I just read the latest Tsubasa. And, uh, I'm so confused. So, is "time" the price that Syaoran payed, or the wish that was granted? Maybe FWR captured him so that he wouldn't be able to do whatever he reversed time to do? Dammit, keeping track of who paid what when and for what reason is far too daunting a task for me. And why would R!Syaoran's Sakura have any reason to be in the ruins, when the Sakura that Touya, Yukito, etc. know is C!Syaoran's Sakura? ...I don't get it.
Also, Cain fic:
Title: Lightning From a Clear Sky
Fandom: Count Cain
Characters: Riff/Cain, mentions of Merryweather, Crehador, and Oscar
Warnings: Riff spoilers, uh... weird imagery?
Summary: Because the most deadly poison is the one you don't expect.
Disclaimer: They belong to Kaori Yuki. I just like to
A/N: A rather strange little oneshot. I'm not entirely sure what I think of it, but I'd love to hear what anyone else thinks.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not for him, at any rate. How many times had he sifted through the contents of a bottle of poison, filtering and boiling some sample, pouring it from flask to flask until it revealed its every secret? He wrote them all down in his records– name, composition, effects; he had notebooks full of these things. Cain was a scientist, in essence; he sat and patiently analyzed, and even slow poison would yield and impart its true nature. Breaking something down into all of those individual puzzle pieces was easy.
Was that why he solved mysteries? Those lovely people– his relatives and their compatriots– who moved through the circles of high society were just as poisonous as anything in Cain’s collection. Sometimes, he wished he could take the deceptive smoothness of that gentleman’s voice or the hidden acid behind that lady’s smile and bottle them. A few drops of that poison would be enough to kill anyone, without leaving even the slightest aftertaste in the sherry. People could be marvelous creatures at times. They spun a thousand little lies into a tapestry so detailed as to be indistinguishable from real life.
Perhaps that was why it was so enjoyable to pull away at every loose thread. Each falsehood fell away, and you clutched at the lovely crystal glass in your hand, realizing just that one moment too late what it was you had drunk. For his part, Cain would just flash you that knowing smile: had you only thought to come and help him sort through the truth... ah, but perhaps he was the only one who could see it, after all. He was a master.
Every time, walking out of a newly empty house before the bodies were cold, Riff had been there with his hat and coat, leading Merryweather by the hand and chiding her not to touch anything. Later, there would be tea, and because Cain truly was master of this one small world, there was no need to check these cups for poison. Riff was as dependable as the bedrock. Wasn’t it curious that one who could not even trust his own family would have leapt from an upper-storey window in the dark had he believed that that one person was waiting to catch him at the bottom....
Riff could turn away unwanted guests with an expression like a snow bank, but Cain had always been able to walk right through that. He knew every gesture, every tiny shift in expression like a book; Riff was, after all, his poison. So simple, so obvious for those two who understood the code– that one brush of the hand as the butler handed his master his overcoat said more than the bouquet that the young lady blushed over. It always would. The answer shifted itself into focus as soon as you looked at the problem the right way around.
Yes, that was how the world was supposed to be. There was a key for every keyhole, an answer at the heart of every mystery. Like a butterfly, you put it in the killing jar and then pinned it down; you could crucify the truth and hang it up in the light of day for all the world to see. Every riddle had an answer, and you could solve it from context. For a ready mind, there were to be no surprises.
And then, something happened that you couldn’t explain. Your reflection slid out of the mirror, and the ghost didn’t vanish when confronted with your candlelight. The rain that fell on your lips tasted like iron, and lightning came from a clear sky, leaving you lying paralyzed and alone. The butterfly you tried to pin down produced fangs from nowhere and bit. Suddenly, there was nothing that you could pick apart.
How often he had traced those lips with one finger, and thought he understood. There had never seemed to be a mystery here, just a hand that was warm in his....
Everything shattered. How was it that suddenly, Riff was able to translate violence into just a few words? This was not something that could have been expected, deduced; there was no formula Cain could conceive of that would lead to this solution. This was not rational; it was something that would happen in one of Merryweather’s fairy tales, where without warning, you found yourself falling through the looking glass so hard that the broken pieces of mirror cut you on your way down.
And Riff left– of his own free will, he turned and walked away apparently without regret. In the end, he had always been the most deadly poison: the one that lurked, unwritten, the one you gladly drunk.
Kneeling in the street now, deaf to the yells of Oscar and Crehador, Cain looked up and waited for lightning to strike.