Setsuna: A Moment

~ Neechi

Dedicated to Tk's ribbons.


Frosted glass chess pieces, matching the clear as crystal opposing set rested atop a white marble coffee table. As most coffee tables were, it was in a room. This one was simple, with bamboo flooring and soft black curtains trailing from the ceiling down to the floor. Near the coffee table is a simple cream velvet couch, save for that and a black ribbon on the floor, the room is empty.

I stand in the doorway, staring at the ribbon. It's not my ribbon. Which means that it shouldn't be here. Hesitantly, I make my way towards it, my heavy platform boots pounding on the floor in expression of my anger.

Crouching down, holding my skirts together and out of the way behind me with my right hand, I carefully picked the ribbon up with my gloved left one. As expected, it did not burden me, maim me, or do anything out of its character. Straightening myself, I wrinkled my nose and carried it out of the room and into the kitchen.

The kitchen has a comfortable orange and gold theme. Orange and golden yellow were the only colors permitted within. From cabinets to plates to utensils, the stove and the refrigerator, everything was orange and gold and golden yellow. (Quite obviously, the food within my orange refrigerator wasn't all orange, that'd be weird.)

I set the black ribbon on the counter and stepped back, staring at it.

'Just take a moment,' I hear him saying, 'Just take a moment and look at it.' Letting the tears gather and slowly fall, I watch the black ribbon lying ever so peacefully on my kitchen counter. 'Take a little joy from the simple things in life,' his brilliant golden brown eyes filter his emotions, unlike his monotone voice, 'Nothing has to be.'

I lose the control I had, and the tears fall freely now, and I'm still standing. Perfect posture, my hands to my sides, but I'm crying. I'm crying as the memories of the past fly through my mind, little glimpses here and there.

Ighan sitting underneath the willow tree, waiting for my arrival on a hot summer day. Ighan's arms wrapping around my body on one of his surprise visits. Ighan's face as he's laughing, crumbs all over his face. Ighan's eyes as we found a stray kitten. Ighan when I broke down.

Gods, I can't believe I did that to you.

My body starts to shake, and I flee the somehow-nauseating atmosphere of my usually peaceful kitchen. I bustle up the plum-velvet colored carpeted stairway, taking to steps a time, greedily sucking in the air that I don't deserve. Finally reaching my destination- the never-used guest room- I thrust open the door and my eyes are greeted by the lavender, pale green and periwinkle blue atmosphere. I fall to my knees; all previous concern for my black skirts gone, and pull out my Silver Box of Sorrows. Pulling off the top and tossing it carelessly to the side, I calm when I see the pile of memories.

My vision blurs, and I realize that I'm shaking with my weeping. I mop the tears away with my laced sleeve, and I still can barely see my fingers daintily lifting the precious gifts into my hand. Again, I wipe my tears away, and stare down at the multitude of colors in my palm. Red, green, white, gray, yellow, orange, blue, pink… every color, save one- black.

Ighan always said that I needed more color in my life, I didn't need a black ribbon because I already wore enough black. He said he'd give it to me when I earned it. And so, I sacrificed all but one room into the pits of color. That was the master bathroom, because he said black bathrooms were sexy.

No one uses that bathroom anymore.

I collapsed onto the ground, my fingers curling around the ribbons and feeling my body convulse and the cold tears streak down to the ground.


When I wake up, I'm in my own red, satin bed. Something cool is pressed to my forehead, and something is wrapped around me. It's not my blankets, because those have been kicked away… and they keep me warm…

"Hello," I hear his voice, and I jerk up, spinning around and staring into golden brown orbs.

"Ighan," my voice whispers, and his cold, translucent hand reaches up to stroke my cheek.

"Hello, darling," I lean into the touch, and he smiles.

"Ighan," it's all I can say, "But how…" He leans up, and presses his lips to mine. Without asking permission, he dives into my mouth. When he pulls away, I'm crying again. "But… it's not possible…"

"Everything is possible," was his simple reply.

"No…" I deny it. It can't be possible.

"Yes, it is," he stroked my cheek, trailing his icy fingers down my neck, to my collarbone.

"But this isn't possible," I shook my head, reluctantly pulling away and crawling off the soft, satin bed and leaning against the wall, my fingers touching where his ghostly fingers had been. "I… You're dead."

"Yes." He didn't deny it, but he consciously (or unconsciously) he touched his chest, and pushed away the ethereal fabric, revealing a dark scar.

And suddenly his eyes were demonic, and I didn't want to see them ever again. To avoid looking at them, I stared at my hands. Hyperventilated when my eyes fell onto the sight.

Blood, coating my hands. Frantically I pulled off the glove, in hopes that there wouldn't be any crimson liquid there. But, no, it was there, too, and it was crawling up my arms. It was warm, pressing against my cold skin and causing the hairs on my arms to rise. It sunk into my skin, staining it so I knew that no matter how hard I scrubbed the blood would never wash off and it would never go away. I looked up, and the blood was there, too, and a bloodstained silver knife was there, jutted in his chest. He rose, his demonic eyes boring into my eyes, reaching down and catching my throat, sinking further and seizing my heart in an icy grip.

"You'll join me, won't you?" his voice was full of poison, full of malice and promise of something marvelous. "We can be together, forever. I'll never let you go."

Forever, he says.






And he'll never let me go.

And suddenly I can't breathe anymore, and in alarm my blood hands touch my neck, as if something was there that I could simply pull out with my hands, with my fingers. I feel the warm, sticky liquid touch my throat, and my panic heightens.

He's still there, coming toward me, whispering words of promise that I don't hear that I don't want to hear. I didn't want this, no, not this. I didn't want this pain; I didn't want this fear.

And he touches me, his cold, ghostly touch making me want more, it's intoxicating and all I can do is think about how I want to get away.

How I want his touch.

How I want him.

How I want the Forever he's promised.

But I can't, and that's the truth. They say he's dead, he says he's dead. The saner part of my shattered mind agrees. And I know it's the truth, but now all I can think about is him. I want his body against mine; I want to take him, hard and rough. I want him to scream in pleasure, to writhe achingly, obsessively, underneath me.

He's dead, my mind tells me.

I know, I respond. In my mind, I'm breathing hard, wearying. I still want him, though.

You're sick.

I know.

He's going to kill you.

I know.

You're going to kill yourself.

I know.

He has a knife rammed into his chest.

Captain Hook has a hook for a hand.

What does that have to do with anything?

Didn't Smee still want him?

Gross, both of them were old. Smee was fat and round and annoying.

So was Captain Hook.

Look at your arm.

Obeying, I stare down at my arm. For a moment, I don't recognize it, but then I do. It's blood. It's blood that's coated thickly, dripping down onto the floor. Bile rises in my throat, and I'm so scared I swear I'm going to pee. Suddenly, an ethereal arm winds its way around my neck, and I stare at bloody lips, and then into haunting eyes. Finally, I loose my grip when his fingers lightly stroke the small of my back, sending waves upon waves of pleasure through me.


Change of POV

The detective grimaced, looking down at the dead, mangled body of the naked, dead youth. Blood was coated in nearly every imaginable place. Every place, that is, that he had bothered to look for it. It was a good thing that he shouldn't touch the evidence… or mess around with the scene, for that matter, or he'd certainly see too much. Around the nude, bloody, mangled, definitely dead body were ribbons. Ribbons of every color were carefully placed around him. If it was a painting, it would have been darkly beautiful… or that's what the officer's son would have said. He smiled at the thought of his son, always the optimist.

But then his eyes fell to the body, and in the patterns of the blood sprayed from one wall to the bed, he noticed something sloppily written. Carefully making his way over to it, he stared down at the mess.

You've earned your black ribbon.

~ Ighan

: : O W A R I : :

A/N: Reviews would be more than welcomed.