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dreadfulbeautiestitle: story carries on, lonely, lost inside
pairing: one-sided rien/shiomi yoru
prompt: "empty" (from a list of various otp prompts)
rating: t
warnings: implied child abuse, child death
word count: 1,132
ao3
The photograph: Rien with his back to the wall, white hair blending in with paint of the same color. Pale robes cascade over his sleek black suit. It is taken mere hours after he stumbled out of the operation room, trying to glance down at the scar tissue on his chest with flickering eyes (the anesthesia had not quite worn off, the sting of soreness would set in days later).
The Index welcomes their Proxy into the web they have crafted, a web that spreads throughout the City—spinning, spinning, spinning, the poetry of truth persisting in the wake of shiny lies that glitter neon. Rien likes this photograph, though he is fond of all photographs. Photographs are naked with transparency where words are not; imagination is a dewy blur in his head.
When he redresses for the night, he will run his fingers over the neat scars on his chest and smile. What—who—he used to be is cut away, only the man he truly is remains in the wake. This is reality in its finest, most beloved monochrome.
For this Prescript he is given another photograph—a snapshot of black-and-white domesticity in its subjects. Rien studies them, for all of them exist outside of time—flickering, uncertain, spider’s threads tangled in a mess that should be a tapestry.
The man: he is tall and sharply-dressed, with short black hair. His sleepy dark eyes are bright, gloved hands fixing his tie. Relaxed, mellow—a charcoal sketch that has not yet been torn to shreds Rien is to model himself in the image and story of this man, take his place on the tapestry in sync.
The woman: she is beautiful, Rien thinks, like moonlight (where Shiomi Yoru—the Dihui Star whom he has brushed elbows with—shines bright, a supernova). Long, tidy hair shining milky, opalescent under an artificial light source. She is smiling, dressed in black. But where black is a funerary color from decades long before, her eyes are the same shade as some faraway summer sky.
This will rot away under crumbling piano notes, just as Rien will someday.
So he dyes his hair in black, dresses in the same color. Another web spun, another egg sac from Hermes shall come to exist.
The photographs are important, the Index whispers. They act as a perfect copy of the Black Silence’s life—where is vengeance without the spark of treasured bonds to stir it into fire, after all? Henceforth, there are three photographs he takes when fulfilling this Prescript.
Photograph one: It ends up crumpled beyond repair, in the end. Rien and his wife—two souls with a third nestled inside one of them, her holding a hand over her swollen stomach. Even with the white creases, their gentle smiles are apparent. But here, he remembers to be grateful for the Index and what they have done for him.
Photograph two: dark blue waves lick the ocean shores of V Corp.’s backstreets, toppling sandcastles. He wears swimming briefs, his wife a billowing dark sundress. Their daughter charges ahead, caught as a laughing blur clutching dripping ice cream. It is the happiest Rien has been, perhaps the last truly moment in his life. This and the first photograph are reminders of who he was meant to be beyond the Prescripts.
Photograph three: Rien, standing at a cluster of unmarked graves. He summoned the tidal wave, let the waves wash away his castle—all written in the Prescripts. When he kneels before that cold stone, he lays down a cluster of red spider lilies.
Rien has felt pain in his heart only twice. The first time was staring at the charred corpses of dearly beloved Murasaki, sweet little Yoshika—beloved, beloved, beloved, gone.
The second time was staring at the red thread binding him to that apple-cheeked infant, Yoshihide, her eyes shining with unspoiled innocence.
Another photograph of a quiet night, he likes eating dinner with Yoshihide—sometimes Shiomi is there, and they are a facsimile of all those shiny, smiling families that the Nests boast about (even if she thinks she is ruined, Rien still believes her to be the most breathtaking creature inhabiting the City—her skill and beauty shines bright). But in this photo of just the two of them, Yoshihide gazes at him far more warmly.
Who would Rien be to disobey that which is divine? That is why he matches his heartbeat to the Will of the City. But in between he sits down with Yoshihide to scrape up every bite of chicken and egg with chopsticks, savory and piping hot atop the bed of sticky white rice. They never talk about their day, for no words are ever needed.
(Except it will never be enough.)
Filial piety—these words Rien remembers from a book he read aloud to Yoshihide, years ago. A child is supposed to be warm and devoted, nestled happily in their parents’ arms no matter the circumstances. A child must always follow the spider’s thread back home. He tells himself that Yoshihide will come back someday, he will greet her with a warm embrace and a Welcome home, sweetheart.
But she does not come back.
More photographs follow—daughters, both of them.
Araya, red-eyed and holding Rien’s hand—as a granddaughter would do for her grandfather. She is dressed in a violet-and-black suit to match his, stuck in the form of a woman Yoshihide’s age for this snapshot. He tries not to think of how sometimes she resembles someone in his distant past who he once gazed at with admiration. But that is fine. Perhaps if he had tried to make it up to that shining star, it would have amounted to little anyways. What matters is that though his granddaughter encompasses beginning and end, flickering between young and old, her loyalty to the House of Spiders remains unwavering.
Sora, dressed in black-and-white. She is meek and bespectacled, standing primly next to Rien. His Apprentice is a model of filial piety—while she follows the path the Prescripts lay out, her master is her top priority. Rien almost regards her in kind. She is perfect, within and outside of the photograph’s boundaries. Where Araya is colorful with a tidal wave of resentment, Sora is placid as the glimmering water of a lake.
But it is not enough.
The scar on his face still hurts even all those years later. Rien does not heal it—it is one last vestige of Yoshihide’s presence; he tells himself that one day he will welcome her home.
She severs the thread.
I have nothing but my sorrow… Hermes instructs Rien to say—
He shuts the communicator off with a click.
None of this was anything Rien was ever allowed to have—not even sorrow.
pairing: one-sided rien/shiomi yoru
prompt: "empty" (from a list of various otp prompts)
rating: t
warnings: implied child abuse, child death
word count: 1,132
ao3
The photograph: Rien with his back to the wall, white hair blending in with paint of the same color. Pale robes cascade over his sleek black suit. It is taken mere hours after he stumbled out of the operation room, trying to glance down at the scar tissue on his chest with flickering eyes (the anesthesia had not quite worn off, the sting of soreness would set in days later).
The Index welcomes their Proxy into the web they have crafted, a web that spreads throughout the City—spinning, spinning, spinning, the poetry of truth persisting in the wake of shiny lies that glitter neon. Rien likes this photograph, though he is fond of all photographs. Photographs are naked with transparency where words are not; imagination is a dewy blur in his head.
When he redresses for the night, he will run his fingers over the neat scars on his chest and smile. What—who—he used to be is cut away, only the man he truly is remains in the wake. This is reality in its finest, most beloved monochrome.
For this Prescript he is given another photograph—a snapshot of black-and-white domesticity in its subjects. Rien studies them, for all of them exist outside of time—flickering, uncertain, spider’s threads tangled in a mess that should be a tapestry.
The man: he is tall and sharply-dressed, with short black hair. His sleepy dark eyes are bright, gloved hands fixing his tie. Relaxed, mellow—a charcoal sketch that has not yet been torn to shreds Rien is to model himself in the image and story of this man, take his place on the tapestry in sync.
The woman: she is beautiful, Rien thinks, like moonlight (where Shiomi Yoru—the Dihui Star whom he has brushed elbows with—shines bright, a supernova). Long, tidy hair shining milky, opalescent under an artificial light source. She is smiling, dressed in black. But where black is a funerary color from decades long before, her eyes are the same shade as some faraway summer sky.
This will rot away under crumbling piano notes, just as Rien will someday.
So he dyes his hair in black, dresses in the same color. Another web spun, another egg sac from Hermes shall come to exist.
The photographs are important, the Index whispers. They act as a perfect copy of the Black Silence’s life—where is vengeance without the spark of treasured bonds to stir it into fire, after all? Henceforth, there are three photographs he takes when fulfilling this Prescript.
Photograph one: It ends up crumpled beyond repair, in the end. Rien and his wife—two souls with a third nestled inside one of them, her holding a hand over her swollen stomach. Even with the white creases, their gentle smiles are apparent. But here, he remembers to be grateful for the Index and what they have done for him.
Photograph two: dark blue waves lick the ocean shores of V Corp.’s backstreets, toppling sandcastles. He wears swimming briefs, his wife a billowing dark sundress. Their daughter charges ahead, caught as a laughing blur clutching dripping ice cream. It is the happiest Rien has been, perhaps the last truly moment in his life. This and the first photograph are reminders of who he was meant to be beyond the Prescripts.
Photograph three: Rien, standing at a cluster of unmarked graves. He summoned the tidal wave, let the waves wash away his castle—all written in the Prescripts. When he kneels before that cold stone, he lays down a cluster of red spider lilies.
Rien has felt pain in his heart only twice. The first time was staring at the charred corpses of dearly beloved Murasaki, sweet little Yoshika—beloved, beloved, beloved, gone.
The second time was staring at the red thread binding him to that apple-cheeked infant, Yoshihide, her eyes shining with unspoiled innocence.
Another photograph of a quiet night, he likes eating dinner with Yoshihide—sometimes Shiomi is there, and they are a facsimile of all those shiny, smiling families that the Nests boast about (even if she thinks she is ruined, Rien still believes her to be the most breathtaking creature inhabiting the City—her skill and beauty shines bright). But in this photo of just the two of them, Yoshihide gazes at him far more warmly.
Who would Rien be to disobey that which is divine? That is why he matches his heartbeat to the Will of the City. But in between he sits down with Yoshihide to scrape up every bite of chicken and egg with chopsticks, savory and piping hot atop the bed of sticky white rice. They never talk about their day, for no words are ever needed.
(Except it will never be enough.)
Filial piety—these words Rien remembers from a book he read aloud to Yoshihide, years ago. A child is supposed to be warm and devoted, nestled happily in their parents’ arms no matter the circumstances. A child must always follow the spider’s thread back home. He tells himself that Yoshihide will come back someday, he will greet her with a warm embrace and a Welcome home, sweetheart.
But she does not come back.
More photographs follow—daughters, both of them.
Araya, red-eyed and holding Rien’s hand—as a granddaughter would do for her grandfather. She is dressed in a violet-and-black suit to match his, stuck in the form of a woman Yoshihide’s age for this snapshot. He tries not to think of how sometimes she resembles someone in his distant past who he once gazed at with admiration. But that is fine. Perhaps if he had tried to make it up to that shining star, it would have amounted to little anyways. What matters is that though his granddaughter encompasses beginning and end, flickering between young and old, her loyalty to the House of Spiders remains unwavering.
Sora, dressed in black-and-white. She is meek and bespectacled, standing primly next to Rien. His Apprentice is a model of filial piety—while she follows the path the Prescripts lay out, her master is her top priority. Rien almost regards her in kind. She is perfect, within and outside of the photograph’s boundaries. Where Araya is colorful with a tidal wave of resentment, Sora is placid as the glimmering water of a lake.
But it is not enough.
The scar on his face still hurts even all those years later. Rien does not heal it—it is one last vestige of Yoshihide’s presence; he tells himself that one day he will welcome her home.
She severs the thread.
I have nothing but my sorrow… Hermes instructs Rien to say—
He shuts the communicator off with a click.
None of this was anything Rien was ever allowed to have—not even sorrow.
