searching for the right word as he glanced his tongue over the cracks in his lower lip.

one, two, three, one, two, three, four, one, two, three...

black mage, black...

"Crow," he said, a little stronger, with far more venom; it was rotten, putrid, he should have spat when the word was on his tongue. Filth. Carrion. Unworthy.

Puppet, dancing, three-four time, three-four, one-two-three black mage black crow black--

"Waltz."

It seemed important. He didn't remember why.

Distressed, Kuja made for the stairs.

[Black Waltz No. 3]

The items rolled off the auctioneers tongue, though his attention was more driven towards that wide shark smile and slicked back hair. It was that mouth that so drew him in, those gnashing, shining teeth glaring, staring, talking, that tongue roughed and smoothed, trilling out the final item on the list that made his heart quake.

Mace of Zeus!

"Oh my, quite a fetching weapon. Would suit the banquet hall, don't you think dear?"[/b] "Oh how delightful! David would simply love it, it would go so well with his toy swords![/b] "Waltz"[/b] "Mumma, please, can we? I'm sure 30, 000 gil will sway the others minds."[/b] "Who on earth would want that piece of firewood?"[/b]

Fumbelling with the satchel, he was staring at a few thousand gils worth of coins. You would think a retired engineer would have more money lying around his house god fucking damn it. He wanted to curse and scream, to throw the satchel and let some worthless bandersnatch eat up all hollow coin.

It was as he turned to leave that his heart froze. The stars froze in the sky, the river stopped flowing, all time became crystallized. Waltz. Yes, he had heard that. Heard it in that magniloquent liquid that swelled and twined dear love and hate together. His voice was ornate, studded with opulent jewels that when cracked dripped pure pompousness that when drunk induced such powerful emotion in him.

His head turned so slow, so slowly, but he thrust it, thrust it round and saw him. It was for just a wild second, a lock of eyes that sunk and swum deep blue, yet it was most certainly him. He stared into the eyes of god, and then they danced away, flashed under a torrent of sweet silver hair.

He ran after him, sliding on the floor and practically tripping over his own feet, eyes never loosing sight of that quick swirl of silvered white. His ravenous hands reached out, body straining as it forced itself up the stairs, and he grasped it! He grasped those gorgeous, greasy tresses and pulled, snapped his head back in such a way that caused his heart to flutter. It would be so easy, so easy to cut that throat that for a moment glittered in the artificial light. Yet he didn't.

Grabbing his wrist, he forced the God against the wall with all brutality, his stinking, shivering maw oozing out petulant breath. His eyes narrowed, quickly scanning the one before him. That porcelain face seemed uncracked, and yet all other parts of him showed signs of weathering. Here once stood some grand cathedral, now tarnished by the elements, looted and robbed by theieves and witches, left a hollow shell tossed upon the sand. Yet still that face! That face remained so perfect, so unblemished, so timeless, so ageless.

His breath grew less and less panted, his hands softened and he lowered his head, slipping away from him. Love gushed through him, love for his dear, dear master who had brought him into this world. Reverence for that smirk, glory for all those painted insults, wreaths and wreaths of flowers to be ushered to his feet for every single last breath the one before him took. He reached out, monstrous hand adorned with shimmering insects snaking around the exposed bone clasping his delicate, beautiful, perfect hand.

Oh, how he despised him.

"My master... Forgive me... My mind has turned to rot, my intentions wrong. Please, please..."[/b] he dropped all arrogance, tears welling to his groveling eyes, "Fix me..."[/b]

He had been reborn.

And he had returned.

He learned to hate himself.

[Kuja]

The stairs went on for an eternity longer than Kuja had expected they would, shifting and melting under his feet without changing consistency at all. He had to marvel at each step he took, the way the marble squished unsteadily like quicksand, threatening to gobble him up, before abruptly releasing him and turning back to normal. He didn't know whether or not to take it as a hostile gesture or a welcoming one. It didn't even occur to him that he was puzzling over the intentions of a completely inanimate object, since clearly his hair was far more important and he needed someone to attend to it already, and these stairs were interfering with that. And just when he had the brilliant idea of asking the stairs whether or not they were capable or willing to be his hairdresser, it occurred to him that it took a considerable amount of trust to let someone else touch his hair, and clearly he could not trust the stairs to have anything to do with it. On he went.

Except before he could take another step, the stairs, in a desperate bid to show just how much they wanted the honor of attending to his hair, reached up and grasped a handful of it and pulled. It didn't occur to Kuja to cry out, then, only sucking in a breath at the sharp pain that forced his head back and the rest of his body to follow him in what could've easily been a tumble back down the stairs, if the wall didn't catch him first. What did he ever do to this architecture to make it treat him this roughly? Suddenly his wrist was snatched up in an uncomfortably tight cage of claws and hugged so close to the wall he almost expected the wallpaper to start suckling at his fingertips, and before he could acknowledge the scent of disease breathing down his throat, he first thought how exposed he currently was. Displeasing. He jerked his hand to try and free his wrist of the wall, turning his head to glare at it and opening his mouth to demand that the thing release him, and then he realized, walls don't have claws like this.

Puzzling. Silver brows knit together, then lifted slowly as the wide violet eyes below them took in the rest of the arm connected to the offending hand. That's when he noticed the scent, like matted rat-kings in the sewers, like peaches rotting in mold-wet troughs, like burning refuse and fresh offal and the pungent waste a body ejects along with its soul, and what little substance remained in Kuja's guts shot straight up to his throat. He gagged on the bile that he could already taste in his mouth, choked and coughed on the repulsive, stagnant air that emanated from the darkness before him, and he closed his eyes against it. What was this? This wasn't like the embrace of death he knew, the one he'd come so close to before--

And then melody overwhelmed him in three-four time. Dark and intrusive and assaulting his ears like its smell had his lungs, he had no choice but to listen, alarmed that he could taste every syllable of lyric as well as hear it. But it was sweet, like nectar from spoiled fruit, like the juice of raw, rotten meat, and he didn't reject its tones of master and mind and rot and please, please; he hadn't heard music in so long, and it was almost soothing -- like a softer, calmer version of the rush that flooded him when he took a life. For a moment, he soaked in the sugary filth, in the claustrophobic feeling of suffocation, only squirming out of the instinctive need to escape.

Then he opened his eyes, and the melody was gone, replaced with the glowing yellow-orange of molten steel. Two suns, as difficult to gaze upon as the one that had scorched him in the desert, and as they melted before him all Kuja could think was, what are they doing in Treno?

The barely-breathing, torn and wet mess of death and hatred before him was no more alive than the walls or stairs, no more likely to hurt him but every bit as likely to worship him. Artificial. Not intrinsically animate, but moving, undulating, because of Kuja's mind and nothing else. Shaking and trembling like anything would before its creator, before an Angel of Death, before a god. Kuja's ego took notice long before his mind ever did.

Fix me, it said, and Kuja lifted his head to stare questioningly at the ceiling.

"Fix you?" he said to the chandelier, "But there's nothing wrong with you." His free hand reached out to one of the oily black feathers in his peripheral vision, plucking at it and rubbing its grease between thumb and forefinger. He tried pulling it out, but it was far too slick.

"Stupid, ignorant crow," he trilled at the wing, never once realizing it was attached to the thing he should have been addressing. "You're supposed to cover your face when you speak to a god; that's what wings are for! Now unhand me, I need a bath."

For a second, he looked at the two suns again, and squinted.

"And a parasol."

[Black Waltz No. 3]

Writhing, writhing in that sea of swollen shit. She was lying there, crumpled ash-stained body, blood covered cunt. She was lying there, eyes torn asunder, lips so delicate and dripping dew. Roses would burst from her mouth, lilies from her liver. Her garden would be so fertile but ripped from her womb would be the child of All. And they would burst together.

Incy wincy little spider went up the water spout

She would sing on high, long neck proclaiming, the world aflame, her body exposed, little round pink things and that fur lined kiss of sin. Her shadow would dull the flame, her tongue quench the rain. And he'd fuck her, fuck her until she squealed and screamed and cried and wept and called for her long lost hero, and he'd take with him her soul, filling her with his engorged seed. And he'd eat her whole, black sun, like a great Zu.

Down came the rain and washed the spider out

He was broken. Truly, he was. Yet those unfocused eyes that seemed covered in a layer of dried skin, those unspoken eyes widened blue and stared away from him, told him that he was in no need of fixing. Was he blind?

The masters hand was pulled closer to his lost lips, and he kissed it, kissed it like a lost little boy. He rubbed his face against that hand, taking in all the scents of old and making his mind shrivel with hatred. "Look at me! I am nothing but a worm! My wings are shreds! My clothing burned! Save me! I am more than a useless dreg, don't you remember? I am your Black Waltz, your Number 3. I am priceless! I am your perfection! 11 years have past, you must be so happy to see your precious doll retuned to you!"[/b]

Desperation rose, the sins of old snapping in his ear, the demons that had so raised him now wailing to be abolished. They would not leave him no matter how refurbished his body, he knew, but this spine of his could straighten, his wing be spread his heart be bled.

Out came the sun and dried up all the rain

Yet then his master spoke again. The coils of his speech suddenly consumed with broken animosity. He looked up at him, rage cracking his surface. Such arrogance, oh Kuja, you are still there. He bit back, dog growling though not quite snapping off the hand that fed him, "I would prefer it be your wings, my god. Charity is a virtue that you rant on about in your scriptures, is it not? Cover my face with your healing hand. Thy will be done..."[/b]

Dirty nails were jammed into his eyes as he forced that pale white things to smooth his face. "Bath me! Cleanse me! Free me!" Though anger cracked and crawed, it was so quelled by the thunderous need to survive.

Yet he was stuck for a moment, a parasol? He released Kuja's hand, dark eyes staring up at him in sheer questioning. His face deepened, anger becoming deep set. The look in his eyes was a reflection of his own. It was of madness. God had lost his mind, there was no salvation for his Creation.

The lost little boy suddenly became a bitter old man, and he stood, stooped, glared from beneath his hat. His lips coiled. It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. He looked him straight in the eye, reflection still grinning back, "The shadow of your fall has become your parasol."

His nose crinkled, not feeling his little poetic insult was enough, "You're scum."[/b]

His wrist was grabbed, pulled even, down those melting stairs. "Come. Your chariot awaits. You will fix me. Not here. I will not be fixed in front of these bastards. "[/b]

Never. Never would he have been so bold to his master before. Perhaps it was his little rebirth. Perhaps he liked to test his power. Perhaps he was just a fool. Whatever it was, he was going to ensure his master got entangled in his shrivelled little cocoon. To his motherless womb. They where butterflies, full grown men turning back to worms and eggs. Their eyes were inverted, their backs amass with nerves unable to find brains. He would make sure that the other would revert with him, go back down and be reborn, or else crumple into oblivion.

There would be no mother to deliver them, no season to guide them.

He would either be fixed or broken by the end. Choice could not smile.

Now Incy Wincy spider went up the spout again!

[Kuja]

Antlions were biting him. Antlions, or sandpaper, or something...sand. Rough. Gooey-clingy-cold-mist-slosh-dry-desert-swamp, quicksand, suckling at his fingers and trying to bargain with him over insignificant little things like salvation. Save me, it said, in ringing tones ten thousand voices strong; all creation was speaking to him now, just as all creation touched him, molested him, crooned in his ears and pulled at his hair and blinded his eyes. Gaia crawled to him, begging for him to accept it as more than the worthless cesspool he'd determined it was long, long ago.

"No, I..." hated you, rejected you, tried to destroy you! Why are you asking me to love you, when I am the one that needs forgiveness? Silly Gaia. So backwards. But this was kind of therapeutic, in a way, having a one-on-one with the planet like this. What would Terra say, if Terra were still alive right now?

It would probably ask him for mercy, too.

But Gaia wanted to be fixed. It needed to be fixed, and Kuja was the one who needed to do just that. Kuja could wipe away all of the corruption and the sin that he had so nurtured, he could rebuild everything he'd destroyed...no. How could he? He was a being suited for bringing about chaos, for stirring up wars and causing genocides and destroying, murdering. Then who was it that was in the wrong? Who was the lesser being, the unworthy one? Was he ever wrong to destroy that which was weak? Impure? What was strength? What was sin? He was the one that needed cleansing, not Gaia; Gaia was already recovering, already fixing itself, and he...

He needed fixing.

Bathe me! Cleanse me! Free me!

And the world was still molesting his hand.

"I said, let go!" And when he jerked his hand away, Gaia jerked right back; the quicksand was consuming him, pulling him down -- was this his punishment? Was he to drown in his own quagmire? But the oil -- the feathers, the hat and the wings and the darkness and brokenness that tried to claim him, it was there. It was -- and Kuja's eyes widened, his lungs filled to bursting -- it was his own quagmire, black and filthy and everything he'd ever created on this soulless, voiceless planet; it was death, disease, famine and war, it was mayhem and madness and hatred and violence, everything and nothing and the spitting image of Kuja himself.

"You're scum."

Kuja's own nose scrunched at the exact same time, his own expression mirroring the Waltz's, as if he were the reflection and not the reality. Wonderful, he was talking to himself now. Clearly this was his imagination getting the better of him. He was hallucinating. He was far more insane than he had presumed himself to be. Oh, gods, what would Zidane think of him now? How could he ever face his brother like this, when his own reflection was so unbearably hideous and his mind was far worse?

"No," he snarled, and jerked his hand again -- found resistance -- let a glimpse of his anger turn physical, captured hand spouting flame and electricity both at once; Holy flowed through him even now, white magic crackling and sputtering in his palm and beginning to climb Three's arm in thin, blazing tendrils, threatening to burn the Waltz straight through. It was only meant to be a warning. A threat. A spit in the face, defiant and protesting, because he could not let his madness overtake him -- he had to have control.

Except Kuja did not have control.

When he exhaled, the lights went out; the candles on the chandelier all melted to stubs and fizzed out in a blink, plunging the room into darkness and sending over a hundred startled patrons into a sudden panic. Light was the fire hissing and snarling in Kuja's hands, the white-hot glow that dripped from his body like lava and literally burned through the floor in the same way; light was the arms of lightning striking blindly at the walls, and its thunder was the glass in the room shattering with an unseen force. Light was the glow turning red, flowing over Kuja's skin intangibly, threatening to bloom into feathers and fur.

Light lasted only one second.

Then the room was dark again, and the screams hushed to a dull rabble. The magic went out of Kuja, as did his breath, and for a moments he simply stood, gasping for air like he'd nearly drowned; that moment, too, passed far too quick for it to be real, and Kuja turned his back on everything that just happened as if it had never happened at all. It was only a sudden, belated realization that froze him in place. He squinted, perplexed.

"I can't see."

Annoyed, he flicked his hand at the chandelier, but he couldn't undo what he had done; the candles were gone, all cooling wax hanging off the wrought iron and collecting on the carpet and a few unlucky patrons below, and there was nothing left to light aflame. It was a frustrating and ultimately futile effort on Kuja's part, and when he finally gave up, pouting and beginning to feel the stress as physical pain, he lit his way with a single Holy orb that floated in front of him like a fairy guide.

"You don't have a say in this matter," he said to his reflection. "I cannot fix anything. Not you. Not me. Not the world. I know this, you know this, and you will not tell me otherwise; there is only one person who can, and he isn't here, and he will not see me so long as you keep talking to yourself--to--shut up!"

And the voices did.

[Black Waltz No. 3]

No No no no. NO!

That word... It was always the same. There was so little to twist, just one simple, devastating syllable. It hid nothing beneath complexity or connotation, it was just one tiny little word that he could never break. Those two small, insignificant, diminutive fucking letters could break, could deny, could burn and deny creation. He should have loved them. Should have marvelled in their power, that Nuh the beginning of despair and the Oo the fruition.

Yet to see that word tossed so brashly from his lips made him feel sick. It took all his hope and stretched it and stretched it and stuffed it into his jaws, down down his throat and filling up his belly filling it up until it started coming back up back up over his tongue and down his lips, he licks it, he licked it and then CRUNCH, he'd bite and he'd pull back his head, toss it back and rip out that shit-tainted emotion. And then he swallowed it.

Did it taste good?

He brought his hands up desperate to put them down Kuja's throat. He'd dig down his neck, push apart muscle and tooth and bone until he found his hope lying there rotting in his belly. He'd tear open his lips to make a hole big enough for him to squirm down, so he lunged, he lu-

He stopped. H... Holy? The white blue stink crawled up his arm, causing his skin to prickle and goose-bump, his fingers twitching. The mana pools deep inside moved towards his arm, desperate to feel such magnificent magic power infused inside of him, or desperate to rid such repulsive white magic from his system. . Such was the strength and power of the heated white that fire almost bloomed from his own skin, that lightning almost thundered free and blizzard to freeze him in place.

You are not immortal.

Sanity quickly white-washed over him, fear blazing in his eyes. He retreated with his hands firmly held at his sides, his wings shaking slightly. Even as blank darkness surged over him, still warmth prickled and burned. The stairs threatened to break and there stood but one held high in translucent white, a god whose skin glowed with Holy power even in the shattered black. He could not help but to feel the need to worship, the mad desire to quote scriptures and give his body for his god. The wailing cries of the noblemen provided prayer, their chorus echoing over the wastelands of his mind.

Then the darkness plunged in all around them, the lightning flashed to but an imprint scared on his brain.

He is not immortal.

He gazed at the ethereal orb that gleaned between them. He had enough magic to conjure that, enough magic to summon the Holy Thunder, and yet he could not spare some of that glittering goop to salvage his favoured doll? Fear resolved into rage which resolved into fear.

In his panic he threw himself towards his master, hands reaching up to his face and clasping it, claws lightly scrapping at his ear opening. "You can see, you can feel, you can think and you can fight. Look at me!"[/b] He wrenched his head towards him, " It is those screaming fools who cannot see! I am your blood, your skin, your magic, you breath. I am your reflection and I am telling you that you are a Prince without a crown. We are Princes, we are gods, we are consumers of worlds and creators of death!"[/b] He is nothing. He is a pathetic writhing little mindless brat! Yet he needs him, he needs him and he cannot explain why. He is all he has left and is everything he cannot escape from.

Blindly, he grabbed the others back, forcing him in as closely as he could, and he gripped that silvered hair, pushing his head into his shoulder. Three spreads his wings, leaping down the tight corridor with all the strength he was given. He whispered in Kuja's ear, desperate to distract him and not have the almighty run from him. "We are one and the same. Lost sheep! We are reunited, two halves to a whole, one and one. You will become me, I'll become you."[/b] [/i]

He burst out of the door, darkness to darkness. His tattered wings snapped the air, barely able to carry himself. Yet he has to, he has to, he has to - He threw himself off the stone pathway, down towards the open sewers. He caught the air, and tumbled higher into the sky, howled on by the wind. "I will conquor the skies, you the ground below. The world shall burn in flame, all life and all death looking to us and weeping in reverence. Then we shall quell it all. We shall stop together. Oh my master, my master, what has the world done to us!""[/b] This has to work, god damn it, this has to work.[/i]

He spun, the forest eyes twinkling beneath. He dived down the mountainside, hurling towards but one small ledge jutting out over the ocean. "Love will conquer all. Oh, and how we love the world. We are it's salvation. I am your salvation. Let us merge. Let us rise."[/b] Just fix me you bastard.

He held his head tighter, his teeth sinking into his shoulder. His eyes focused and unfocused, his jaw moving and biting down harder. "We are free"[/b] [/i]

He bent awkwardly, wings breaking their fall as his eloquent legs stretched and collapsed. He tumbled, dropping his precious cargo, ripping out flesh from its shoulder. Yet he had done it. He had made it home. He coughed, writing at the taste of holy blood, of holy iron and tasteless plasma. He marvelled at how it tastes exactly as his own, exactly as any animals. God was one with them.

"This is home. This is were we shall be fixed. Together."[/b]

[Kuja]

His other self was insistent. Incorrigible. After only a moment's repose it returned, urgency in its voice, tangible in the clawed, stinking shadows that captured his face; Kuja stood still, determined to be unmoved by the terrors that surrounded him, and at once slipped out of focus. Glazed-over violet eyes peered at the few sources of light that remained, flitting from the purity of the blazing white Holy orb to the tainted twin suns of Three's eyes and back again; for a moment, Kuja ceased to realize he had a himself, thinking only about what he perceived, what he felt, and how amazing it was that his insanity could feel so real.

How amazing it was that he could feel so alone, surrounded by everything he'd ever made.

You can see, his creation said to him.

I can see you, Kuja affirmed, knowing he'd be heard without even moving his lips, because his creation was himself and it was all in his mind and if he spoke it would listen, just as he listened to it speaking to him now.

You can feel,

I can feel you.

You can think and you can fight.

Silent for an endless half-second, Kuja wondered if he really could think. Thinking seemed to require something more than simple observations, statements, questions. Thinking seemed to be an ability he'd lost back at the Desert Palace. If he could think, he couldn't be sure he was the one doing the thinking; from this conversation, it seemed like his shadow was doing all the thinking for him. That would not last forever; Kuja would regain his kingdom at the drop of a hat, if only given the chance. Determined: I can fight you.

Look at me! And he felt his body move, and his eyes focused on illuminated darkness; the oil of Three's feathers shimmered in Holy's light, black and blue and solid, and Kuja would have reached out to touch it if he didn't suddenly fall back into his own body like a corpse repossessed. Clarity seemed to come just within reach, if the look on his face was any indication, because for a moment he seemed to realize that Three was different and real and here and someone else, someone else entirely, not a figment of his imagination but a part of reality -- the real reality--

And then Kuja remembered that he was crazy, and he smiled.

It is those screaming fools who cannot see! I am your blood, your skin, your magic, you breath. I am your reflection and I am telling you that you are a Prince without a crown. We are Princes, we are gods, we are consumers of worlds and creators of death!

How cute, Kuja responded as his lips turned up into a sneer. You would try to convince me otherwise. You seem to think I don't know better, Me.

The darkness seemed to claim him then, hungry and tight and possessive, and it whisked him away from the real world with a bound and a leap. When Kuja's feet failed to find the ground, not even the liquid-gooey staircase that wanted so badly to swallow him a few minutes before, he instinctively knew it wasn't real. He had simply blacked out again, and this was a dream and it would be over as soon as he beat his other self into submission; his body was lying somewhere, he would wake up and restart where he left off, and he just hoped, would have prayed if there were a god that would listen, that he didn't wake up in the Desert Palace. If he made it to Treno, it was progress. If he made it halfway there, it was progress. If he had collapsed in the desert and died right now, consumed by sand or sun or Antlion or the world itself, it was progress, but if he woke up at that damnable hourglass again he swore he'd leave the whole continent in flames.

Light dissipated when he could no longer concentrate on his Holy orb, and greeted him again in something closer to neon, glittering brighter and louder on the city streets. The voice was louder, too, hissing so close to his ear that he could feel its spit on his skin, and idly he reached up to wipe it clean. It wasn't real, but it disgusted him. He needed a bath.

And a parasol.

Briefly confused at having to correct his own line of thought, he missed part of what his himself had to say, but his himself kindly repeated itself once Kuja came back to consciousness. And again, the second time. And again the third, and it patiently waited while Kuja wondered how much time had passed in Real Reality while he was slipping in and out of time, before repeating itself a final time and continuing: it spoke of conquest, of death and destruction and sorrow and fear, of all the things that would have gone straight to Kuja's cock a decade ago.

We are one and the same, it said. Reunited, two halves to a whole, one and one. You will become me, I'll become you.

Darkness did not let go when Kuja found the strength to struggle. It did not let go no matter how much he twisted, jerked, jolted, thrashed, screamed -- except he didn't scream, couldn't scream because his throat wouldn't allow it. In his mind, he screamed. In his mind, it was someone else screaming entirely; he wanted to hear his himself scream, wanted to direct all the agony and suffering and death unto his worse half, but he couldn't do a thing. He wanted to hear his own self scream, in suffering, in desire, in triumph, but he was far too weak. Too damned weak. To Three, the only sound that came from Kuja was a snarl, one that faded into a frustrated whimper when he realized just how helpless he really was, but to Kuja, that sound was a roar.

I am your salvation, it said, and then pain ripped through Kuja's shoulder in a way that did make him scream; his breath left him in a voiceless whistle, knifed back into him when the pain increased, and when it finally hit him that the pain was real and he needed to fight, to return the anguish tenfold with a spell or spit or just tear his himself limb from limb bare-handed, it tore away from him with a parting nip, leaving a red ring on Kuja's shoulder that bled red rivulets down his clavicle. The ground claimed him then, remorselessly hard, slamming into his arms and knees in a way that scraped him open where his sleeves and boots didn't protect him; Kuja was back with Reality, but he wasn't sure who won.

If it weren't for the blood dampening his shirtcloth, he wouldn't even be sure if there was actually a fight; even now the memory of it seemed to slip away from him, leaving the evidence to instill a sense of danger in him. The smell of blood aroused his fear, only because it was his own--but smelling it reminded him of all the things he loved about--

--and then it rushed back to him in a flood, the scent of charred flesh, of blackened bones and boiling blood and rotting brains, the screams of fear and anguish and sorrow, the light of life disappearing from the eyes of a child--

When Kuja's hands fisted in his hair and he brought his head down to curl up into a ball, he ended up slamming his head so hard against the ground that it actually knocked some sense into him. For a moment. The pain there, at least, distracted him from his own memories, and the roots of bloodlust withered in the aftermath. Then he just breathed, chest heaving, retching now and then like he wanted to physically reject his mind and memories both.

"This is home. This is where we shall be fixed. Together."

When he sniffed, he smelled the earth, wet and moldy and full of life. He smelled the ocean, briney and salty and full of life. He smelled the air, different here than in Treno, and everywhere was life, except this pocket of death that loomed above him, his constant shadow. One after another, he pulled his hands beneath him and pushed the ground away, lifting his torso up--flinching at the sharpness of his wound--until he could rest on his knees, still doubled over, but rising.

Still crazy, but aware.

"No, it isn't."

He took a long time to speak, and a longer time to figure out where he was exactly. He didn't know, and that was as much as he could gather; now he wondered just how real his shadow was, if it really was incorporeal and it really did kidnap him just now, really did bite into his shoulder, or if all of it was his own doing--his himself's doing--and the injury was self-inflicted. It wasn't impossible. At least here, though, he was away from everyone else; if something happened, if he did lose control completely, perhaps the death toll wouldn't be so large.

He'd begun his journey thinking it was time to start changing. Now, as he sat up straight and looked directly into Three's eyes, he wondered if it wasn't too late.

"It can't be home. I don't have a home." Delicately, his fingers ghosted over the bite, feeling warm and wet slick their tips. "And we can't be fixed. Not here. Not by you or I."

He thought, for a moment, of straw-gold hair and a lopsided smile, of innocent blue eyes full of hurt and forgiveness and anger and love and everything and nothing. That was salvation. He forced himself onto one knee, then rose to his full height, stumbling in place when his foot found uneven terrain. Sparks sprawled along his wrist, bursting from his fingertips when he raised his arms in a purely theatrical gesture, stilted in the same manner as a fledgling actor learning his part.

"I know what you are. I know your intentions. And I'll tell you now, I won't allow any of it." His smile came easier this time, more natural. "How you came to be--how I let you come to be--is a mystery, but you shall not have me. I am not the Angel of Death of a bygone era; I am not you. And whatever you are, Imaginary One, you will not become me; I will give you no quarter in my mind, my heart, or my soul. I will give you no quarter on this planet."

The sparks turned to dual flames, roaring to life and whirling in circles around his hands; the red-orange glow they cast upon his face made Kuja look nothing less than demonic.

"Come. We'll soon see which one of us is real."

[Black Waltz No. 3]

Pebbles rolled from beneath his feet as he arose. The ragged puppet seemed to forget his strings. A smirk dared cross his empty features and his hips swung in tune with arrogance in his stride. Elation rocked his body, raising his shattered soul from the ashes and swelling it to the brimming. His soul squeezed through his lips and overspilled into mocking laughter.

It was that infectious whimper that had so saved him. That tiny cry like a dog being crushed beneath his boot. It had been a liquid mesh of fear and hate and love and emotion, so delicately tangled and flowing through a hoarse throat. And it had spilled from him! It was spilled out over the lips of a cruel master whose tongue was used to richer things, a tongue roughened by snide and hatred and embellished with mock compliments, not one to be replaced by the flopping tongue of a begging dog. Yet he had heard it, so loudly and clearly whining out from him, wheezing out from those weak little lungs. It was that noise that so devastatingly aroused him . He wanted to hear it again, and again and again till those lips cracked and turned to dust in his hands.

Then he screamed, he SCREAMED. How many nights beneath the two coloured moons had he spent alone in his chamber dreaming of that noise? How many nights had he yearned for it to wash so eagerly and hungrily over him? How many throats had he heard from animal and mage quiver out that same mocking noise, and yet, how many could even come close in comparison with that pain wretched sound? Only once, only once had heard anything come nearly as close. It had been a larvae in the soiled earth, struggling and squealing as the rock he held crushed deeper into its lower body. Oh but, his masters cry was all consuming, all burning and all mighty.

He skipped and practically danced around his master, his words bearing no effect on him. He cared not at all about his broken state so easily did arrogance mask his every movement. "You are being awfully pessimistic,"[/b] Dare he say it? "Kuja"[/b].

He had a name. A useless, drivel filled name that gave rise to connotations of far off lands and mystery, of jewel embedded necklaces and chambers covered in soot and shit. He racked and raved against the bearing of his number, No.3, what a useless and pathetic title. He would prefer to simply be it so as to not be filtered in with categorisation and connotation, wherein he could be assimilated by both nothingness and infinity. No matter. In time not so long from now all of life would quell to a land of no thought, no feeling. Infinity would shrink.

His passion played out into a speech, "Kuja. Kuja, I am your home. These wings where built to give you shelter. Reject me all you will but I will make you see and I will make you crawl to me on hand and foot, grovel to me as your saviour. I will breath into you and make you whole, and you shall breath back and send my wings to outstretch heaven."[/b] And then he would snip off the dogs tired little lungs.

He did not care for the flame that burned in Kuja's hand, nor the ominous black clouds that ate up the sky behind him. He leapt and cawed, "This planet wanted no quarter from your soul, no quarter from your heart, no quarter from your mind. Yet you tunnelled out its core and filled it with your thick black children. You ploughed out her heart and soul with your derelict mind and yet... Look around you, Kuja. Look around you. Where are your children? Where is the pestilence and plague, the death and war? Where is the windmill? Where is the windmill Kuja? Its turning, turning round and round still in your mind but you have no grain to churn out. No half-bread-baked black little mages. You are the epitaph to the bygone era. Give up your mantle."[/b]

He lunged, talons pointed towards his masters stomach (does he ever eat that belly is so thin). He would rip and tear and shred and slash until he fell to his knees, bleeding out his cuts and praying for the curaga to taste his skin. Then the white stuff would flow and dance around them both, melding those bloody chasms together with bridges of flesh. The white magic would soon taste the black mages tongue as he licked it off from his chest and it would swarm like holy fire in his gut and wretch his bones in place and fix the broken doll.

He would he would he wou- AAAAAAAAGH

The beast fell to his masters feet, head grooved into the soil. He could hear the roar of the ocean just a few feet beneath. He tried to focus on that roar while holding in his cut, shrieking in agony as if on fire. His skin prickled and moaned in holy pain as his gut tossed and turned. His eyes closed and rolled, the dedicated scream still tearing out his throat. He scrabbled to his feet, his eyes wild and aflame with fear.

He shook his head, breathless wreaths of air escaping him. Her face seemed to meld with his skin and bubble from his pores. Her voice oozed over him like liquid metal and ripped at his ears. Her eyes were dark like shadows and stretched to the heights of the cavern walls. Laughter squirted in his mind, burrowing out behind his eyes and hollowing him out like an apple.

"Three, two, one, and poof! Away you go! Gone forever my silly Number Three."[/b] [/i]

He stamped his foot and flung his hands against the floor like a child having a tantrum. He tore at the earth and the entrance of the cavern, claw marks scraping white chalk upon the grey stone. Never had he creased and wailed so loudly. "NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"[/b]

Three days. That was what that awful twinge had foretold. 3 days. In all he had spent 365 awake, four thousand and seventeen asleep. And now all that remained was three. How poetic. How ... How...

He broke, yelling and cursing, spitting and crying. He turned so maliciously and broodingly towards the other, dark wings shaking. He screeched, "Who is your saviour!?"[/b] He leapt towards the other, threatening if he did not stop it to grasp his throat and throttle it until he squeezed out the answer, "WHO IS HE?![/b]

All hope in the world disintegrated and dusted round Kuja's mouth.