A/N: Dedicated to Turtlepapaya since her birthday is today! Happy reading!

The blade whistles through the forest air, a lightning blur of black and red. Just as Soul is about to launch into his next set of exercises, a barely audible melody winds its way to him. Voices, breathy and demonic, giggle in his ear.

His fingers fumble and instead of slicing through air, the blade cuts through the base of a tree, sending it crashing down.

Clouds of dust kick up into the air and straight into Soul's nostrils. He can't stop from sneezing and nearly impales himself.

"You sneeze like one of Angela's kittens."

Soul shoots a watery eyed glare at the figure outlined in the trees. "Shut up, Star."

A quiet cough cuts off Black*Star's snort. "Resume where you left off, Soul."

He glances at his teacher, the same serene expression on her face though the fallen tree is not more than three feet from where she stands. She probably hadn't even flinched when she had seen it swinging her way.

With a dip of his head, he resumes his fighting stance, tracing deadly slashes and cuts into invisible enemies. Not too far in, the music picks back up again, like the broken record in his father's study. Oni's voices are legion and they grow stronger, turning into laughter.

They send chills up his spine and twists between his feet, nearly tripping him up. He inhales sharply, tightening his grip on the scythe. Just ignore it.

"Control, Soul. Control."

Sweat pours down Soul's face. He grits his teeth. "I'm trying."

"You are not."

Her calm and even tone chafes at him but he bites back his reply. Instead, he wets his lips, dried out from hours of practice in the sun, and drowns out everything around him with the sensation of the steel in his hands and the rote movements of his arms and his feet.

It isn't until his teacher is calling for him to stop that he realizes that the grating noise of Oni's laughter has grown louder than ever.

He keeps his eyes trained at the ground as his teacher approaches. Absolutely nothing escapes her gaze and his eyes cannot tell the lies his mouth can.

Two white boots come into his view, a sheathed sword planted in front of them. A gloved hand rests atop the sword handle. "Afraid to look at me now, Soul?"

Grinding his heel into the ground, he looks up and fixes his gaze onto the spiraling tattoos that encircle her face and trail down her arms. "Of course not."

He can hear the hollow amusement in her voice. "You're still not looking at me."

Clutching his scythe in a grip that turns his knuckles white, he meets Tsubaki's eyes.

They tell him nothing. He knows he can never rely on the black one-it is always unreadable. But the indigo one is just as impassive for once.

And that sets Soul on edge and Oni into fits of delight. Because he knows Tsubaki can see that he isn't shaking just from exertion, that his eyes are bloodshot for reasons more serious than a bout of insomnia and that, for the first time in eight years, the voices Oni's planted in his head are so loud he can barely hear his own thoughts.

However, she says nothing, flicking her eyes away and tapping her finger against her sword's sheath.

Her strange colored eyes find Black*Star, still perched on his branch. Something invisible and wordless passes between them. Then in a manner very unlike him, he leaves, jumping silently from branch to branch.

The tension he feels in the air morphs from liquid anxiety to solid fear.

Soul struggles for something light-hearted to say. "That's the first time you sent off your boyfriend during training."

His heart plummets through to his stomach and to the ground as a pained look flickers across her face.

"Black*Star is not my boyfriend," she says after a pause, looking down at the sword. Her hands tighten around the handle.

Soul tries to form an apology but his tongue is a knotted ball of yarn. Just as he unsticks his voice, Tsubaki clears her throat.

"How long?" she asks.

He feels like a little kid again, squirming uncomfortably. Deciding the truth is the best route to go, he answers, "Few weeks."

"It's not your fault," she says. Curiously, she glances up at the sky. "I feel it too."

Soul looks up at the sky. All he sees is gray rainclouds coming from the south.

He expels the breath he's been holding. Though he might not understand why Oni has resurfaced so forcefully, at least he can finally stop blaming himself.

Tsubaki speaks. "We are done with our lesson for today."

Soul sweeps her his customary bow. "Thank you." He's about to turn away when he stops, suddenly noticing that Tsubaki's tattoos stand out against her pale skin far more than normal.

In the eight years since Sid found Soul a teacher in Tsubaki, he had never dared to ask her a question, not about her tattoos or the sword she never uses or the rumors about her past.

His hands are shaking slightly as he asks, "And you are doing…okay?"

She smiles and for once it reaches both of her eyes. "I thank you for the concern, but I've known how to handle my demons for a long time now."

He hears footsteps right before the footpath he's on merges into the main road back to his parents' castle.

Scrambling into the brush, he hopes fervently that the person heading this way doesn't see him. Because as much as his parents prosper from trade with the Weapon Mages of the Northwest, if word ever reached his parents' ears that their son was learning how to wield a scythe, he would be shut in the castle and left to languish in the confines of his room under the deadly smother of well-intentioned but severely misguided parental instinct.

"Who are you hiding from?"

Soul jumps at the sound of Black*Star's voice above him. He peers out at the road and upon seeing no one, he glares back up at him. "You apparently."

Black*Star stands, evidently gauging the distance between him and the ground. Bending his knees, he leaps from the branch, executing a perfect somersault before landing gracefully on his feet. He gives Soul a broad smile. "That lemur-monkey Nygus got me was the best tree-climbing teacher."

Soul laughs. "Nah, you're just a show-off."

"I can't help it if my greatness shines through in everything I do," Black*Star shrugs.

"Right," Soul says, rolling his eyes. He lets his scythe swing loosely in his hand. "Anyways, I thought you were going home."

"I was but some news changed things." He sounds nonchalant but the smile on his face is brimming with barely tamped down excitement.

Soul raises an eyebrow. "What news?"

"King Mortuus is passing on the crown," Black*Star bursts out.

"To Prince Asura?" Soul asks.

Black*Star shakes his head. "To his younger son, Prince Killian."

Soul blinks at the unfamiliar name. "You mean Kid?"

Black*Star snorts. "Just because you two are buddies doesn't mean we're allowed to call him that."

"We've only met a few times," Soul says. "But that's what he went by." He furrows his brow. "But still, why would Asura get passed over?"

"That's what everyone's asking," Black*Star replies. "The old madness rumors are picking up again."

Soul shakes his head. "I never talked to him but he didn't seem mad. Strange maybe, but not mad."

Black*Star waves a hand impatiently. "Either way, you know what this means?"

Soul frowns. "A…coronation?"

"Exactly!" Black*Star beams.

"And you're so happy about that because?"

"King Mortuus is commissioning a new armory for Killian!" Black*Star bounces on the balls of his feet. "Sid got invited along with a bunch of other Weapon Mages and he said I can go with him!"

Black*Star's chest is so puffed out in pride that Soul isn't sure how he doesn't float away.

"Good for you, Star." Soul punches him lightly on the shoulder. "I bet you'll make the best weapons out of everyone there. When do you leave for the capital?"

At that, Black*Star's face goes slack like a person's face usually does when they forget something important. "In about an hour."

Soul's eyes widen. "An hour?"

Black*Star starts walking backwards, speaking hastily. "The coronation is on Kid's birthday, which is less than a week away, so we have to leave now. And I was supposed to have gotten Tsubaki by now."

Lithely, he scrambles up a tree. He turns back and sweeps him an exaggerated bow. "I'll probably see you there, young lord."

Soul responds with a roll of his eyes and a wave as Black*Star disappears into the distance. But inwardly his stomach, calmed by Tsubaki's reassurance, begins churning again.

A visit to the capital always meant a performance. His parents had always made excuses for him on the rare occasions they had to visit the king, but acts of loyalty were always required by the Mage Lords and their kin during events like this.

His feet dragged on the road as the walls surrounding his parents' castle came into view. Even if he was allowed to merely recite an oath of fealty, there was no way he could be around that much magic. Not in the precarious mental state he was in now.

Running away might be the best option, he tells himself, half-jokingly. He immediately shoots it down, knowing it's a preposterous idea. However, that doesn't stop him from pondering how that actually just might work.

Soul makes it back just in time for dinner, sliding in his seat beside Wes.

"That was a close call, you know," Wes mutters from the corner of his mouth just as their parents enter. "You almost got caught."

"Almost isn't the same as did," Soul grins.

His brother's lips twitch. "Where do you run off to anyways?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Soul rejoins, taking a bite of the lion-salmon in front of him.

At this, Wes smiles but Soul doesn't miss the flash of hurt in his eyes. The taste of fish turns sour in his mouth. There was a time he could have told Wes anything but that time has been buried by diverging paths and too many missed opportunities.

What exactly could you have told him? He asks himself. Nothing much, brother, just getting taught to be a scythe master by the local Weapon Mage's adopted daughter, who people call a monster?

He could imagine how well that conversation would go.

"Such a pessimistic outlook on everything, Soul," an oily voice comments. Barely the size of a fly, Oni floats down from the crystal chandelier hanging above their heads to hover over the table.

Soul nearly topples from his chair, stifling a yell.

Wes looks at him concernedly. "You okay?"

"Yes, Soul, are you okay?" Oni settles himself on Soul's shoulder.

He knows from many failed attempts that Oni is no more corporeal than his shadow. Even so the temptation to reach out and crush the tiny demon until he is nothing more than a red smear is nearly irresistible.

Soul spits out the first excuse that pops into his head. "Yeah, I just thought I saw a…bee," he finishes lamely.

Wes gives him a skeptical look but says no more.

"Come now, Soul, you've come up with better lies before," Oni drawls into Soul's ear, voice like rusty nails.

Gritting his teeth, Soul stabs at his meal viciously, shoving forkful after forkful of food in his mouth. Oni thrived on attention, gobbling it up like a vulture-turkey fed on carrion. Keeping his mouth shut and getting out as soon as he can was the best way to handle Oni's presence.

"Ignoring me?" Oni says, tone taking on a mocking edge. "That hurts my feelings."

Soul continues to eat, pretending to pay attention to whatever tale his mother is telling.

Blood thick as tar and dark as pitch floods his plate and spills onto his lap.

This time, Soul does yell.

Lady Aria cries out in alarm and jumps to her feet, her brow furrowed in concern. "Soul!"

Soul opens his mouth, to say what he doesn't exactly know but then a rough whisper from his plate stops him in his tracks.

Looking back down at his plate, any coherent excuse that may have been tripping from his lips cuts short as Soul's mind goes blank in shock.

Instead a shapeless mass, the blood has now re-arranged itself into a grotesque mask of Oni's face, bubbling up like boiling oil. Oni's lips smack together, blood flicking in tiny specks from his lips with every word. "I said that hurt my feelings."

A strangled noise comes out of Soul's mouth. Dimly he can hear the alarmed and bewildered exclamations of his family.

"You're wondering why they can't see me," Oni whispers, teeth scraping together. "And the answer is they never have. Maybe it's time to let you in on a trade secret, Soul. Your soul has always been the music that lets me in. It was never your magic-it has always been you," Oni says, serrated teeth bared in a wide grin. "You might say we run on the same wavelength."

As if to prove his point, Soul feels his hand clutch involuntarily around the knife as a raging desire bursts within him to sink it into something.

No. Someone.

The knife clatters to the floor. He pushes back his chair and runs from the dining hall before anyone can stop him. "Sick," he manages to say.

The voices clamor up now. They don't sound demonic anymore.

By some miracle, he reaches his room without running into anyone. He flings himself at his closet, his heart thrumming so quickly that it feels like it might simply leap from his chest.

Sick.

He pulls clothes from their hangers and they slip from his trembling fingers, spilling onto the floor. He drops to his knees, picking them up and dropping them again. He breathes hard, air not enough for his lungs.

It's all clear to him now. The reason no one had ever reacted to Oni as strongly as he did. It's because they never saw him at all.

The voices in him have turned thorny and harsh and they press and push against his skin, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. Babbling, raving, mad pieces of his soul. They did not belong to Oni. They are all his. All this time.

It's always been you.

Oni wasn't an invader. He was the part of Soul that was fundamentally wrong and he had been too blind to see it. Too blind to see he just did not belong.

Sick.

The icy coldness of the stone floor against his face surprises him. He blinks a few times, the world suddenly sideways.

His knees painfully inform him that somehow he slumped to the ground; he's now acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look with his bottom pointing heavenward.

To his surprise, laughter, genuine amusement, bubbles up from his lungs and out into the stale air of the closet. It's stupid, he knows, but he can't stop picturing his mother's reaction if she happened upon him in this moment.

"Goodness gracious, Soul," he hiccups in a high-pitched voice, sitting up. "Where is your regal dignity?"

His residual laughter dies away and complete silence settles in, the voices finally giving him a rest. Soul closes his eyes, reveling in the clarity.

It is freeing.

Then, he dives back into his preparations, plan unfolding itself neatly in his head as he shifts aside a loose tile in the floor. He pulls out a small pouch and yanks loose the drawstrings, revealing gold coins mixed with vials of odd-colored potions.

Drawing it closed again, Soul smiles grimly. When they were kids and the idea of pirates and other outlaws from their bedtime stories invading their castle was alive and kicking, Soul had eagerly agreed to Wes' suggestion of stowing away an emergency bag. Never would he have imagined that he would turn out to be the danger yet here they were.

Sweeping the clothes from the floor, he stuffs those and the pouch into a traveler's bag. Once he's out on the open road, he'll have to trade his clothes in for something less attention-grabbing, but they will do for now.

He was expecting the knock at the door but still he starts at the sound. Hastily, he shoves the bag into the closet and pulls the door closed just as his mother enters, his father and brother on her heels.

Patches of red stand out in Lady Aria's face as she skids into the middle of the room. She's breathing heavily, which means she ran all the way here. "Young man! Why are you here?"

"I felt sick," Soul says, bewildered.

"Then why didn't you go to the infirmary?" His father speaks up now.

Soul blanches at the word, claustrophobia washing over him as he remembers the windowless walls and crushingly stuffy air of the infirmary, more like a prison than anything else. It was there he would stay after particularly bad episodes as a child. No one but the doctor had ever been allowed to visit him and the medicine had always made him feel a strange mixture of sleepy and awful.

He takes in his parents' faces. While their eyes are full of concern, underneath he can read a certain wariness.

And maybe even a little fear.

"It's not like that this time!" His words come out like knives. He winces inwardly as they reach their mark, the look on his parents' faces falling away to guilt.

He can't stand to look at them so he takes a seat on his bed. From the corner of his eye, he can see his parents dithering in the middle of the room while Wes lingers in the doorway.

Soul feels the bed shift as someone sits beside him. The familiar spice of his mother's perfume fills his nose. It used to comfort him as a child when he would wake up from a nightmare and his mother would sit with him until he fell back asleep, but now the nightmares in his life are too big to be chased away by something so simple.

"No one said it was," Lady Aria says soothingly. She takes Soul's hand. "But you did give us quite the fright."

"Sorry," Soul mumbles, pulling his hand away. "I think the food just didn't sit well with my stomach."

"Then perhaps we should send for the doctor," his mother says, putting her hand to Soul's forehead as if he was still a child.

Soul shakes his head, excuse already half-formed when Wes cuts in.

"I think what will help Soul right now is a good night's sleep." He grins. "No need to call in the good doctor Stein for the stomach flu."

Their father nods but Lady Aria still looks unconvinced.

"Really, Mother, I just want to sleep." Soul starts to feign a yawn and is mildly surprised to find he doesn't need to fake it.

"Very well." She gives in. She rises, saying, "You will need all your rest for the trip."

"Trip?" Wes interjects.

"Prince Killian is getting crowned," their father answers, pulling on his beard. "We were going to tell you at dinner but…" he trails off awkwardly.

Their mother steps in. "It is going to be quite the occasion. We'll be leaving the day after tomorrow."

"And the magic?" Wes asks. He poses the question lightly but Soul's façade turns to ice and finally shatters.

"I never said it was going to be a problem, did I?" Soul snaps.

"No, it should not be," Lady Aria says smoothly, with a false cheeriness. "We will simply be very careful."

The atmosphere turns tense, waiting. Soul knows a child could point out how careful they had been in the past and disasters still managed to slither their way in. He keeps his mouth shut though. The sooner everyone leaves, the sooner he can get back to his plans.

"Exactly," his father finally agrees.

There is an awkward pause.

"Well, it's getting pretty late, isn't it, boys?" Lady Aria says, rising from the bed.

Their father nods. "We'll talk more about it in the morning," he yawns. "The coronation is less than a week away and we need to prepare."

Soul fixes a brittle smile in place. He nods, an anxious gloom gluing his throat shut, and pushes himself off the bed. Instead of his anxiety easing, he feels it thump in his chest like an extra heart.

He follows them to the door, screaming inwardly at himself. This is your chance! Say goodbye. Tell them that you care about them, that you love them.

The three pause just outside the hallway. "Good night, Soul," his mother smiles.

Soul fiddles with the doorknob and takes a deep breath. Do it!

"Good night."

Soul sits at his desk, his quill hovering at the bottom of the page. Blotting it for the umpteenth time, his hand trembles slightly from how hard he holds the quill. Come on, he orders himself, just say goodbye.

A bell tolls, announcing the turn of the new hour with a thunderous ring. He starts at the sound and nearly upends his inkwell.

Righting the small jar before it can overturn, he runs a hand through his hair agitatedly. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, he adds in a hasty scrawl: And that is why I am leaving. It is not the goodbye he is looking for but it is all he can manage at the moment.

Soul sets down his quill and re-reads the note, the scowl on his face growing deeper and deeper as he reads. It is nothing but one flimsy excuse after another, each one sounding just as false as he knows them to be. And that is because there is no reason he should be leaving except every moment he spends here is a thousand thorns in his veins, impaling him from the inside out.

He lets out a growl and snatches up the paper, crumpling it in his fist. His chair scrapes back as he rises and walks over to his fireplace, tossing the letter into the flames.

The paper curls up as the flames catch hold of it, his words slowly turning into ash.

Soul stares at the fire until his note is completely obliterated.

He raises his eyes to the mirror above the fireplace. The shadows the fire casts onto his face give his already unusual face an eerie pallor. It underscores the dark circles under his eyes, the result of blood black as pitch dripping its way from his dreams to reality.

It didn't used to be this bad. Rubbing roughly at his temples, Soul glares at his reflection, something sharp prickling at his eyes.

He was stupid to think he could explain everything he felt in a single letter when he didn't even understand half of it himself.

Cursing darkly under his breath, he scoops up his bag and swings it on his back. There is absolutely nothing he can say to his family that will explain why he decided to leave. Trying to do so was just a waste of time.

Soul eases his door open, looking left and right.

When he makes it outside and onto the main road, he heads toward the village, stopping in front of the vacant house of a currently traveling Weapon Mage.

He rolls the vial filled with black potion in front of Sid's locked up shop. There is something he needs to pick up.

Starlight shines Soul's way out of the village. He shifts his bags on his shoulders, something sharp poking into his back. His breaths come out in smoky puffs, the first bite of winter settling in his bones. He pauses when he reaches the peak of a hill, the first of many along this trail. Turning, he stares out at the glittering lights of the castle in the distance.

They are beautiful.

Soul turns his back on his home and begins to walk.