Haku sits curled in the corner, fists balled over his eyes and teeth chewing at his lower lip, a taste like hot copper trickling over the tip of his tongue. Around him, the world rages in loud noise - thumps and shrieks and crushing torrents of white noise. All he can feel is the ebb and flow of heat and cold over goosebumped skin - chill, damp flakes of snow and the warm, wet spatters he knows to be his mother's blood. And he feels it well up in him - power, sharp and bright and piercing, pushing from somewhere deep within him until it thrums just beneath his skin. And he's trying to hold it in, trying to hold it back, clenching fists and toes and eyes, struggling. It bursts forth suddenly - pulses of blue and white and light and ice-cold overwhelming him. He sits waiting in the house, afterwards, surrounded by icy brightness and his parents' blood. Four hours later he hears voices carrying over the hill, resounding like the ghosts of echoes off the mirrors. And he stands to walk away, leaving small red footprints in the snow.
raku no ie
e satsujin ga kiru
fuyu ni naru
Haku crouches against the cold dark metal of the bridge railing, flurries drifting around his prone form. The wind whips through thin, torn clothes to skate across the bony ridges of protruding ribs and vertebrae. He shivers, shudders, then hears the crunch of footsteps on the hard-packed snow, and he starts, looking up into the yellow eyes of a demon, shadowed by a hitai-ate, at the sharp smile of a demon, half-concealed behind a mask. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are breathed away into a pale mist that hovers in front of his face, waiting. Then a hand cuts through the vapour, tough and calloused and solid, stark and vibrant against the white landscape. His hand reaches out, independent of himself, pale and trembling as he stands. He sees the glint of light from a snow-damp hilt, and he breathes in, cool air tinged with the hot-wet scent of blood and smoke. And together they walk away, leaving behind grey damp spots and dark indentations in the road.
rusu ni suru
iki wo nondeiru
gaiaku miru
Haku stands, reflected a thousand-thousand times, looking down on blood and mist and silver needles in a small, dark body. He can feel it surging around him - anger, white-red hot, glaring from blazing eyes and gritted teeth. The rage is nearly palpable, like waves of heat crashing through the snow-cool air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Chakra bursts over him in rushes, red pulses ripping the air and pushing him back against the mirrors. He slips out, a fluid motion, moves swiftly, quick fingers flicking out bright bolts in rapid succession - flash, flash, flash. He feels another surge of rage, the falter of a foot, hears a scream and the crunch of snow as he falls: defeated, useless. His conquered body leaves a broken angel in the snow.
e no youni wa
raden mada no youni
ate sareru
Haku falls back, leaning into a solid form, hot pain ripping apart his stomach. He looks down, feels the warm wet seep of blood and the cold steel of a blade and pain, sharp and biting and overwhelming, piercing him. Every muscle in his body tightens, spasms, but he has never felt more alive. He has never felt more relevant, more useful. He slips down, and snowflakes leave cold, wet marks on his skin.
tatakai no wa
owari de kiteru
rei no houmen