Tonight? Will it be tonight? Yes, it will be this night.

I am sorry. I cannot allow myself the weakness of pity, or regret. Or of asking forgiveness.

I walk down the corridors, which I know to be lit by my sorcery. I hear the soft humming, hear the heels of my boots click on the hard surface. To me, the halls are dead black with nothing to pierce the darkness.

I am the darkness. Forgive me. No. Do not forgive me for what I am about to do.

I stop in front of your door, my feet on the sensor. I feel the rush of air as the doors swoosh open in front of me. They would not admit anyone else, but I alone override all alarms, all locks. There is no privacy in my realm; nothing is hidden from me. Not even you.

My poor, poor son. You will be the stronger for this, I promise you. I do this for love, not hate.

I can tell your sleeping room is darkened in reality, not just my vision. Your so-quiet breath soughs in sleep, in long, peaceful, drawn out breaths. You are so peaceful, so warm, curled up in slumber, one hand stretched out against the pillows, fingers curling in. Why do you not sense me? You should have been up on your feet, youki roused, the moment I stood in front of your doorstep, or earlier. Although you could be pretending; that would be wise as well.

In silence, I pounce on you, pressing my weight onto your body, your soft skin warm and smooth under my clutching fingers. Ah, now you awake, struggling under my grasp. But I am stronger than you.

Be stronger, my son! Fight me, resist. Lash out with all your anger, your pain, your terror. No, not your terror. That you must suppress. Use it to fuel your rage, but not to overpower it.

Ah, good. Throw me off the bed, your fingers digging into my throat. I have taught you well, I hope.

Well enough? I strain under your chokehold, writhe, my lips stretched in a soundless snarl. With a heave of my body, I throw you off me.

"Papa!" The snap of authority is in your voice. Good.

I say nothing.

"Papa?"

Silence. Before you can utter another sound, I grab you and toss you back on the bed as you shriek in outrage.

"Papa! What...?"

Before you can finish your words, I cover your mouth with mine, biting your lips, muffling your shriek. Fight me. Do not let me do this to you.

Let me do this to you. Either way, one of us wins or loses. The kingdom--who is stronger?

I bury my face in your shoulder, lace my fingers in yours, pin you down with my greater weight.

"Papa...why...."

Your breath hisses out as I rest my body on your smaller one. You are so close to being an adult now. I can see the changes in your body with each day. This is your initiation. I know it, you must know it in your bones.

Be strong.

Your gasping breath turns to a moan gritted between your teeth. You wrest one hand free, use it to claw at my face, pull my hair and horns away from you. Too late, too late. You cannot poke out my eyes, that's been done already.

I lose myself in your body as you shudder beneath me. You wail in pain, once, then are silent. Yes. Endure this, my son. You have chosen well.

"Papa...."

I will let my heart break if I allow myself to listen to you. I thrust further in, deeper. You twist under me in despair, but make no further sound.

Silver in my vision, the whisk of a fox's tail across my mind. You, it is always you, laughing, taunting me, Kurama. You tried to break me, but I am the stronger now. My son, too, will learn. Bend or break, it is the only way. The final testing.

Do not fight me, my son. Submit. Seethe in your rage at what has been done to you, what you allow to be done. Never forget it. Never forgive me for what I do to you.

You are strong. You will be stronger than I am. I have raised you well, my beloved son.

Kurama turns and laughs in my sight, dancing in and out of my vision, graceful as always. He spins the whip of rose and green, silver hair flowing, spatters of blood staining the white tunic.

My blood. Shura's blood. Do you care which, how many have suffered and died for you, because of you?

I cry out your name as Shura cries out mine, in despair, in hate, in love. Come to me, make it all better--but you will not, you never will. You leave me bleeding in the dust, at the feet of your hired assassins. I am there, I have never left. Even as I stand at the top of Gandara's highest tower, I still lie there, alone and dying.

You broke my heart, took my light, but you did not kill me. Do you regret that? Should I have died in that moment, dropped my sword and let the assassin take me?

I will break my son or I will save him. He alone will decide. He is silent, tearless, shuddering with the blows of my body as the bed shakes beneath us. Live, my son. Do not let me kill your heart.

If your heart is dead, then you can no longer be hurt. Destroy that part of you, burn it out. You have suffered the worst anyone can do to you, and no one will hurt you again. Make this vow to yourself, the vow your father has made out of love.

I love you, my son, more than you will ever know.

My son.

My self.

--

February 12, 2000.
Theresa Ann Wymer twymer@efn.org