Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3821347.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroko_no_Basuke_|_Kuroko's_Basketball
  Relationship:
      Akashi_Seijuurou/Kuroko_Tetsuya
  Character:
      Kuroko_Tetsuya, Akashi_Seijuurou, Kiseki_no_Sedai_|_Generation_of
      Miracles
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Mythology, Zoroastrian_Mythology, Desert_Fantasy,
      God!Kuroko, King!Akashi, Misanthropic!Kuroko, Ancient_Civilization,
      Curses, Contracts, Fake/Pretend_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-26 Updated: 2015-05-08 Chapters: 2/? Words: 16583
****** The Fall of a King ******
by Matloc
Summary
     Sometimes Kuroko blithely considers decimating all forms of human
     life, just to see if their precious temple shatters from the keening
     screams of their worshipers.
          “I am a god who is not meant to be worshipped, Akashi-san.”
          “Then let me be the first, the only one to worship you. Not
          as a god but as Kuroko Tetsuya. Become mine, Kuroko.”
***** Star of Myrrh *****
Chapter Notes
     I HATE YOU SPIDEY I HATE YOU SO MUCH I was gonna post this whole
     thing as a 15~20k words oneshot but I just realized the first 8k
     words are boring as hell so I'mma just throw out the intro arc as a
     first chapter so people can skip this trash chapter when I finish and
     post the rest of the fic.
     WHICH IS WHY I'M GONNA MAKE YOU SUFFER SPIDEY HAVE FUN READING THIS
     TRASH IT WILL MAKE U END UP SCRATCHING UR EYES OUT I HATE YOU SO MUCH
     FITE ME R.I.P. BRO ILY <3333
     sorry for making you all go through this wall of text (of trash)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
 
 
The blessed land of Rakuzan is known for a great many things. One being its
new-found prosperity. It bathes in its opulence of yearlong harvest, with its
people sharing just as much wealth in the kindness of their hearts. They can
only thank their king for it all. Having only recently broken free from a
reign that rode on the backs of youth and banked on the sweat and blood of
warriors, the sand roads now sing with praise unto their savior:
With a name befitting an emperor he came riding with a flag that took the veil
of blood from his hair and his eyes and draped it over the pillars of the
Imperial Court. And as every wretched man fell on his sword, the people watched
and called it the Coming of Hushedar. For the man named Akashi Seijuurou
heralded the fate of their ruler, written in scarlet.
He came leader of four, was crowned savior of thousands.
Like infant sun rays breaking through a dying storm, Akashi brought back
their halcyon days with his arrival. On a snowy steed leaping through desert
sands. The people were so mesmerized by its white mane that it became a symbol
of good fortune. They weren’t mistaken. It rained down on them and resurrected
their barren fields, gave birth to spring. Washed away the seeds of tyranny
until the only scars that remained were impressions of ink on yellowed paper.
So bloomed the kingdom of peace under King Akashi’s rule, unfurling itself into
the vast reaches of unknown lands and smaller nations. Many great men visited
his court with lavish gifts on fagged out mules. Only to be humbled in the
presence of the grand ruler, when they saw a god amongst men—
Or so the legend goes.
In his own eyes, Akashi Seijuurou is but a common man. When he looks
in the mirror, all he sees is human flesh and muscle, nothing like the golden
effigy standing on guard in the middle of town square.
He strongly opposed their gestures of idolatry, but the townspeople’s
insistence won out as he was reminded of his mother, who often told him to
receive every gift with honor. So he relented with a gracious smile and the
city’s best sculptors came forth, hammer and chisel at the ready.
That still does not temper his reluctance to go down in history as a glorified
king, whose number of worshipers is far greater than his feats. Never mind that
he initially tried to reject the crown, offering his right-hand man—one
Midorima Shintarou—the reins instead. That was also a failure and Seijuurou has
since then decided that his men were getting too disobedient.
Seijuurou sighs as he reaches the end of the hallway, hand resting on cold
metal. He pushes forward and the sight that greets him still manages to
momentarily blind him, even after having been here several times. The throne
room lies in the heart of the palace, a nexus connecting all important rooms,
including his chambers. Which is why he often uses it as a shortcut. It is a
rather convenient hub, normally occupied by several court officials since he
holds regular meetings to discuss reformation policies and solve local
conflicts.
The upcoming lunar festival brings slight changes to the itinerary for the
week, however. When Shintarou debriefs him on the important traditions observed
by the kingdom, he finds an opportunity to give himself some much needed space.
Hence comes the announcement of the king’s approval of the planning
committee. He gives leeway to all palace residents to participate, which
somehow translates into endeavors to hold the biggest feast yet.
 Commemorating their freedom from a millennium of hiding behind locked doors
and screaming gallows.
The throne room now only opens to the king. He is glad to see that the guards
have listened to his orders and stayed out of the room. He sees no reason for
an empty place to be guarded, and the sober men dare not question their ruler. 
Though Seijuurou does understand their worry. The throne room is, as one would
expect, a touchstone of the sheer opulence his kingdom boasts. A magnificent
hall built in gold, every inch of floor to ceiling glittering yellowish metal.
Silver lions stand against the pillar, only a recent addition made in honor of
the new king. They have jewels for eyes, glimmering rubies. Nothing more than
gaudy pieces of decoration, but the council argues that they embody the bravery
of their king, much like the royal beast itself.
He is called a heroic figure, yet he is worshipped like a god.
Ridiculous.
He stops when gold shifts to blue, head snapping up to see, sat upon the red
carpet steps, the gilded throne meant for him and him only. 
It is being occupied by another.
Seijuurou’s eyes widen as he takes in the lithe form relaxing on his throne.
Sitting cross-legged, he holds the sky in a messy crown, fine
locks brushing across his forehead. He is wearing a form of dress Seijuurou has
never laid eyes on before. A black necklace glitters metallic around his neck,
diamond-shaped onyx stones hanging from the twisted wire. A similar shade is
draped over his shoulders in a sleeveless tunic that barely reaches past his
midriff. There are bands on either wrist, looking thick and heavy, like cuffs.
Seijuurou’s gaze lingers a little too long at the exposed skin, a marble
torso teasingly dipping into harem pants, and he sucks in a breath when the
person finally opens his eyes. Those eyes—they evoke a faded memory from
within. 
Seijuurou was but a waif when his mother took him to a farm that was matted
with an endless sea of blueberries. When his fingers  encircled a stem and
plucked his first berry. He remembers making a face saying how bitter it
tasted, but his mother just laughed and picked a bigger one.
He remembers how there was sweetness, a tang that washed over his tongue. It
exploded in his mouth with a liquid drizzle of sugar, and a sourness that
pinched his palate and made him suck his cheeks in, prompting another
exuberant laugh. That was the last time he heard it.
As he looks into those foggy blue eyes, he feels the scintillating pricks on
every taste bud. Slowly, a familiar taste fills his mouth.
For the first time in sixteen years, after wiping clean any sensations linked
to his mother from the door to his memories. The ones that tasted sweet and
sour and the drip of everything in between.
He remembers.
And after a second has passed, he forgets. He wills himself to reality.
“That is my throne you rest on.” He speaks, voice ringing clear in a steady
tenor. It betrays no agitation, no indignation.
The blue-haired man raises his leg from on top of the other, most likely to
straighten his posture before the king.
Seijuurou beats him to it, “You need not get up.”
The other man raises an eyebrow at that. “I wasn’t.” His reply cuts through the
air swiftly, yet his voice remains soft like he holds not even a shred of
impudence in the venom of his words.
With the way he sits on the throne, leaned back and comfortable as his hands
play with the intricate carvings on the armrest, Seijuurou thinks the blue
haired man looks very much like an emperor himself. It is his turn to furrow
his brow as he regards the man with a curious spark. “Those are not the kind of
words I would permit to come from the mouth of someone who’s taken the throne
of another,” he challenges.
“A stolen throne belongs to none,” the other retorted, sapphire glinting in his
eyes. Blue strands fall over his eyes as he traces the intricate grooves of the
gilded throne, his mouth curling in what looks like distaste. “You may possess
it, but presume not in your foolishness that you are its owner.”
Seijuurou stays still a moment, only the slight widening of red eyes giving
away his shock. Never once has he been received like this before, not even his
royal guard, all of whom have built with him the trust of a harsh decade.
Not even they have the gall to look upon him from above.
The frown marring Seijuurou’s face would have scared away any lesser man, but
this one simply stares back, impassive as he is ice.  "I suggest you hold your
tongue, should you be left at my mercy.“ His hands are already reaching for his
sword, which he always carries with. He quickly grabs the silver hilt.
Someone else’s hand forces him to push it back down when he tries to unsheathe
it. It happens in the blink of an eye, his sword—
"Nay, Akashi Seijuurou, you are at mine.”
It turns to ice.
No, perhaps it is more apt to say that it has been encased in ice. But that
still flays his warrior’s composure into an incredulous look. To have reached
him so lightning fast, nothing else can explain it but a jump in time.
“Who are you?” he asks in an instant.
“I was once known as Kuroko Tetsuya, in a time unknown. Now I bear the title
of Dahaka.” His grip tightens and Seijuurou feels a ghostly chill raze through
the nerves in his arm. “Young king, I am your death.”
Seijuurou rips his hand away from the stone grip, “You dare threaten your
king?”
He doesn’t move from his spot, however, and the man—no, he is no ordinary man,
that much has been made clear—leans closer. “It is only a message. You are not
my king. A god serves no king.“
"God? You are?” Seijuurou’s mind cannot register what he’s hearing.
“I’m a god. One who has been long forgotten,” he explains, but Seijuurou only
brings his hand to his blade again.
He’s forced to look down at his hip when the ice numbs his skin. It isn’t just
some inexplicable form of trickery then, though the shorter man looks too
refined to be a court jester in the first place. His sword is frozen, and even
in this desert heat it glitters white, not dripping in the slightest.
The other—what did he call himself? Dahaka?—glances at the weapon he’s rendered
useless. “That is not ice.”
Akashi grunts, “I figured as much.” He looks up into blue eyes, “I see, you’re
truly a god?” He asks, his muscles finally relaxing. Not once did the
Dahaka—whatever that may be—actively threaten him, and it is clear he cannot
use any physical means to overcome this being, should the need arise.
The Dahaka nods, “I am also the guardian of this throne you so cherish.”
It sounds like a thinly-veiled jab, so he replies, “It is not the throne, but
the people that I have come to love.”
“Hmm,” the Dahaka tilts his head in thought, “I suppose it is mere human folly
to indulge sycophants.”
In an instant, Seijuurou is speaking right in his face, “God or no god, I will
not have you mocking my people.” It matters not that his frozen weapon hangs
like mere decoration on the side of his hip. He will break it into shards and
make use of their jagged sharpness if he has to.
There is a crack in the glacier, a frown on the other’s face that sends a
curious tingle up Seijuurou’s spine. Like he has discovered something hidden in
the crevasses. Maybe it’s not as empty as he imagined it to be, he thinks, as
the god narrows his eyes. “You are an odd one, King. I could tell earlier was
only a show of authority, but now—at the mere mention of your townsmen—you dare
to threaten me with the impossible?” He sounds more troubled than anything.
Seijuurou steps back, looks out the glass wall straight into the blinding sun.
The town of Rakuzan reflects its resplendent glory as it bathes under the
bright rays. The houses are topped with terracotta roofs in vibrant colors, and
the enormous common bath glitters blue. If he were a bird flying high in the
sky, Seijuurou is sure to see a colorful garden of flowers blooming around
layered marble.
It is just then that he makes a silent promise to become the soil that keeps
his garden alive. To let it grow into a beautiful meadow and paint the
earth with its flowers.
“Is it so wrong to love my nation, Dahaka? I am a man just as them, yet they
have chosen me to be the recipient of such great honor. It is with this honor
that I vow to protect them.”
Kuroko rests his gaze on the man, notices the barest of smiles playing on
his lips, and confusion coats his own as he mutters, “Do you now…?”
Seijuurou’s vision shifts from the window to the god, but he finds his view
hasn’t changed much. He sees that same color of the sky in Kuroko’s eyes, and
it is with stone cold shock that he realizes he is as dazzled as he’s
bewildered.
“What have you come here for, Dahaka?” he asks while he still can.
“Young king, I have not prohibited you from addressing me by my former name.”
It is much easier to pronounce, Kuroko has learned in a lifetime of new
meetings.
Seijuurou smiles at him, and he can’t remember when was the last time a king
has ever graced him with one as clear as his. “Only if you call me by mine,” he
says. If Kuroko were a common man, perhaps he would have been charmed by what’s
meant to be an order in disguise. But memories from millennium past still haunt
him with beguiling smiles and sickening caresses. He has fallen fool to this
same charisma enough times to know when it is best to keep shy. To keep safe.
“Very well, Akashi-san.” And because he is a god, this is the highest honorific
he shall bestow on the human.
Seijuurou nonetheless nods his approval.
“I am the guardian of this throne. You, with not an ounce of the blood of the
Haizaki clan in your veins, dared sit upon it. Your act of foolishness will be
the cause of your death.” He points to Seijuurou's hand.
Seijuurou heart stops for a second when a symbol glints in the center of his
palm. He can hardly discern the shape in the single second it flashes for
before sinking into his skin.
But he swears he sees a black serpent crawl across his palm and coil around his
wrist.
“You did this,” he states once he catches his breath.
“False. You did this to yourself.” Upon seeing Seijuurou’s expression, Kuroko
adds, “Worry not. It is only a contract,” he reassures in a monotone that only
makes red eyes narrow further.
“And just what are the clauses you intend to give me?” the king demands,
piqued. His hand wants to reach for the sword again, but the chill running down
the side of his leg has not melted yet.
“Only two: starting today, you will see a hundred morning suns before I receive
your soul upon the final sunset.” Kuroko announces with the eagerness of a
sleeping camel.
Hundred days? This sounds more like a curse than a contract, but every curse
has a way to be broken. He wonders how long it would take to lure the cure out
of Kuroko's lips.
“Until then, my sole duty is to protect you with all my power.”
Now that comes as a surprise. “Oh? My very own god at my beck and call?”
He fights the urge to smile when Kuroko shoots him a glare.
“No,” Kuroko replies calmly, but Seijuurou doesn’t miss the spark in his
eyes. The glacier is finally melting, it seems. Something within Seijuurou
twitches at that inference, like a creature moments away from awakening. “I
will be guarding you at all times, for I am the only one who will take your
soul.”
“Why such stringent conditions for a god such as you?” his question is sincere
this time. Hailing from the far east, he knows nothing about the deities that
rule over Rakuzan. Even Shintarou has yet to mention a name, only reciting
legends of animals that can control nature.
Kuroko opens his mouth, but it takes a while for the words to come out. “I am
the God of Death. I have no standing with the ones that live above your skies.
I am not sure who created the stipulations, never have I questioned
it—perhaps it was your maker. Although I have only met him once.”
Seijuurou tilts his head some, "You’re sharing more than what I asked for.“ He
doesn’t oppose it, in fact he appreciates every new thing he learns about this
enigmatic being. If only for the opportunity to use it against him.
"I have no reason to lie to a dying man,” Kuroko responds as though his open
book honesty is born from a modicum of compassion Seijuurou hears nowhere in
the god's flat tone. 
But it is a soft, pleasant sound, and Seijuurou thinks he wants to hear him
speak more. “Then what—”
The doors slam open. “There you are, Akashicchi!” an ebullient cry shatters the
quiet atmosphere in the throne room. The remains of Seijuurou’s
interrupted inquiry lie on the floor, being trampled under the loud clack
of boots as a man, whose hair almost blends in with the room, walks in. "I’ve
been looking all over for you!“
"Ryouta, I do not recall giving anyone permission to enter this room.”
Seijuurou throws him a sharp look, not hiding his irritation.
“How mean! You never used to scold me before we came here,” the blond pouts.
It’s not until he’s right at the king’s side when he notices the other occupant
of the room. “Woah—who are you!” he gawks at Kuroko.
It is only then that Seijuurou realizes that his left leg no longer feels numb.
That the frost gripping his sword has long evaporated. So he looks at Kuroko,
who’s too busy staring at Ryouta’s hair to answer his question. But he’s also
fiddling with his fingers, fidgeting with his feet, and it sprouts a seed of
sympathy in Seijuurou’s chest.
One must question, however, if it is really sympathy that drags the next words
out of his mouth, “Behave, Ryouta. You are speaking to my future consort, after
all.”
Time stops for a moment. Everything falls silent, still as the sky.
Until two heads whirl towards Seijuurou and exclaim at the same time, “What?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The air is light, flowing fast, carrying with it the rush of a rising storm.
For a God of Death, he certainly brings with him an innocuous gale that catches
you off guard even as it bites on your shoulders. The hallway stirs and
threatens to come alive as something glides past Seijuurou and stops him in his
path. His face only lifts in amusement when Kuroko seemingly appears out of
nowhere.
“Please, do tell me about this inane tomfoolery you are playing at here,”
Kuroko asks with a crease in his brow that makes Seijuurou want to poke it
straight. He isn’t blessed with the towering visage of the forest of four trees
he calls his royal guard, but even to him this god is a small thing. With baby
blue hair and big eyes that change hues with the color of the sun, Kuroko only
grows smaller as his all-black attire seems to pulsate like a void, swallowing
the lily whites that make up his skin.
Seijuurou thinks this only makes him more dangerous. A bantling-sized animal
with a bone shattering jaw and fangs that sink straight into the canals of your
heart.
“Your caprice knows no bounds! Were you not the one ready to take a sword to my
throat just hours ago?” Kuroko accuses hotly. But even in the weathering dry
winds of The Loo, the air around him remains cool as if he wakes every morn in
Himalayan springs.
“And I still am,” Seijuurou reminds him, “It is a must to keep your friends
close, and wiser to keep your enemies closer. You are definitely not someone I
can afford to keep out of my sight for too long.” He offers a sardonic smile.
But gods have never really had the patience for cheek.
Waving off the daggers Kuroko throws at him with a glare, he continues, “So I
will have the people in this castle become my eyes.”
“What?” Kuroko’s words are a mess, a proud rose wilting away with all its
beautiful petals. “Do you realize what your servant has been going around
telling the very crevices of this palace?”
“Not a servant,” Seijuurou corrects him, though one is not to blame when they
mistake Ryouta for his dog. “He does have quite a mouth, precisely what
prompted me to tell him. Now that they have heard about me taking a consort, I
can only imagine the constant surveillance you’ll be put under.” He allows a
sigh of pity, but Kuroko sees right through it.
“I should kill you now itself,” he bites out. His composure is melting, and the
ego only a god could possess starts to peek through the dripping mire. It is as
false as any counterfeit make of idols ready for worship—but which are mainly
for decoration—and Seijuurou wants to crush it completely. Dig through the
pieces for glittering dust, of a jewel he has only ever seen in the blue of
Kuroko’s eyes.
“You can’t. A god of such lowly stature, who can’t even break his unwritten
rules to kill me, has no true power. Is it not so?” And he is indeed not wrong,
by the way Kuroko’s form tenses, how his lips purse tight to clog the silent
disdain bubbling in his throat. Ever since time began walking, he’s always made
sure to keep his emotions plugged, face a blank canvas that cannot be painted
on, but this king—so utterly insolent. Carrying nothing more than the wisdom of
a human, and be such people as old as ten or hundred years, they will always
remain children in Kuroko’s eyes.
A wild quake rushes through his spine as he scowls at the redhead. Being
subject to unwarranted slander, this is the first of his experiences. It is not
at all pleasant, and he makes that much clear in his voice as he says, “That is
not true.”
His denial sounds weak to his own ears, but this is the first time he has heard
a human talk back to him. The surprise rips through like a thunderclap in clear
skies, deafening.
It jams a corkscrew into a cluster of emotions that stay flattened under the
gavel of time. Neatly ironed out, Kuroko wears them like funeral robes as he
traverses the earth with the mark of Death. He is the frostbite that shatters
bones, the rot that blackens trees, the drought that leaves cracks in the
hearts of men. But Seijuurou’s taunt unwinds these feelings, until they
threaten to pour out of his mouth and cover the entire earth with acid.
“Yet you cannot touch me until my last day, and I’ll ensure that it never comes
to that.” Kuroko remains silent as Seijuurou stares him down, effectively
ending their tiff. “Well then,” his expression lightens, “I do hope you enjoy
Ryouta’s company.”
It is much too entertaining to see those big blue eyes widen even further in
panic. As if on cue, a certain blond’s voice echoes through the hallway, and
Kuroko is all but ready to bolt. Seijuurou doesn’t stop him, smirking as the
blue-haired god bumps right into his biggest menace when he turns the corner.
“There you are!” his captor chimes. “Come with me, I need to show you to the
rest of them.” He grasps Kuroko’s hand and pulls him along.
Kuroko can’t even put up a fight as Ryouta drags him away like a stuffed toy.
“Oh yeah!” The golden-haired neanderthal for a human turns to Kuroko, “What was
your name again?”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The room spares a moment of silence to its occupants, housing absolute
giants—according to Kuroko, at least—who are too interested in their own
business to greet the newcomers, save for a drawled out, “Oh, Kise-chin brought
the toy.”
The first one he catches sight of is a green-haired man surrounded by bulky
manuscripts. He’s sitting at a table in the far corner, holding a book large
enough to close on his entire face. The wrinkle on his forehead does little not
to suggest that he isn’t too fond of company not bound by leather backs and
parchment. But Kuroko thinks that neither are the other two, who are each
keeping to their own table.
On the other hand, this Kise person still won’t release his grip on his
shoulders. He wiggles against the taller man, but to no avail as Kise bumps him
forward. “Here’s the thing, he’s Akashicchi’s consort!” he exclaims, making
Kuroko wince. Consort. That word tastes bitter on his tongue for more reasons
than one.
Though it does get everyone to turn like sunflowers in Kise’s direction. The
brat who just called him a ‘toy’ dusts the peanut shells off his pants, coming
to stand right in front of Kuroko.
“Oh?” He leans down, still dwarfing Kuroko, feeble sapling standing under the
shade of an oak  tree with purple leaves. “He’s so tiny, I could crush him.”
As if to do just that, he puts his hand on top of a blue head, which the owner
immediately swats away. “Please do not touch me,” Kuroko requests, deciding
he’s had enough of humans touching him today.
“Eh? But you feel so fluffy,” the giant man replies. Every word he utters drips
lazily onto the next. Stringing them into a sentence with the knots drenched in
viscous languor. Kuroko can only wonder if this man always speaks like he just
woke up from year-long hibernation.
A deeper voice cuts in, “If you want to harass him then do it outside,
Murasakibara. Let me read in peace.”
Said man clicks his tongue, “Mido-chin, you’re always reading.” He yawns and
looks around the room, before brushing past Kuroko. “I’m hungry. Bye bye.”
“Eh? Wait, we still need to interrogate him!” Kise calls after a shadow, before
crying out, “Ow! Aominecchi!”
“Shut it, Kise. You’re too noisy,” the tanned person barks. He’s holding a
bundle of sticks, all of the same length, including the one that hit Kise right
in the face.
“Ow…” Kuroko glances at the source of the low whine, who’s gingerly rubbing his
nose. He wastes no time trying to lunge at his abuser, only to miss as the
taller man strafes right. It reminds Kuroko of the jesters at his court—one of
the more jovial memories of his past life that didn’t erode under the barrage
of time—and he can’t help the snort that escapes his mouth.
The dark-skinned man catches the small noise, and a grin spreads mischief over
his face. “So Gloomy-kid knows how to laugh, eh?”
Kuroko clears his throat, “Do not call me that.” This time he speaks with
authority, but his voice is still absorbed by the papyrus scrolls flowing down
the stone shelf that stretches along the wall. The scrolls spill on the floor
in murky white sheets, much like the ones he used to lay in. 
Another memory hits him. Only this time, revulsion balls up and rolls along the
flesh of his back, reminding him that his sheets would be stained with blood,
not India ink.
“Then,” a deep voice snaps Kuroko out of his reverie. He feels the waves of
nausea ebb away with the baritone sound, “What should I call you?”
Kuroko blinks at the one flashing his pearly whites at him. His lips twitch in
response and it comes out naturally, “Kuroko Tetsuya.”
 
===============================================================================
 
“I’m not a child,” Kuroko insists an hour later, after Aomine and
Murasakibara—who returned with a renewed supply of peanuts—are done taking jabs
at his height. He is caught between wanting to burn this place to a crisp and
wanting to summon a monstrous deluge to flood the castle. But his wishes
crumble into sand as a cruel reminder washes over them, carrying Akashi’s words
from earlier. They ring in his head like a siren, and Kuroko cannot block the
noise even if he tears holes in his ear drums.
This is his first time entering into contract, but he can tell his powers are
now limited by it. He cannot gauge how much he’s lost, but his body already
feels different. Like it’s reorganizing itself. Stairs to his organs shifting,
doors to the mind closing and different ones opening, filling his body with new
bridges to memories he thought he burned before time was even born.
“Right,” Aomine replies with no indication of listening to what Kuroko is
saying.
Kuroko eyes the sticks Aomine is quite clearly struggling with. He keeps
pressing down onto them on his thigh, as if he’s trying to bend the sap out of
them. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, some of the townies told me this old legend.” He grunts, not ceasing his
endeavors to mutilate the tied up sticks. “About a father who tells his sons to
break a bundle like this. Long story short, the only way to do it is to break
them separately. But I’m sure that’s just because the old man’s sons were too
weak.”
Kuroko stands there, astounded. He remembers that fable very well, but it seems
that some details are being dropped over time. For the bundle in question
contained no greater than six sticks, and he sees in Aomine’s lap more than
twenty. Of course no human can manage such a feat when half its requisites get
scratched out.
He sighs.
“Aomine-san, may I try?” Kuroko asks.
The other only manages to blink at him first, before handing the bundle over.
“Careful, they’re heavy.”
Hardly, Kuroko thinks. He may as well test out what little of his powers are
left.
“First of all, you’ve been carrying too many sticks.” Kuroko grips the ends of
the bundle in each hand, and instead of bending them, he simply claps his hands
together. A hollow boom resonates in the marble of the walls. Kuroko realizes
that he’s accidentally put himself in the spotlight. 
 All that trickles out of his hands is fine dust, glittering ashes of the pile
of wood he has just crushed.
“Wow,” Aomine breathes out, “How did you do that?” he asks, eager as a puppy.
The others are comparably more horrified than awed. “W-what on earth was that?”
Kise is the one to ask this time. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost, thought
that wouldn’t be far from the truth. Even Murasakibara is staring at him,
making Kuroko feel like some poor rodent caught under the predatory gaze of a
hawk.
But Midorima’s question is what breaches the border to a realm these humans
have barely grazed in their lifetime. It uncovers a promise to crush all wealth
of human knowledge into dust, into the powder dyeing Kuroko’s hands wooden
brown. “What are you?”
Kuroko tilts his head to the side, a blue-haired doll with a broken neck. “A
god you miserable humans have forgotten.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The summer heat is thick, it’s oppressive. It swirls around each figure in the
room, dancing on exposed skin until it bleeds salt, and it suffocates them
through cloth. It makes a furnace out of the throne room, encased in yellow and
grey metal, as the sun hangs at its highest in the sky, glowering at the
pitiful life forms that yet worship it. Even curtaining the light isn’t enough,
as the window stretches along the entire wall. There are always bright tendrils
creeping through spaces in silk, spilling on the floor to scorch the feet of
whomever treads on it.
They normally don’t convene in the afternoon for this very reason. Yet Ryouta,
in hair-ripping panic, hollers for a meeting in the sweltering midday heat.
Seijuurou is, as an unfortunate result, certainly not pleased. Nor are any of
the others who have to suffer through the blond’s meltdown. Mostly consisting
of Ryouta spluttering over Kuroko’s show of ability, which Seijuurou regrets
having missed out on.
The Dahaka is definitely something that needs to be studied. He can’t be too
sure that the word even exists in their language, or in their history. Running
some inquiries nets fruitless results. Any traces to Kuroko Tetsuya’s origin
are shrouded in complete darkness, which only grows bigger with every dead end
lead he finds. He still cannot determine if all this isn’t just a form of
trickery, a window of illusion that shows wing-tipped cats flying over red seas
when you look through it.
Though there is something otherworldly about this man. It shows when he walks
into the room wrapped in invisible glacial vines. It is not something you can
notice unless you are standing right next to him. Close enough to see his
breath freeze the air around him, to feel the pinpricks of frost stab into your
pores.
It only makes Seijuurou feel hotter, the heat in the room seeking whatever
Kuroko touches, with his hands, with his feet, with his breath. It is said that
the most dangerous heat is the kind that feeds on the cold, and it makes
Seijuurou breathe just a little bit faster. Even the mere memory of it is
enough to drag fiery kisses out of the sun’s rotund belly and lay them across
his skin, scorching every inch until it’s flushed.
Yes, Seijuurou thinks, it is the way he feels like ice and death.
“Akashicchi!” calls out Ryouta, who’s been ignored for longer than he can
excuse. “Did you know about this?”
“Of course he did, he’s not stupid,” Shintarou cuts in. “Akashi, I know this
foolish consort business is another nefarious scheme of yours—”
“Ehhh? They’re not getting married then?”
“—But I still cannot comprehend the logic behind keeping him around.” Kuroko
looks at the green-haired guard. “If he’s anything like the last one we fought
on the way here, he may very well try to kill us.”
Kuroko’s eyes widen at that. “You faced Spitiyura?”
“Huh?” Daiki asks this time. “You know him?”
“That’s what he called himself, yes.” Shintarou adds, crossing his arms. Kuroko
has to admit that he liked him much better when he treated the azure-crowned
god like dust on old manuscripts. Not like some gilded tome containing the lost
arts of sorcery.
His eyes flit towards Seijuurou for a second, but that’s all the hesitation he
shows. He has never been one to outright lie, not even to humans. “I was the
one who put him at the gates of Rakuzan, as guardian,” he reveals.
“Wait, he was your subordinate?” Ryouta erupts in wonder, eyes wide, glittering
pools of honey. It makes Kuroko take a step back, because Ryouta looks like he
is about to let loose another annoying barrage of questions.
“He was one of my creations,” Kuroko starts before the blond can get his
chance. “How did you manage to defeat him?” Kuroko asks with honest surprise
coating his words. Spitiyura was a giant through and through; towering over the
city walls, the demon walked on tremors that split the earth with every step.
Even if Seijuurou and his men may be warriors born with adamantine bones,
humans shouldn’t even be able to touch the gargantuan beast, let alone slay it.
“We come from the far east,” Seijuurou says. “Where our weapons are forged from
Atar’s fire. It is said that his fire can melt the skin of even the strongest
of demons.”
Atar. Kuroko didn’t think he would hear that name again. Then it’s true. Lord
Ahura Mazda and his Amesha Spenta, his legion, have indeed settled in the east.
A distinct image suddenly pops up in his head, and he shivers at the thought
of him having followed them there. Though Kuroko doesn’t want him here either,
not when most of his own powers are locked.
The twitch doesn’t escape Seijuurou’s ever-observant eye, and he asks, “You
know of Atar?”
Kuroko nods.
Seijuurou narrows his gaze, cogs already turning in his mind. “And the rest of
our gods? The Wise Lord and his seven servants?” he recites the titles like a
check list.
“Akashi-san, they are my brothers and sisters.” Kuroko considers if this is
where he should stop divulging information to these humans, bearing in mind the
strong likelihood that he may have to end up killing off the men when he takes
their leader’s life. Their bodies, their musculature shaped by countless
battles, and more than that they look capable, and seem to carry an arsenal of
skills Kuroko has yet to see. It is not by some mere draw of straws that they
choose to stay by Seijuurou. Loyalty like theirs tends to turn men blind and
dangerous. Into ravenous beasts out to avenge their master’s dishonor.
It would definitely be a pity to see them perish.
Kuroko immediately shakes off the thought, as insignificant as the buzzing of
some vile insect flying around his ears. Showing humans pity has never done a
god much good, even if these ones were Ahura Mazda’s followers.
Seijuurou remains silent, trying to deconstruct Kuroko’s words in his head.
Trying to pare out any hidden message, any sign of a lie, because he is
definitely sure that no one from his home country knows of the name Dahaka.
Atsushi is the one to break the reigning silence. “Eh, so he’s family? Then
I’ll call you Kuro-chin,” he declares, munching away at peanuts again. For
Atsushi, that’s that, though the throne room is still brimming with tension.
“Family?” echoes a confused Kuroko.
“Legends say our people descend from the feet of The Wise One himself,”
Seijuurou supplies.
Within the walls of his mind, Kuroko is quick to disagree. He may have awoken
on the earth of Ahura Mazda’s hands, drank on the words of godhood, and dressed
in the gifts of his maker, but he is no besotted fool. He knows his place very
well. It is lodged deep in the melting core of this world, where he floats down
a never-ending river of hellfire. 
Yet even that feels like a dip in freshwater to the arctic plateau of his body.
He no longer holds any memory of warmth, not from the embrace of a human to
tell apart one from fire. While the others feast inside the heavens above,
bathing in a temple whose walls depict the blind devotion of humans. Walls that
grow with every prayer, and paint each praise onto their bricks like ivory
medals carved from spines of animal sacrifices.
The gods humans worship walk on crystal carpets that glitter in the night sky,
and Kuroko is the only one who walks on the other path, on a dirt road marred
by faces of the dead and the dying. The only leaves that crunch under his feet
are charred black, and the only sound the air makes is a dying gasp when
another life is lost. 
He is no fool. He knows that his divinity is only a curse he carries like an
albatross around his neck.
The Dahaka isn’t family. He is the child they have orphaned to hell.
Sometimes Kuroko blithely considers decimating all forms of human life, just to
see if their precious temple shatters from the keening screams of their
worshipers.
===============================================================================
The count begins when the skies are aflame. When Seijuurou wakes to a sun shyly
peeking up from the horizon. He is tempted to dismiss yesterday as a dream, but
then he sees the body of a snake glint black around his wrist, so he can only
curse Kuroko in his head.
And for all his animosity towards that man, he still wants to keep him on a
tight leash. Which is why their meeting yesterday ended with his word as their
leader, their king.
===============================================================================
“But that still doesn’t explain why he's here.” Shintarou, with his
infamous cold logic, strikes again. Kuroko wishes, for the third time, that the
man would stop talking about him like he’s livestock.
“We struck an agreement,” Seijuurou answers before Kuroko can wreak havoc by
beckoning another storm with a blunt reply. “For greater yield from our
harvesting.” When there comes no sound of denial from Kuroko, he decides to
build on his lie. “The people here are still struggling with the
horrible effects of famine. It will take quite some time before we can turn
this land green again. It is only imperative we consider what the
common citizen eats, lest we forget they are our brothers and sisters in
our mindless indulgence on banquets.”
Shintarou frowns. “On what terms?”
A secretive smile. “That I have hundred days to solve a riddle. Should I fail
to do so, he will rescind his promise.”
Ryouta perks up at that. “A riddle? Is it like anything Spitiyura gave us?”
“The riddle is for the king to solve.” Kuroko adds after finally catching on to
the lie. “Though he must never forget that when Time comes knocking, there is
only one answer.” His austere expression causes Seijuurou to chuckle lightly.
“Indeed, although it might not be the one you're expecting, Kuroko.” The
challenge flashes clear in the king’s eyes.
The blue-haired man is beginning to understand just why Seijuurou has
been chosen by the people.
===============================================================================
The full moon lies in wait today, the town abuzz with preparations to celebrate
its arrival. Loosely hugging the castle, the kingdom of Rakuzan greets
Seijuurou with glittering minarets and little houses washed with streaks of
vermilion running all the way around the city. 
People claim that this fragrant powder ground from myrrh and turmeric can light
up from the heat of a torch. Though Seijuurou cannot imagine what that means,
he’s still quite eager to find out.
Seijuurou is looking forward to many things tonight, which honestly comes as
quite a surprise to him. Back in his homeland, he never partook in frivolities
that used up his time without any merits in return. And he would be lying if he
says that he doesn’t see the banquet as an obligation to fulfill with the title
he now carries.
And it would have remained a formality if it weren’t for the smiles painted on
their faces, fingers tipped with a myriad of colors, carrying flowers he has
never seen, fruits he has never tasted, and when he hears the castle walls sing
with ebullient trills of laughter and lively chatter, he can’t help a smile of
his own from unfurling.
It dies immediately when he sees a black serpent twirl around his wrist, only
this time it slithers upwards some, before dissolving back into his skin.
It serves as a daily reminder that his days are numbered. They have already
been reduced by a week’s worth today, and although the snake’s fleeting
emergence appears less ominous than the chime of an executioner’s summons back
at Teikou, Seijuurou isn’t quite convinced that it won’t try to sink its fangs
once it reaches where the flesh hums with the beat of a heart.
Kuroko, on the other hand, is dealing with a volley of problems of his own.
News bearing the words ‘consort’ and 'marriage’ has now reached every breathing
nook and cranny of the city. The palatial grounds became a veritable bedlam of
servants chasing after the elusive 'bride’, who could only play so much on his
lack of presence. Eventually he was caught, and though the chaos has subsided
now, Kuroko is definitely not enjoying being a constant pillar of attention.
Seijuurou can already tell that Kuroko, his world wrapped in a resentful fog of
his godly chutzpah, doesn’t particularly seek, nor adore the company of humans.
But the god would perhaps appreciate him even less for throwing him into the
dungeons instead. So he lets Kuroko roam free, because it is much easier to
keep an eye on him this way. He can only imagine how easy it would be for a god
to shatter iron bars and make his escape. Go into hiding until the fated day
arrives.
Everything about the Dahaka is still shrouded in mystery. Like those magical
treasure coves old legends claim to be hidden under giant whirling twins of
quicksand. Desultory attempts at digging for gold might just cause Seijuurou to
sink with nary a chance at uncovering the chest of secrets that Kuroko holds.
But as Seijuurou heads towards the armory, the daunting image of abyssal
quicksand evaporates into a cozy view of a golden dog showering its love onto a
cat that’s sharpening its claws in irritation.
“Please go away,” Kuroko hisses, and Seijuurou half expects actual animal
scratches to appear all over his guard’s face.
“But Kurokocchi!” whines Ryouta.
What really gets to Seijuurou is how quickly his men have warmed up to a
purveyor of death. Looking at the ongoing cat-dog banter makes him consider a
host of possibilities, however. That if circumstances were different, perhaps
Seijuurou too would come to appreciate Kuroko’s presence.
Just like Daiki, who's mulishly been trying to get the shorter man to be his
sparring partner. Or Atsushi, who is a lackadaisical fellow with no nuances
of prejudice in the first place. Especially not when, in his words, Kuroko
looks like the stuff made of sugar and cotton, and feels just as soft. No
mumbles of protest escape even Shintarou anymore, who once used to pale at the
thought of being in the same room as a potential death trap.
But this pitiful camaraderie is a bevy of messy stitches decorating the veil of
lies Seijuurou has sewn by hand. While the truth emblazons onto it a rickety
bridge between him and Kuroko.
And when Kuroko finally notices his presence and throws a scowl in Seijuurou’s
direction, the lies automatically come loose without catching anyone’s eye.
These loose threads twist into tattered ropes, barely holding the bridge
together. Not that it is a matter of concern when neither of them intends to
cross the bridge in the first place.
Save for the unfortunate fact that he has named Kuroko his bride. Precautionary
measure or not, he must now learn to tolerate the presence of the very creature
that’s after his soul.
And when Kuroko doesn’t back down from his subtle glaring even as Ryouta
continues to complain into his ear, Seijuurou predicts with a tired sigh that
this will be easier said than done.
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     [Preview for next chap]
      
          All of Seijuurou’s words die in his throat when Kuroko’s
          lips twitch ever so lightly. He swears it to be a trick of
          the lights glittering on the earth, but he thinks he sees a
          smile flicker on Kuroko’s face for the smallest of moments.
          And when he lies in his bed that night, overlooking the
          diamonds dotting his kingdom, all he dreams about are the
          stars he saw tonight in the sky behind Kuroko’s eyes.
     Or check my tumblr for all the spoilers! (｀థ ౪ థ´)
     Until next time!
***** Catacombs *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Fuzzy orange bubbles float down minaret-studded streets as people make rounds
in the city with lit torches. A giant table sits around the golden king astride
a solemn horse, lights from tall oil lanterns dancing on a metallic face. While
the real king sits in a humble corner, flanked by his royal guard. A specter
draped in frost bedizens the seat on his right, sparkling gems dotting the body
like freckles on a snow lily.
The palace servants got their grubby hands on Kuroko just before, snatching him
away to what he first thought was some torture chamber. But as they rolled his
body in white sheets, sewed exotic jewels from head to toe, he still swears the
whole ordeal was a test of his patience. He sat playing doll for the entirety
of what consisted of being poked with needles in places a god would smite them
for daring to go near.
It’s a pity that the only life he can take is Seijuurou’s, that too only after
another test of time. To a being who has ruled for a century and slept for
another ten, a hundred days—even lower than that now—make up for less than a
speck of dust in the universe of his mind. Yet the prickling urge to flood
civilization into muck doesn’t fall prey to any reticent perception of time.
Instead, it stays with Kuroko even when his eyes fall into the dark hedges of
eternal slumber.
Even as the colors of the world dance in vicissitudes of sunsets and seasons,
Kuroko cares not for lower beings who paint their own hedonism onto desert
sands with things like houses orfarms or castles.
Or the tacky jewellery he adorns like a stone idol of some god they worship.
Kuroko is more than some piece of molded rock, but he is not meant for worship.
Not him.
But the title of consort offers him just that, as he sits there silent as a
corpse. Though perhaps it is his regretfully gaudy attire that draws every
probing gaze to his person. It makes him shiver, makes him want to curl into
his insides and pull out the ugly smog that billows around his rotting organs.
Lay it out on the round table for all to see—to see what kind of monster these
humans are throwing their amorous glances at.
When Seijuurou shifts closer to him, it makes him hate humanity just a little
more. He nails the king with a steel gaze, only for him to return it with a
glib tilt of his head and curved lips.
Oh, Kuroko realizes. Smile.
His impassive stare pans across the stuffy table, frozen corners of his mouth
inching upwards with the effort of naked feet dragging through mountains of
snow. It’s not a shoddy attempt, that much he can tell by the way every face
lights up like the lanterns standing behind them. But it sinks back into the
snowy trenches of his pallor the next instant, as he burrows into his chair,
trying to make himself look smaller until he hopefully disappears.
Kuroko’s plate remains untouched for the most part. He’s too busy giving
taciturn responses to the loop of chatters the court officials are trying to
drag him into. Seijuurou is satisfied as long as Kuroko doesn’t outright ignore
their enthusiasm, impressed even, that he is not treating the citizens with his
regular standoffish attitude. Because he definitely looks like he wants to be
anywhere but here.
Soon enough, all eyes on Kuroko shift when the wind splits with the blow of a
horn, alerting everyone to the main event that’s about to start. The natives
have near forgotten what marks the end of the lunar festival, under the rule of
a king who only decreed celebration in his name, his glory. But now they sit
there with bated breaths, with child-like anticipation dancing behind the
flames in their eyes.
A group of people appear from the corner of a street with dead torches in their
hands. They go around the table, putting out each lantern until they reach the
king’s side of the table.
“Praise be to the moon, and to our new emperor!” someone cries, and the last of
the flames go out together.
And the city lights up instead.
The crowd erupts into cheers as the dark walls surrounding town square glitter
like diamonds. Ribbons of pearls seem to cascade down taller buildings,
exploding into stars on the sky spilling on the walls of tiny houses. Childish
scrawls of birds and animals sparkle happily on the tiles at the bottom, and it
feels like the entire kingdom is perched on the edge of night skies, drowning
in splatters of constellations that stretch all the way to the moon.
Kuroko’s feet are on sand that is slipping past the horizon, to the ends of the
earth, sprinkling into the mouth of the universe. Kuroko thinks for a moment
that, in return, the universe has etched its glittering tears into the walls of
this city.
For a moment he thinks that not even the gods above can give birth to a sky
that can fall to the earths.
“It’s powder that glows with heat. We call it the Star of Myrrh.” A man
standing behind Kuroko explains with pride.
“An apt name,” Seijuurou remarks with a smile.
But it turns out that tonight’s surprise lies on Kuroko’s lips instead. “It’s
beautiful,” the god says, breathless.
His praise pulls in a few curious stares, finally seeing the silent spectator
opening his mouth on his own accord. The man behind Kuroko bows, “We’re honored
that you like it, your majesty.”
“I have never witnessed such an event before,” an awestruck Kuroko continues.
“What great minds you must possess to create something so novel, to birth
cosmos out of plants.” Kuroko’s face remains relaxed in ice but his words burst
forth in a deluge of pure wonder, and Seijuurou can’t think of anything except
how there are no angry wrinkles marring his forehead anymore. That he looks
more lifelike than a god of death. That Seijuurou sees something close to human
glimmer underneath all the flakes of apathy rusting Kuroko’s face.
All of Seijuurou’s words die in his throat when Kuroko’s lips twitch ever so
lightly. He swears it to be a trick of the lights glittering on the earth, but
he thinks he sees a smile flicker on Kuroko’s face for the smallest of moments.
And when he lies in his bed that night, overlooking the diamonds dotting his
kingdom, all he dreams about are the stars he saw tonight in the sky behind
Kuroko’s eyes.
===============================================================================
 
“I didn’t expect a god to be so amazed by it,” Seijuurou’s snark rears its head
in the dark corridors of the palace, while the rest of the kingdom still
indulges in hearty cheers outside.
Kuroko takes no offense to it. “I suppose I was wrong,” he mutters, scratching
his chin. “Humans can be capable of remarkable feats some times.”
 
===============================================================================
 
The air hangs low, heavy in this sweltering heat. The news brings with it a
dreadful silence that makes Kuroko regret ever letting the king talk him
into presiding over what’s turning out to be nothing more than an
abortive discussion.
“You need not feel obligated to speak,” Seijuurou had informed him before
leading him into the throne room. What was meant to be a word of reassurance
gnawed at Kuroko as an insult to his intelligence.
“Then what is the purpose of my attendance?” Kuroko had asked then with a small
frown.
“Formalities, Kuroko,” he reminded, “As my future consort.” It was difficult to
ignore how Kuroko appeared visibly upset at his words. Curious as Seijuurou had
been, he kept silent and made for his throne.
Kuroko’s mind, however, was driven off to a tangent Seijuurou had never
imagined to take into account.
And now, when the sundial’s shadow has already started to slant, his thoughts
are still revolving around the path of that unknown tangent. It leads to a
memory shrouded in boreal thickets, never seeing the light of day. A thousand-
year slumber has flayed most of his memories into immaterial frames, greedily
swallowed up by a cerebral grotto hidden by thorn-laden vines and
putrefying moss. And they keep him at bay. Keep him from reaching into what he
has no desire to revisit for the rest of his life.
Yet being around Seijuurou for too long drags out vulgar sensations from the
groves of his mind. Seijuurou’s words echo in his thoughts from the mouth of
another man.
“You need not speak to others.” Kuroko remembers thin fingers trailing over the
line of his jaw. Then another whisper dripping honey into his ears, “You need
only serve me from now on." What humans might call an eternity has already
passed in Kuroko’s time, yet he still cannot help the shiver running down his
spine.
And though that man’s words weren’t quite the same, Kuroko thinks the
underlying meaning has not been lost with only a rehashed phrasing. He cannot
tell if it is because Seijuurou is the king, or if it’s because of how he
always appears to be scheming something inside his head.
Or perhaps it is because Seijuurou is indubitably human.
"We might be foreseeing a deficit in our irrigation sources in the near
future,” is the news that comes accompanying a grim face. The entire line of
men sitting at either side of the throne room mirrors the informer's expression
and falls silent. Until one of the advisers asks about the reserves, forcing
another discussion to break out amongst them.
So they are already running out of water for their crops. Seijuurou isn’t
surprised. Rain is more of a once in a blue moon blessing in these lands, and
their wells are already drying up. At this rate they might have to make a trip
to the nearby highlands soon.
“If I may.” Seijuurou isn’t the only one staring in astonishment when a voice
emerges out of nowhere, drawing every head in his direction as though the court
officials have only just noticed him. He’s the last person Seijuurou would
expect to see intervene. “There is a spring not far from here. It should not
take more than half a day to reach it.”
Kuroko places a finger at the right-hand corner of the map that’s spread out on
the floor. It’s small, only showing a blueprint of the city drawn in with
a brick shard. The people, who have always kept close to castle walls,
stay speechless, trying to register his words. The silence persists long enough
that Kuroko’s half expecting them to shoot down his suggestion.
Seijuurou glances at the place Kuroko’s pointing at, a sudden name popping into
his mind. “Ah, there’s a village right next to the spring, if I recall
correctly.”
Kuroko remembers a time when it used to be only his people traversing desert
sands like kings in their own right. Things have changed quite a lot during his
absence, and there’s a spark of curiosity that he immediately extinguishes.
“We can use the southern route to reach the spring then,” Kuroko adds. A couple
of officers now seem to regain the ability to talk, as they voice their
agreement to Kuroko’s plan.
“That won’t be necessary,” replies Seijuurou immediately, as if he's been
expecting Kuroko to opt for that route. That seems like something this god
would do: minimize human interaction as much as possible.
“Are you suggesting we go through the village?” asks Kuroko, eyes narrowed.
“Not quite. I propose we exchange… resources.” Seijuurou’s mind is already
going through all possible outcomes for this decision, and he picks out the
most lucrative one.
“Resources?” one man questions.
Seijuurou nods. "A simple trade. But we shall deliberate over this with the
villagers first before we make our decision.“
"Your majesty, if I may be so bold." Seijuurou nods in the speaker’s direction,
where a tall, lanky man stands with his headpiece crunched in his hands. "I
believe Lord Kuroko’s method would be much safer. We do not know the nature of
these settlers, when they haven’t even shown their faces in our court.”
“That may be so,” Seijuurou leans forward, making sure they’re all listening to
his every word. “Incidentally, if you feel so threatened by them, do you
truly have reason to assume sneaking around would be considered an act of
goodwill by them?”
The adviser looks down in thought. That is all the response the king needs to
accept this as his victory.
Now to iron out their worries.
“In any case,” Seijuurou leans back into his throne, adopts a relaxed posture
to reassure his council. “It is unnecessary for us to take great risks when
they have yet shown no hostility towards us. In fact, I am confident they will
welcome us with open arms.”
It’s interesting what the right choice of words can do to a group that’s on the
fence. The council immediately jumps on the king’s side of things, some with
words of, “We need not fear when we have our great king to guide us!” while
others cheer in likewise pride.
Kuroko hears praise upon praise being laid on the king, and they echo a past
where Kuroko himself was once recipient of similar words. Several things have
changed since his departure to the realm of dark dreams, but to see people
kissing the ground their king walks upon—it uproots every last seed of hope.
Crushes them in a manner Kuroko predicts will lead to the death of a
civilization built on hopelessly blind worship. Then again, he is no king.
Unlike him, Seijuurou shares not an ounce of naiveté that ultimately
saw Kuroko’s downfall. So perhaps the redhead does possess some qualities that
may warrant him the throne.
Not that it matters. Kuroko lets out a sigh. There will be no throne in
Seijuurou’s future.
By the time Seijuurou adjourns the discussion and the council is dismissed, he
and Kuroko are the only ones left in the throne room.
And just like he has expected, Kuroko wastes no time with his rebuttal. “I
fear you’re being reckless.”
Seijuurou offers him a pleased look. “I suppose I should feel honored,
having you fear for my well-being.”
“Hardly.”
But Kuroko is ignored, much to his chagrin. "I would rather have you put your
trust in me. You will be accompanying me, yes?“ Kuroko doesn’t reply, unsure of
letting the king roam outside the city. Retaliation may come from even the
smallest of rats if you poke it hard enough, so he’s learnt.
Seijuurou accepts the silence as affirmative. "Then you may see for yourself
tomorrow if it was indeed a reckless move, as you claim it is." 
Kuroko’s faint scowl doesn’t lift even with that. "As the king, could you
afford to expose yourself to potential harm when you need only send a
messenger?”
“Kuroko, it is my duty as king to oversee matters that may prove to be nigh
essential for us in the future. I must simply trust that you keep your end of
the bargain.”
Kuroko is a little more than amazed at that. “You would put your trust in me?”
“I suppose." Seijuurou smiles in a rose-tinted arc, and it hits Kuroko. It has
been over a month now. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed before, but
Seijuurou no longer holds that same caustic mien—like when they first
met—around him anymore.
It troubles Kuroko more than he would have thought, and it doesn’t go away even
when the sun chars the sky black with its death, and he’s lying in his bed
looking up at droopy shadows. Even as he closes his eyes and teeters on the
brink of sleep, the last of his conscious thoughts burn the after image of
Seijuurou’s face into the back of his eyelids. 
Right before Kuroko’s world fades away into dreams, there is one last cloud of
memories he hangs onto. He remembers what doesn’t exist.
It’s been a while since someone has smiled at him like that.
===============================================================================
 
It’s getting close to a month now. Or that’s what the snake on his arm tells
him as it laps at his elbow before dissolving, always as quickly as it appears.
Seijuurou has hit nothing but walls in whatever route he tries to take to delve
into the Dahaka’s origins. It frustrates him to no end, to the point where he
resorts to seeking guidance from another.
"I tried looking up the name, as you said, but nothing about the Dahaka is
mentioned in our legends.” Shintarou informs with a sigh. 
Seijuurou had asked him to go through the manuscripts he’d brought along from
Teikou. If Kuroko is truly related to the deities ruling Seijuurou's homeland
then it would be impossible not to have any mentions of a death god of all
things in their scriptures. 
“There is something odd that appears in the Avesta.” Their most sacred book
that dictates ascetic standards to live by, said to have been written by angels
themselves. “A beast with no name.”
“In the Avesta?” Seijuurou frowns. It’s a guide meant for worshipers, there is
no reason for it to allow more than a brief mention of other beings.
Shintarou nods, skimming through faded parchment. “There wasn’t much I could
find in this. All it says is that it breathes fire.”
Seijuurou’s mouth snaps shut at that.
===============================================================================
 
Kuroko has never personally invited court jesters into his room before, but his
guest almost makes him consider it. If the jokes they crack are as ridiculous
as the question this man has asked him, then he’s sure to have the time of his
life.
Seeing Kuroko’s reaction, Seijuurou’s thoughts roam in the same direction. Only
he feels ridiculed, not finding any inkling of a joke in his words. Unlike
the azure-eyed god, who’s coughing into his hand to cover up the tell-tale
signs of a laugh pulling at his cheeks.
“Do not mistake me for Atar, dear king, there is no way for me to breathe
fire.” Kuroko finally responds with just the bare minimum restraint to keep a
smile from breaking out on his face.
Seijuurou finds that he prefers Kuroko better like this, without the permanent
scowl. Or the blunt remarks stashed in his artillery of words, constantly
restocked with acerbic jabs as though it is his life duty to make Seijuurou as
miserable as possible. The fact that he’s housing a death god is unpleasant
enough; he’d rather not pique any latent sadistic tendencies in Kuroko.
Today must be a rare occasion, because Kuroko hardly looks like one. He’s not
wrapped in dark attire for once, opting for the complete opposite with a simple
white tunic that drapes over his whole body. Just a change of wardrobe is
enough to make him appear something much different from ghastly.
He can’t put his finger on it, but, “You look different.” It sounds as
offhanded as anything he’s ever told Kuroko, yet he meets wide blue eyes
blinking owlishly at him as though he has just grown another head.
Yes, this is indeed better than having Kuroko glare daggers at him.
“I approve,” he tells a stunned Kuroko.
Perhaps Seijuurou should be offended after waiting too long for a reply. Yet
all that stays in mind is how the dying embers of dusk burn vivid patterns onto
Kuroko’s robes. The sun peeks through clay-patterned windows as it descends
onto the horizon, spilling incandescent skies in the room until there’s liquid
gold cascading down palace walls.
Some of it splashes onto Kuroko’s hair, making it glimmer rustic colors,
and Seijuurou thinks he might see amber jewels fall out if he runs his hand
through those sky-kissed tresses.
He is quite content just watching Kuroko, though said person doesn’t
reciprocate the sentiment.
“Akashi-san, it’s rude to stare.” His chiding falls on deaf ears since
Seijuurou appears lost in thought. Even then he never takes his eyes off
Kuroko, whose skin grows a slight flush as the sun gets closer to the sea.
What’s left of daylight climbs on Kuroko’s neck, his face, and it chases the
sky of his eyes—in the last blinks of twilight Seijuurou sees a fresco of
golden rosebeds and cerulean streaks slowly come to life.
While he still doubts Kuroko’s origins, in this moment he truly does look like
a god. One crafted by the hands of Mother Nature herself, and he’s a walking,
talking cynosure of divine artwork staring back at him with curious eyes.
To his credit, Kuroko doesn’t shy away from the probing gaze, meeting it with
defiant eyes that light up like blue flames in the sun. Seijuurou realizes that
this god breathes a different kind of fire entirely.
That is just as fine.
Seijuurou will always have a penchant for art.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Desert sands roll about in golden waves over the warm breeze trailing after
Seijuurou and his men. Not a moment’s relief comes for them as the sun’s glare
chases away any lingering clouds. Seijuurou is both surprised and glad that the
village was closer than they’d predicted. For everyone’s sake, he’d rather
finish things as quickly as possible.
No guard stands at the entrance of the village to make the outsiders wait in
the sweltering heat. The reason for it becomes clear the moment a confused
messenger goes in to survey the area.
“Y-your majesty…” is all he stammers out, failing to warn Seijuurou about just
what awaits everyone, who are already getting off their rides.
More skeleton than skin, with several bodies littering barren land like dead
flies, a living graveyard is what greets them as they enter the unknown
village. Everyone halts in their steps, never having expected to meet a
desolate landscape of emaciated people lining the way for them.
Except Kuroko, who’s the first to step forward. “They are still breathing.
Carry these people inside one of the huts. None of the ones over here are
occupied.” He points to a group of open-door huts next to him, looking more
like flimsy lumps of straw than actual houses. Kuroko’s right, however. They’re
still better than nothing.
“You heard him,” the king’s voice snaps everyone out of their horror-stricken
shock, immediately making them rush over to help the villagers.
Seijuurou treks on, signaling one of the men to follow. Kuroko stays behind to
help, giving instructions like a veteran commander in duty. What Seijuurou
didn’t expect was for it to come so naturally to someone like Kuroko, who only
prefers silence as his company, a statue in a group of warriors.
A brief glance behind him shows Kuroko leading everyone with a composed voice.
It’s bizarre, it’s out of place. 
It’s almost as if it’s experience talking.
What Seijuurou assumes to be the village chief’s dwelling lies all the way at
the back, instead of in the middle. It’s quite a common occurrence, but only in
places where the Head hides behind his villagers, having them serve as his meat
shields during a raid. Instantly, an image of a gluttonous man draped in
ostentatious jewellery flits across Seijuurou's brain.
With pursed lips, he pushes past sequin drapes. A young girl meets his eyes
instead. She is kneeling over a cot, a pail of water in her hands, face flushed
with a bead of sweat making its way down a weary jaw.
“Who are you!” she yells in panic, and the cot groans.
“We come from the kingdom across the west.” Seijuurou explains, gaze shifting
to the body lying next to the girl. It needs no explanation that it is her
father, and seemingly the chief of the village.
Though it appears that the young girl is the only figure of authority he can
speak with right now. "Why are you here?“ she snaps, her breath coming out in
pants. She looks way beyond her age, with straws for arms and a broken twig for
a body that might just snap in two with the burden she’s been saddled with.
He looks back and forth from father to daughter, both barely holding on to
their lives. He steps away from the guard accompanying him, who immediately
holds out a basket, tugging at the cover to reveal its contents.
The girl’s eyes widen. Fruit. Ripe and freshly picked only hours ago.
"We come in your aid,” answers Seijuurou.
 
As Seijuurou has predicted, a village that sits on barren land dries up too
soon. When summer comes with a failed harvest, it’s a sign for the settlers to
move on to new, fertile lands. Only this village’s former chief seems to have
taken to that idea, or that’s what Seijuurou presumes before asking the girl
later on, who reveals herself to be the daughter of the newly appointed chief.
“That man took off with everything!” she cries through desperate tears. "Looted
our wares and took our cattle!“
Escaping with his hide when things get rough, that’s another common occurrence.
Seijuurou holds back a sigh.
"We cannot last without our water. There is nowhere for us to go,” she croaks
as though every word is a thorn scraping through her lungs.
Seijuurou decides he’s made her talk for far too long. “We will discuss this
later. For now, let us be at your assistance." 
===============================================================================
The sky enshrouds the world in drowsy flames by the time Seijuurou rides out of
the village, with an agreement on his proposal as expected. Some of his men
stay behind with the food supplies originally meant for barter; helping the
villagers now takes priority. It is only fair that Seijuurou allow it.
"You seem concerned,” he tells Kuroko, who keeps throwing brief glances over
his shoulder.
“As much as man cares for fodder, I suppose.” Kuroko returns with his usual
frost-laden indifference.
After spending over a month with him, Seijuurou finds that hard to believe.
“You may stay back if you so wish.”
The god finally turns to him, looking straight into his eyes as he says, “No, I
am meant to stay with you.” He tugs on the reins of his camel, going on ahead.
“Until your time comes.”
For a while, Seijuurou’s mind only registers the first half of the sentence,
and he’s left baffled. ‘I am meant to stay with you.’ The wind sings around him
a symphony etched in the sand Kuroko treads on, and for the life of him
Seijuurou cannot decipher why his heart drums along to it.
Only when the complete meaning behind Kuroko’s words settles into his mind does
he start moving again, reins gripped skin-chafing tight.
The stars above twinkle playfully as the pair makes its way home.
===============================================================================
The sun slowly falls asleep, diving behind golden mountains by the time they
reach the castle. Things around the palace are as hectic as always, even during
the evening.
Today seems to make for one of the livelier days, because something comes
crashing right into Seijuurou’s leg, before falling on to the floor.
“Your majesty!” another voice calls from the corner. A middle-aged woman, with
too many stress lines marring her face, bows deeply. “Please forgive my child’s
foolishness! I shall take any punishment in her stead!”
“That is rather unnecessary.” Seijuurou offers a smile, kneeling down to help
the small girl up.
She scrunches up her nose, “Thank ye.” She doesn’t appear to be older than
six years. “An’ sorry.”
Seijuurou pats her on the head as a reward. "It is nice to see children
enjoying their youth. But you must be careful, especially when it’s dark out
and you cannot see what’s in your way.“ He reminds her strictly, but his tone
is still soft. It’s enough to get a vigorous nod from her, promising to watch
out for human walls from now on.
Kuroko watches the whole interaction with mixed thoughts. The kings from his
time hardly paid attention to children, labeling most of them a burden on their
treasures. All this and more, while showering their own offspring with jewels
and clothes spun from gold.
He finds Seijuurou as confusing as fire walking on blue seas. Part of him wants
to believe that this is just another manipulative act of putting flowers in
people’s ears, like the kings from the past often would. A much bigger part of
him wants to believe that Seijuurou—he is different.
Much different from the kings of old who defiled Kuroko with their own flowers.
===============================================================================
The next day brings Kuroko an unwarranted helping of the royal guard at his
table.
"Tetsu!” A tanned arm finds its way around Kuroko’s shoulders. At this point,
he’s learnt that it’s pointless to struggle when he’s as destructive as a
training dummy with his powers locked. "You’re the best sparring partner ever.“
Kuroko sighs in response. He still doesn’t understand how Aomine managed to
rope him into a one-on-one. Somewhere between all the excited grins and his
unyielding persistence to get Kuroko to battle, Aomine tugged at Kuroko’s
lenience like a child pulling at a pet cat’s tail until it finally succumbs to
the incoming torture.
He is not the only child Kuroko has to deal with, however.
"I wanted to spar with you too, Kurokocchi,” comes the whine. If Aomine is an
over-eager child then Kise is the clingy dog who slobbers Kuroko with attention
he does not want.
Murasakibara has the decency to look concerned, until Kuroko realizes it’s his
portion of food the giant is eyeing.
“Kuro-chin, can I have that if you’re not eating?” he finally asks. Kuroko
gives him a shrug.
“But he hasn’t even touched his food at all!” Kise intervenes, worried lines of
a doting mother scrunching his forehead.
“It’s alright, Kise-san.”
“No way! You’re so skinny too.” Kise doesn’t hide his fondness for manhandling
as he holds up Kuroko’s arm.
Aomine turns to him as well. “The idiot’s right for once—”
“Hey!” Kise snaps.
The other only rolls his eyes and continues, “You can’t stay healthy if you
don’t eat.”
This coming from a man who juggles swords in his free time; Kuroko barely
manages to suppress a snort.
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite alright,” he insists, but the others
are having none of it.
“I’ve never seen Kurokocchi eat, though.”
“It isn't necessary for me,” replies Kuroko, about ready to tell them all to
leave.
Kise doesn’t back down. “But still… don’t you ever feel hungry?”
“Even if I did possess an appetite for eatables, I cannot consume anything.”
Kuroko reaches for a plump fruit, and in an instant it shrinks, turns to
charred powder, sticking to his palm in clumps of decaying mush. 
From afar it looks like Kuroko’s own hand is diseased, black leaves quaffing on
the milk of his skin. Though that’s hardly a stretch when the god of death rots
everything living into starving fossils. He might as well be a disease-ridden
corpse himself.
The room finally falls silent, but something keeps Kuroko from relief. The
honest surprise in their eyes, perhaps, because it twists into his stomach
until he feels like he might heave up smog from his lungs. He feels humiliated
for reasons unknown, making him push his chair back.
“Please excuse me.”
Kuroko walks out the door, leaving the other three sitting in the shadows of
his room.
The gardens behind the castle take quite some time to reach, which is why those
who aren’t imposed with the duty to care for flowers prefer to enjoy it from
afar. Kuroko immediately takes to this place, finally feeling like he can hide
away from the world for a moment’s reprieve.
Today all the verbenas swaying in the summer breeze just remind him of death.
He plucks a purple bud, only to have it burn away into the wind. He watches it
crumble into ashes in his fist, slipping through the cracks between his
fingers. He spreads his palm open and shakes off the rest.
What does he keep expecting? He already knows of the curse he spreads with his
hands, there is no way to change it.
He can never hold life again.
After his contract ends, even humans will succumb to his touch, which brings
home bone-churning miasma from the chasms of a dying world. Lying underneath
pretty lips of flowerbeds and evergreen forests like an untold threat.
He realizes it wasn’t simply humiliation that dragged him out of his own room.
It was shame.
“How d'you do that?” something at his feet chirrups. It's the child from last
night. Kuroko stares at her, and she stares back. Doe eyes blinking up at him,
waiting for an answer.
“It is better for you to remain unaware,” he answers after a while.
She shrugs. "I don’t wan' to kill flowers anyway.“
Kill. Yes, that’s what Kuroko’s sole existence amounts to. To kill. "I am sure.
I apologize for ruining your garden.” He straightens his back, thinking of
where he could go next. He’s not quite ready to resign to the confines of his
room just yet.
“No! Wait here!” she scurries back to palace halls. Kuroko’s once more left in
the silent company of dancing verbenas. Foggy memories hide purple flowers from
a time where they could sleep on his fingers without turning to dust.
Now their corpses cling to spiderwebs, vomiting black petals onto tattered
drapes that hang skeletons over his dreams, as though those memories from
millennium past are part of the illusion. As if they do not exist.
It makes no difference to Kuroko, who simply wants to lose himself in the
imaginary world of breathing flowers again.
The girl comes running back to him with a sheet of parchment in her hands. She
plucks a couple of tall stems, wrapping the sheet around them. She gestures
Kuroko to put out his hands, slipping the bundle into his hold.
She clasps his hands in her tiny ones. “See, now you can’t kill them.”
Kuroko blinks with wide eyes.
Indeed, wrapping their entire stems up would keep them from directly touching
his hands.
“… yes, thank you.” He breathes out, amazed to see such fragile things standing
proud inside his grip for once. This hardly changes reality, and doesn’t quite
shape the fantasies he longs for under the soft weight of sleep.
And yet.
He feels like he is something different for once.
The girl, he wants to ask for her name, but she just giggles and trots further
into the field splashed with a myriad of colors.
“The flowers are flying!” she squeals in wonder.
Kuroko is the god who’s been stuck in perpetual winter, and he watches the girl
run after fluttering petals made of dying hues of the sun. And after more
than a thousand years, it’s today that he truly feels. The summer melting into
his skin, the icicles ridged in his heart breaking off into a stream of what
feels like warmth, glowing—it feels like something he thought he could never
feel after Momoi.
It feels like fondness.
It washes over him, spilling into the cracks behind the stone of his emotions.
After a thousand years, they break free and rush past his lungs, split open his
lips, and pour out into soft words:
“They're butterflies.”
 
===============================================================================
 
Kuroko doesn’t appreciate uninvited guests. Neither does Midorima.
The palace archives are open to all curious eyes, but the green-haired
apothecary spends enough time here to call it home. Kuroko respects his space,
which is why he says nothing when he is met with a glare.
“Kuroko,” he acknowledges the spectral presence and returns to perusing his
scriptures.
“Midorima-san.” Kuroko takes a seat nearby, relieved when the other doesn’t
react with another mean look. He doesn’t wish to retire to his room when it’s
still light out. Midorima’s second home turns out to be the only place he
can turn to now.
“What brings you here?” the man asks warily, gaze straying everywhere except
sky blue eyes.
Amusement tugs at Kuroko’s cheeks. “Midorima-san is scared of me?”
The response is instant. “No, I simply do not trust gods of your nature. I only
pray to the sun and the moon.”
“Distrust in gods, what blasphemy.” Kuroko deadpans. “Though perhaps the wisest
choice of all…” He trails off, pursing his lips.
“Kuroko.” Midorima keeps his eyes on his reading material the whole time he’s
talking. "You come from the east, do you not?“
"What makes you think that?”
“The way you speak,” he replies, squinting at the manuscript he’s holding. “The
people of Teikou call it keigo.”
Kuroko blinks. "Midorima-san, I have no idea what you’re talking about.“
He gets an annoyed huff in return, as Midorima brings the sheets closer to his
face.
"Midorima-san, are you having trouble reading?" 
"No.” With how fiercely he is denying it, Kuroko reckons his guess spot on.
He stands up and walks to a corner of the room. He moves aside a few scrolls
littering the side of one tall bookcase, reaching a hand into it to feel for a
familiar circular bump. It is motor memory at this point, making him push in
and slide around a panel. It comes off as smoothly as it used to a thousand
years before.
He pokes and prods at the hollow space until there’s a cold, smooth edge
digging into his fingers. He pulls it out and sets the stone panel back into
place, heading back to Midorima’s side once he hears a soft click.
He sets a glass cube on top of the parchment that’s in Midorima’s hands.
“This here is a reading aid. The words appear bigger if you look through this,”
explains Kuroko.
Midorima’s gaze flickers to the bookcase before settling on Kuroko. “How did
you know…?”
He shrugs. "It seems the castle hasn’t seen much change in the thousand years I
was gone. These things are rather valuable, which is why we used to keep them
hidden.”
“I see.” He picks up the cube and, just like Kuroko says, the inked characters
look much clearer to his impaired eyes. “Valuable indeed.”
A moment of silence passes between them, with Kuroko still standing at
Midorima’s table while the other awkwardly fiddles with the cube, refusing to
meet the shorter man’s eyes. It looks like he wants to say something, but he’s
decided to keep mum.
Kuroko smiles. “As gratitude, I would like Midorima-san’s permission to stay
here a little longer.”
All he receives is a grunt, and that is all Kuroko needs. He slides back into
his seat, picking up one of the scrolls laid out on the table.
Midorima says nothing, doesn’t scold him for touching his material, and so the
only course of communication they share from that point on is a comfortable
silence.
Two days later, Seijuurou decides to make another trip to the village after
receiving word from the messenger he’d left there. Without any guards following
him this time, because the state the villagers are in right now demands little
need for protection.
Kuroko doesn’t agree completely, which is why he comes across the blue-haired
god on his way out.
“Must I remind you not to go off by yourself?” Kuroko scolds, though everything
that comes out of his mouth is always wrapped in cotton soft weights. It’s a
wonder how he manages to make himself heard when it’s needed.
“Would you mind coming along with me then?” Seijuurou offers with a smile, and
Kuroko gets the sudden urge to hide his face.
“… You are riding a horse today,” he says, looking at the snow white mane of
the horse, mesmerized.
“Indeed, your eyes have not failed you just yet,” he commends Kuroko, who
hardly sees it as praise.
He holds out a hand towards the shorter male.
“Come.”
Kuroko instantly shakes his head no. “I shall go get—”
“It will be faster on a horse, Kuroko.” As if on cue, Yukimaru neighs readily,
powerful hooves clacking against the earth.
For a while Kuroko only stares at the horse, trying to search through his
memories for any instances of him ever riding one. He bites his lip and takes
the proffered hand, allowing himself to be lifted with surprising ease.
Underestimating Seijuurou because of his size might prove to be fatal. It’s not
just the king's royal guard, Kuroko thinks, every single one of them is
a freak of nature.
He almost slips off in his attempt to straddle the horse, if it weren’t for a
strong arm looping around his torso, steadying him.
“Hold on to me,” Seijuurou tells him, turning back to face the front. Kuroko
thinks the arm stays around him for a second too long, but he can never be too
sure when it comes to this man.
He feels quite embarrassed for some reason, and he really wants to hide his
face in Seijuurou’s back, but that sounds more counterproductive than anything.
So he instead clutches onto the maroon robes of the king, curling his fingers
around the softness.
Seijuurou makes sure the horse trots on even steps, for Kuroko’s
sake, who couldn’t be any more grateful. He shifts, leaning closer to the
human. The warmth radiating off his back barely evaporates the frost on
Kuroko’s skin, but it’s a completely foreign feeling and he appreciates it
nonetheless.
Looking at the small back in front of him, it is nothing less than amazing
knowing it bears the burden of a hundred hopes and dreams. It’s small but stays
firm and strong, making Seijuurou look all the more imposing in his regal
posture. As if he was born and raised for this title.
“Kuroko,” his voice snaps Kuroko out of his thoughts.
“Yes, Akashi-san.”
“Back when we first met, you mentioned the name of the previous ruler, did you
not?”
“Ah. The Haizaki clan.” It was a name carved into the wall of Kuroko's bones,
more a curse than a memory.
Seijuurou furrows his brow lightly. "I’ve asked around. No one has ever heard
of that name. The man we defeated simply went by the name Jamshid.“
"It was the name they used back in my time, they changed it right as I went
into slumber. They’ve only carried titles ever since.” Kuroko pauses, looking
up. “You have been given one too, I presume?”
Hushedar. “I have asked not to be addressed in that manner.” He only wishes to
be known as Akashi Seijuurou, not some nameless king without a face. He
considers his words for a moment, before asking, “Was a title ever bestowed on
you, Kuroko?”
“What led you to such a conclusion?” It is not an outright denial, Seijuurou
notes.
“I presumed merely upon observation. You seem rather used to giving commands,
and to be able to hold an audience with a low presence like yours… it does
raise a few flags.”
Kuroko has already sworn to tell no lies, a feat that seems impossible
around Seijuurou’s presence in any case. Must be part of the king’s charisma,
to coax truth out of people, be it sycophants or rebels.
“You possess considerable skill in the art of deduction.” Kuroko remarks,
taking a deep breath. “I suppose I was known as Kayomart once upon a time. The
original ruler of the Rakuzan Empire.”
The very first emperor.
Of all things, Seijuurou has certainly not been expecting that.
===============================================================================
“The castle you rule over. It was built in my name.” Kuroko admits to him on
the way back, having found a camel to ride this time. He could definitely
understand if Kuroko were a vengeful ghost trying to reclaim his throne, yet
the only name he’s mentioned is Haizaki. Does Kuroko not see the throne as his
own?
Something immediately clicks into place. “Tell me, Kuroko, have you observed
any changes made to this castle?”
He shakes his head. “I have yet to notice any.”
That is how Seijuurou finds himself marching down a deserted hallway. Kuroko
has given him a significant puzzle piece that has made everything else fall
into order. If the layout truly has not changed in the past thousand years, it
gives room to assume the existence of records dating back to the Dahaka’s time.
“Kuroko, where did your people use to store records?”
“The archives that Midorima-san has currently made a nest out of.”
“No, Kuroko. Where did you hide the rest of them?”
“…I suppose I do not need to remind you that it is nothing but fruitless
effort, whatever it is that you plan on doing with that information.” A pause.
“You will find it underneath the castle. Always keep to the left.”
Underneath the castle lies a series of underground tunnels. The Palace
Catacombs.
Seijuurou vaguely recalls Shintarou telling him that it was once used as a
place for rituals. Ancient group of cultists, he’d said. People refuse to
venture in because of the horrible stories they have heard about the cult.
There is no proof for any of it, but most have sworn to secrecy in order to let
the rumors die out.
Though the main reason it has never been a popular attraction appears in the
form of a giant man, who sits on guard by the entryway. A haggard face with
small, sunken eyes, he resembles a ghost that has grown old from traversing the
shadows of the earth.
“Oh, if it isn’t our king.” He croaks, voice too thin for a body so large.
“Why do you stand guard, knowing that no one dares set foot here?” Seijuurou
asks straight away.
“I’ve been born into this. Our family is bound by tradition.” He rasps out. It
is a sad thing to hear, both his words and the way his voice cracks as though
this is the first time he’s spoken in years.
“Does this tradition make no exception for your king?”
The guard looks up at Seijuurou, as if to analyze him. He seems to have found
what he was looking for in the stern lines of his king’s face, stepping aside
without a word leaving his mouth.
Seijuurou nods his thanks, making his way down the stairwell.
The guard keeps his eye on a red-crested back until darkness swallows up his
king.
===============================================================================
Instantly Seijuurou’s torch starts to flicker after he reaches the last step.
It’s almost as if he’s stepped right into the maw of a starving beast. With the
way the walls appear to be closing in on him, his guess is as good as any.
He trudges on, hand on the left side of the walls just as Kuroko told him. The
passageway takes him deeper into the heart of the castle. He’s shrouded in
complete darkness that even the flames of his torch are too scared to repel.
Before he can worry about his torch going out, he slips into a space between
the stone walls.
The room he ends up in has lanterns fixed to the wall, which Seijuurou gladly
starts lighting as he goes around the room. Soon a rancid odor begins
to irritate his nose, but he pays no heed. A rattle against his feet causes him
to pause. He brings the flame close to his feet, only to find a rusted series
of links hanging from the wall. 
Chains.
A table, long enough to hold a human’s body, materializes in the middle of the
room when he rushes to light the other lanterns. He steps towards it, and the
horrible smell hits him full force, making him cough. Blocking his nose does
nothing, the pungent air has already crawled into his mouth on copper claws. 
He tastes rusted metal in his mouth, not realizing why until he finally reaches
the table. He recognizes this smell all too well, his hands have been covered
with it too many times for him to count.
Blood.
The table has been sprayed with it from inch to inch. More than what one could
get from cutting apart just one body. Whatever rumors have crept out of these
catacombs, they certainly hold a kernel of truth. A very horrid truth.
He can’t breathe anymore, the stench is too strong. The blood-covered table
looks like one half of a monstrous jaw, and all it needs is a coffin to
complete the set. He forces himself through the tight space, stalking back to
where he came from, lest any invisible hands drag him to the table to make
him its next meal.
It comes, though without much relief, that he’s on the right track. He might
truly find some valuable information here. He doesn’t know how affected he is
by what he saw back there, but he’s beginning to have trouble breathing.
The air is thinning.
With no idea how deep this place goes, all he can do is trudge forward through
the darkness. It almost feels like a weight on his back now, and the flame on
his torch is shrinking. There’s no point in turning back now, his torch will
die out soon either way.
That is until a different flight of stairs emerges into view. So narrow that he
might just slip without support.
He climbs up on slow, careful steps, hoping that the air is not as stuffy
above.
His wish comes true as he walks right into a clearing. A tall room with several
pillars holding up a dome that has all sorts of symbolic animals carved into
it. Lions, dogs, birds and bulls. Seijuurou can only hope that he hasn’t just
stumbled across a sacrificial chamber.
He looks around, noticing how each of the pillars has been hollowed out right
at his chest level. He brings his flame over to the space, and just as he’s
predicted, sparks begin to dance around inside the pillar. Once they finally
reach the middle of the crevice, flames erupt from the both sides of the
pillar.
To think such a method was used back even during Kuroko’s time, perhaps
Seijuurou's ancestors were more advanced than he’d assumed.
He watches the room brighten up with every flame coming to life. Soon it’s a
festival of lights, illuminating an entire wall of scrolls spilling out like
sand and mixing with yellowed manuscripts strewn across the floor.
Not that one can expect thousand-year annals of ancient civilization to be
preserved wholeheartedly when there is no evidence for their existence in the
first place. Let alone the fact that this place hardly looks well-
explored, every inch of the room covered in a skin of cobwebs.
He slices through gossamer curtains with his torch, making sure nothing sticks
to him. Dust clogs up his senses as he treads on, holding back every sneeze or
cough with a grimace. When he reaches the wall of shelves, he doesn’t know
where to start, picking up one random end of a scroll to examine it.
Shintarou was right, Kuroko and his people indeed hailed from the east.
Although the character script is obsolete, Seijuurou can still decipher this
form of writing.
Luckily, they have page numbers mentioned, and he spends the next few minutes
arranging the manuscripts in order. As much as he can. Some are torn, ragged,
and some with entire pages faded to the point he cannot comprehend the text at
all.
A considerable amount still needs to be read through, and Seijuurou wastes no
time getting to it.
Bathed in orange and golden lights, Seijuurou begins to read about the tale of
the Dahaka.
===============================================================================
Seijuurou doesn’t know how long he’s been here. The flames still dance around
him in hollowed columns caging him to the wall of scriptures. He has gone
through every page already, some more than once because he cannot believe what
he’s reading.
This is all about Kuroko, the Dahaka. Whatever links the missing pages may
have provided are now insignificant. Nothing more than tiny cracks in the
big picture the rest of these scriptures paint with the blood of a thousand
curses. There’s a graveyard of an ancient kingdom inscribed in faded ink and
the only name it screams is Kuroko Tetsuya.
Seijuurou reads through everything. Again, again, and again.
Nothing changes. The words continue to stare back at him, mocking him with
black spindly fingers that twist and turn to spell out the horror that
enshrouds the Dahaka's origins.
When the fire on his torch threatens to die out again, he finally gets up.
Bundles up all scrolls and scripture into his arms, walking towards one of the
flaming pillars.
One by one, he shoves them all into the fire, watching as the flames explode
and devour every last shred of Kuroko’s history.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Regarding Momoi: haha did anyone catch that KuroMomo hint I slid in/
     i’M SO SORRY I swear there’s only one teeny tiny flashback scene with
     like 5-6 lines between them and that’s it.
     Next chapter: horrible, horrible flashback sequence.
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