Ghost

A DaVinci Code Fanfic

By Feltbeat

Disclaimer: I do not own The DaVinci Code. The story belongs to Dan Brown. I do however own all creativity, plots, and OCs.

PROLOGUE

He stood there, facing the mirror, and watched his pale, translucent skin glow in the reflection. His piercing red eyes and white-blonde hair matched his skin perfectly. They were made for each other. He was beautiful.

So how could something so beautiful be so very corrupt? So damaged, so far gone, too wrecked – far beyond repair. It was horrifyingly painful to even think of what this young man had gone through – what he has suffered. What was even more shocking, was that it wasn't enough. Not in his eyes. In his eyes, the pain he endured daily would never be enough. Not enough.

He scrunched up his face in agony, that perfect white skin seemed to be extracting any and all of the light from the dark, and letting him soak in it. He glowed marvelously in the darkness of the room, as an ominous and eerie sensation floated about. He grasped with his bony hand the cilice wrapped around his left thigh, and yanked it off. He was much too used to this, for the tears no longer came. He inhaled deeply, biting down on his lower lip and feeling the tissue tear, and pulled harder, feeling the jaggedly sharp points of steel yank out of his flesh, leaving bitter wound marks behind. His blood was dark and rusty, and the skin around the holes was, although raw, dry and mattered. He had endured this long enough to become somewhat adapted to the procedure.

Inhaling again and drawing his canines deeper into the soft, vulnerable, and voluptuous pink lip, he brought the cilice around his body and wrapped it around his right thigh. The dried out but no less painful remnants of the torturous tool stood out brightly against his white skin. Biting down once – the hardest of all yet – he pulled the cilice tight around his thigh, tighter…tighter…until he could finally feel the small daggers pierce his already torn tissue and sink down into the flesh. Drops of dark red blood that so greatly resembled wine drizzled down sadly down his leg, leaving lighter, less visible lines behind them, like a trail.

But his pain was far from over. No, if he was completely honest with himself, the worst was still yet to come. He stood from his previously kneeled position, and faced the mirror, glaring at himself with utter hatred. He would never, never do what they hoped he would. His sacrifice would never, never be enough. He could never even begin to imagine he pain that his Savior had felt. But it certainly didn't stop him from trying.

They were lying on the stool, gazing at him almost longingly, as if they could not wait to feel themselves thrashed upon the raw flesh of his back, creating wounds almost before they even hit. He reached a long, thin hand out to grab the whips, clenching them firmly in his fist. They were his way out – his way to feel better about himself. This form of self-mutilation was the only way.

He cast one more look full of loathing into the mirror. His shocking red eyes send daggers in the reflection's direction. If only it would disappear…

Standing there, tall and lean, white against dark – the ghost drew back the whips and flung them across his back.

If only his Savior had come up with a word to describe the pain he felt as he was crucified – then there would be no more appropriate time to use it than at that very moment. The sting of whip against bare flesh – it was worse than anything he had ever endured. But it was not – it could not – ever be enough. Never enough to drown out the pain in his own head. Never enough to be compared with the pain of his Savior. Never enough.

If only he was able to come up with such a word now…if only his head wasn't screaming with wild agony and deathly silent at the same time…if he would ever be able to say it out loud without going mad…then there would be no better time for it to be used.

But no such word existed. Not a single language contained the one word that his tongue so desperately longed to find at that moment. Not a single person in the history of forever created it, and the one man that felt more pain than he was not even a man, but a matter of divinity so far beyond anyone's comprehension.

But it was never enough. Nor would it ever be.

While the agonizing burn did not cease, he knew better than to stop. Adjusting the angle of his swing to the opposing side, the ghost flung the whips over and across his back again. The sizzling crack that could be heard was earsplitting only to him. He grew weak at the knees and rocked slightly. By the time he whipped himself on the back five times, the pain turned into a perfect numb – he could feel nothing. Nothing at all.

The marks where the whips burst open the skin now burned with a certain persistence that was homey and unfamiliar simultaneously. It felt as though alcohol was being rubbed slowly into each wound, soaking down into the deeper tissue as if in slow motion. Each cell was on fire, each nerve a live wire. And he couldn't stop. Not yet.

It was a long procedure that usually took an entire hour of his night away. Not that it mattered to him. Night was but a dark, useless waste of time. He could be doing so many more useful things to keep himself occupied, like helping Aringarosa with one thing or another… But the kind man was sleeping. The first man who had called him "angel" instead of "ghost."

He was going to suffer for Aringarosa. And he was going to suffer for his Savior. And he was going to suffer for himself. All three made an immortal circle that could not, would not ever be broken.

He didn't bother breathing this time. It wouldn't have made much of a difference anyways. Filled with determination and inspiration, he bravely reached back the whips and struck himself continuously until the bells rang midnight.

The cut off red dots that were his wounds created mirror images of each other on both sides of his charred back, formed from the different blows and strikes he had cast upon himself. There was the slight smell of blood in the air, tinted with an iron-like scent, covered with a thick layer of hurt.

No matter how many times he struck himself, he did not shed a single tear. It was not so at first, but time had done miraculous things to him. Now, the only pain that could draw out the tears was the one inside his own head.

He straightened up and flinched as the drying wounds on his back re-opened with the flexing movements and stretching of the skin. He walked over to the same stool from which he had taken the whips and replaced them to their respective spot. Using his bare fingers, he extinguished the one and only candle in the room. It provided no light, and was pathetic in itself. Still, once it had gone out – leaving a slight but painless red mark on his fingertips – the entire surroundings dulled to a perfect black. There was nothing there but the ghost now. Nothing but the soft, milky shade of his pure skin and electric red eyes.

He dressed himself in his usual monk robes, tying the rope tightly around his waist to keep them shut. He slipped his feet into the cold leather sandals, and felt a shiver tingle through his body. He didn't stand for long – soon he slid down against the wall, feeling the wounds on his back rejuvenate, and wrapped his hands around his knees, looking into the abyss of darkness.

"You are a ghost!"

The voice rang in his head clear as day. He could almost feel the man next to him, and tried to make himself as small as possible, tightening the cilice around his thigh even more. But physical pain was the least of his concerns now. The voice made him shrink away, curl up, and stay absolutely still. He did not blink. He did not breathe. His body was in a healthier place than his mind.

"You are an angel."

Aringarosa's voice sounded mellow and kind – like the final words of a dying man on his deathbed. They were soft and creamy, and flowed together perfectly to make his heart melt. That was all he needed to hear before he collapsed on the cold cement floor with a soft thud. While his body quivered with the pain and the cold, the cement felt pleasant against his burning up cheek. While lying there, he happened to brush under his eye, and felt the remnants of a dried tear there. Funny, he hadn't even felt it come out.

It would never come to an end, nor did he expect it to. He had come to face the truth a long time ago. Aringarosa saved him from a terrible fate, and he owed his life to the man. He could not stop his job tomorrow. Nor the day after. Nor the day after that. The continuous chastise of his body had no end. He could never stop. Because no matter how much he did…no matter how much he suffered…no matter how much he endured…it would not, could not ever be enough.

Curling up his knees up to his chest, the ghost closed his eyes and began to pray.