"You don't show it to the audience,

what's hidden under that clown mask.

Show me the true face that you were hiding.

When hurt; be in pain.

When it's hard; scream.

There's nothing shameful about it." - Pierrot, Senka.

Title: Harlequin
Author: RESTIA
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: ONESHOT, for now. OOC, mentions of God, and might contain slight controversy. Numerous philosophical musings. Please do not be offended - I do not mean to offend or insult any beliefs.
Summary: Harlequin. The color that pervaded his first memory, the color of the eyes he inherited from his mother. It was also the word that defined him above all others. For he was a clown, a clown of Fate, a pierrot of Destiny, a joker of the Greek Moirais. And thus begins the Harlequin's tale... the tale of an alternate genesis to the fake priest.

"Let the requiem, the circus of atonement begin."
Disclaimer: Nagini hisses hi.

Do you know what the heart of magic is?

The answer is — "lies".

Do you know what the most frightening lie is?

The answer is — "a lie that deceives oneself".

- Tsuchimikadou Yakou

Harlequin

Let us peer into the fractures of the Kaleidoscope.

We see a image, one wondrous, brilliant and breathtaking. A beautiful image.

But reality is not so beautiful. It is ugly, cruel, hideous.

The first thing he sees when he wakes is darkness. A world from which shadows and darkness shaped it entirely.

A path then lights up before him, winding and turning and seeming to stretch on infinitely. Not knowing what else to do, he trekked down the endless road.

"What comes before life? What lies after death?" He wonders, as he stumbles down the lonely, winding road before him, the road the sole source of light within the realm of darkness. He marched on endlessly, without a sense of time in what felt like an ethereal dream. In that world of utter darkness, there was nothing left but forward.

Eventually, before he knew it, he notices a humongous gate looming before him, and a hooded figure standing guard before the gate.. the gate to what was surely the netherworld. The apparition before him was dressed in a robe woven from strings of midnight black, billowing from an unknown wind. Fastened neatly on the ground next to the being was a scythe, a symbol of the end. The ground exuded a faint smell of sulfur, and the eerie cawing of a raven echoed throughout the void. All marks that characterized Death. The reaper smiled wickedly, and hissed out, "Welcome, my Master, my Lord. Would you care to try your luck at this roulette of reincarnation... or would you pass on to the afterlife, my Master, my Lord?"

And he fell as he made his choice, plunging into free fall into the abyss, as the cackles of Death reverberated ominously throughout the entire world.

This is the Wizarding World.

25 years after the confrontation, defeat and imprisonment of Dark Lord Grindelwald... 25 years after end of his bloody quest for wizarding dominance and revolution "For the Greater Good"... 25 years after the end of a wizarding conflict that embroiled the whole of Europe, another wizard rose to the throne of darkness and replaced him, and began an even bloodier campaign against the world than his have ever been.

The new Dark Lord styled himself as Lord Voldemort.

This is the Wizarding World, of Great Britain.

This is the Wizarding World of Great Britain at war. The shadow of Dark Lord Voldemort hangs ominously over Magical Britain after 25 years of peace, 25 years of lull. Nobody had ever suspected that a new Dark Lord would be birthed so soon after a previous one had fallen, and was thus, "caught with its pants down". They were unprepared for another bloody conflict, another war of ideals, one of "light" against that of "dark".

Grindelwald's reign was terrifying - yes it was, but it was a mere dwarf in comparison to that of his successor's, that of Lord Voldemort.

He was one of the darkest and most nefariously evil wizard to have made his mark upon history, to have carved his name upon the annuls of time. A wizard who held the power to end an era. A wizard who could have brought forth an epoch of prosperity to the world of magic - if only, if only he had used his ingenuity and power for good.

Using magic with the intent to hurt, with the intent to kill - Lord Voldemort began his bloody crusade of violence and fear. Wreaking havoc throughout the world, he threw the world into chaos. He breathed life into a contingent of demons, and united legions of dark creatures under his flag. He gathered a horde of followers under his dark ideals, followers who would commit the worst and the most depraved of crimes in his name. With his army, he waged war on life and all creation, heralding an age of endless darkness. Reaping more lives than the most virulent of diseases, he was an unstoppable engine of destruction, a disaster of eradication. An unstoppable menace that plagued the world on an evil quest. A man that became synonymous with the word fear.

This is the Wizarding World of Great Britain at war. Where entire families, entire clans could be wiped out with nobody the wiser until the next day. Dark days, where no one could be trusted. Dark days where betrayal and traitors was as common as rats in the streets. Dark days where a person's closest friends could be donning masks and committing massacres by night.

This is war bloodied with blood, ground deep into blood, bled into blood, inked into blood until blood will stain it forever. This is war that have been fought for years, and is war that appeared as if it would last for more. It was an endless conflict pitting light against dark with no end in sight.

This is the Wizarding World of Great Britain that Harry Potter had the misfortune of being brought into.

Puppets cannot defy the puppet-masters.

Marionettes are bound by strings, strings that control their every movement. They can only move as their master dictates.

They have no free will, only having one course of action laid before them.

Just as puppets and marionettes are bound, we men are bound by strings called Destiny, to a hand called Fate.

Harlequin is a word used to describe a clown, a comically dressed performer in a circus. Coincidentally, harlequin is also the name of a color, a light green between the primary green and chartreuse green on the color wheel.

Harlequin was the color of his life, and harlequin was the color that stained his being.

Picture a typical hospital room in a typical maternity ward with a typical mother in labour and a typical father doing his best to support the mother(in spirit, naturally). Now paint the canvas with a tense atmosphere, the air heavy with heavy breathes. A scene of new life, and one that was - normally, supposedly - happy.

Now let us replace the hospital room with one from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and replace the typical mother with a witch and the typical father with a wizard. This is Lily Evans, 20 years old, green-eyed spitfire Charms expert. This is James Potter, 20 years old, dashing Transfiguration whiz. And this was their first child.

And would be their last.

"Congratulations," the Healer says heartily. "It's a handsome boy." For what other emotions could such a cute, innocent child bring but felicity?

Harlequin was the color, and harlequin was his color.

They name the child Harry Potter, the Middle Eastern form of Henry, derived from the Germanic name Heinrich, which meant "home" and "power", in hopes that he would grow up to become a powerful wizard, with a wonderful home.

They name him not knowing that his life, pure white, have already been marked with Destiny's colors.

They name him not knowing that Clutho have already spun the thread. Not knowing that Lachesis have already measured the length of his thread. And not knowing that Atropos have already snipped off the cord of his life. Not knowing that Fate have already dealt to him the worst card of all, the carte pitre, the "Joker", the odd card even in a generic deck. Not knowing that he will never know a home, and never will.

But the tale of Harry Potter does not begin thus. It begins when July 31st, 1980 meets October 31st, 1981.

When did the lines separating fiction and reality begin to blur?

He is one years old. And the scene begins with a family of three.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off -"

Standing upon the snow, with courage, just like a lion, he faced the cloaked face of Lord Voldemort, his back to his home. He knew, deep within his being, he would not escape alive. He would never see the sun again. Never see the snow again. Never see his beautiful Lilyflower, and never again his baby boy. He only held a single hope - hope that his family would have enough time to escape.

He knew resistance was futile. But he resisted anyway. All the more he resisted. Even though he knew the outcome would not differ, he resisted. For his wife, he resisted. For his son, he resisted. All to buy them a little more time...

"Avada Kedavra." A whisper whispered.

A flash of harlequin snuffed out the fire of James Potter, the ember called "life". And then there was two.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

Lily Potter screamed. Standing in front of the cot, arms wide, blocking her son from the view of this - this monster, she screamed. She felt fear. Pure unbridled fear. Prime, primal, and primordial fear. Her legs shivered with fear. Fear, fear, fear, fear,fear,fear,fearfearfearFEARFEARFEAR. Shackled down by chains of fear. Rooted to the ground by vines of fear. Fear screamed at her to surrender, to beg for her life, so that she could escape with her life. Basic human instinct conjured that fear.

"Stand aside you silly girl … stand aside now."

But Love made her stand in front of that cot, regardless of Fear. Love for her husband, who she knew was deceased - and she would be joining him shortly -, love for her son, love for her friends, her family. It was hopeless, but it was love that kept her standing.

And it was love that gave her courage. She would never back done, not when her son, her Harry, was at risk.

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead - "

She felt sorrow. Sorrow at the unfortunate card dealt to her family. Sorrow that she would never see Harry Potter grow into a respectable adult. Attend Hogwarts. Make friends. Get married. Raise children. Sorrow that he would never have a childhood.

"Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy… "

"Avada Kedavra." A whisper whispered again.

Harlequin flashed once more, and Lily Potter felt nothing. She will eternally feel nothing from henceforth. And then there was one.

A shrill, cold laugh echoed menacingly throughout the house as Lord Voldemort stood in front of the crib, ominous slitted iris boring down on Harry Potter, his gnarled hand aiming his wand straight center at the infant's face. Harry, whose tears streaked a path downwards, at the lost of the warmth of Dada, at the lost of the warmth of Mama, stared with incomprehensible fear at the wooden stick pointed at him.

A flash of harlequin light illuminated the room.

And one remained among the burning wreckage of the Potter family's home in Godric's Hollow, England.

What exactly defines family...? Does sharing familial ties makes you family? Does sharing blood makes you family? Does the similarity of blood traits between two people makes them family? If so, then what do you call an adopted child? Are they not family? But they do not share blood...

I refuse to accept blood ties as the qualifier as to what makes up a family. Because a family does not spread false rumors about its members, a family does not force one of its members to do all the chores... And a family certainly does not force one of itself to sleep in a cramped cupboard under the stairs!

If you were to ask me, I believe family to be a group of people who simply "loves" each other.

Now then... what is love? An emotion? The frantic stirring of the heart?

I believe that "love" can never be defined properly. After all, it is the crystallization of man's origins, a transcendental occurrence that precedes all of the world's evil. For love, man sins. For love, man becomes heroes. From love, man is born. From love, all is created.

Children are born in the paradise called love. I, on the other hand, was shaped by the perdition called hatred, molded by the flames of detestation. I endured, sacrificing bits of myself to survive... until all that was left was a void.
- Excerpt of Harry Potter's diary, page 40

Time slips away. He becomes three, four, fivesixseven. This is Harry Potter.

And this is Privet Drive number 4, of Little Whinging, Surrey: normal, generic, typical. Or perhaps a better description would be "void of personality", as it was astonishingly plain. From the bright white paint to the bright white picket fence around the yard, to the perfectly arranged flowers in the garden and to the perfectly parked car in the garage. In fact, the entire scene looked straight from a retail magazine showcasing a new house for sale.

This was where Harry Potter learned of masks, of smoke, of deception.

All living beings adapts to unfavorable conditions. Just as how trees in colder climates grew thick barks, just as how cacti in deserts grew needles for leaves, just as how poisonous frogs are brightly colored. Evolution. He adapted. He learned how to play an act, to don a mask, to perform a drama. If he acted like this, or did that, he would not draw the ire of the Dursleys. His tastes was modified. His ipseity was altered, "Harry Potter, freak child" to "Harry Potter, normal child". He was a playwright, an actor, a clown, a joker, a harlequin. All of these, and more.

A mask that fit the preferences of the Dursley family. A mold of a normal child, a generic and typical child according to the Dursleys, and certainly not one to do with any freakishness. Perfectly average scores. Perfectly average behavior. He was a perfectly average child, one that matched the preferences of the Dursleys.

And so the drama titled "life" went by.

And so life went by.

Harlequin was the color that created the harlequin of the wizarding world. How... ironic.

Time slips away. He becomes seven, eight, nineteneleven.

He learns that he is a wizard. He learns of his fame, of his prestige. He was the "Boy-Who-Lived". He learned, absorbed, studied. The expectations the world had of the "Boy-Who-Lived". The mold the world had set for the child savior, the shoes the world expected to be filled.

He had another play to perform, another act to play. He donned a new mask. He was the clown, the harlequin of this circus, this circus that was the wizarding world. He learned of his role, his role as the clown, as the harlequin. He was to entertain the audience that was the wizards and witches.

And thus, he performed another piece.

Flawlessly, impeccably, perfectly, immaculately.

And thus, his identity altered once again.

I am the harlequin of this circus. Deceit is ▅▅▅▅ .

"Gryffindor!"

As expected of Harry Potter, the "Boy-Who-Lived".

The clock ticks, a year into the future.

Ironically, Harry Potter enjoyed his second year Defense Against the Dark Arts professor the best, even if he was a coward.

Because they were both fakers, albeit ones that played to different tunes, ones that danced to different lies.

What is a thing that looks like truth?

It was ironic, but he took pride in his ability to fake. He took pride in his ability to play this game of mirrors, of smoke. He took pride in his ability to dance a dance of lies, to play a play of deception.

He was the charismatic Harry Potter. He was of light, everybody said. And everybody believed it. His ideals was of light, everybody said. And everybody believed it.

What is a thing that looks like truth? If they deceive even all five senses... Is it still a lie?

He deceived everybody until he deceived himself. Deceived himself into thinking that he was "Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, of Light". But was he really?

How false does truth have to be to stop being truth? How true does a lie have to be to stop being a lie?

Deceit is my soul, never knowing truth, my blood itself is ▅▅▅▅ .

Time slips by once again. He becomes seventeen.

The prophesied date comes. The destined encounter arrives.

He stands under the starry sky, hawthorn wand in his palms, aiming straight at Lord Voldemort. Lord Voldemort stands under the same starry sky, Elder Wand in his hands, aiming straight at Harry Potter.

Among the burning wreckage, among the fallen ruins of a tower, a tower of the once-majestic castle that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, two men, bound by fate, stands facing each other, aiming their weapons at each other. They were at a stalemate.

"A single outcome shall end his days, world to preserve or to raze."

The world's fate hinged on the outcome of this battle. To be saved, or to be destroyed, the world wondered. History would be decided, then and now.

Dawn approaches. Dusk retreats.

A reddish gold light burst across the sky above as the edge of the radiant sun appeared over the sill of the horizon. Its radiant, dazzling and luminous radiance seemed to lit up the entire world.

And that seemed to be the unspoken signal for their battle to click towards its conclusion.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Expelliarmus!"

A crimson beam shot out of Harry Potter's hawthorn wand, the wand which previously belonged to Draco Malfoy, and clashed against the vivid green jet of light from the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, spun across the sky, across the air towards its true master.

The vivid green, vivid harlequin jet of the Killing Curse rebounded towards Lord Voldemort once more, just like that night during All Hallow's Eve, just like that Samhain night, sixteen years ago. It hit and snuffed out the fire called "life".

Lord Voldemort fell backwards, arms spread out, his snake-like eyes rolling upwards. His body hit the ground with finality, with a soft "thud", yet that soft sound seemed to ripple and resound through the entire clearing. Lord Voldemort was killed, just like how he had killed. His body was unmarked, as was the trademark of the Killing Curse. His hands empty of life, his face vacant and unknowing. He felt nothing as he died. And he will forevermore feel nothing.

Silence. The world stared with widened eyes, waited with bated breath - as if they could not believe what had occurred.

But as seconds slowly trickled, as time progressed, the world began to hope. Hope that finally - at last - the monster, the Dark Lord, have fell.

It took a single man to bellow in joy.

It took a single man to bellow in joy for the entire crowd in the castle of Hogwarts to roar with the same euphoria.

Through the din, of the cheers and roars, of the elation and joy, Harry Potter thought, "It's over. Finally... it's over." The act of the "Boy-Who-Lived" have reached its finale. The drama of The Chosen One have reached its conclusion.

It was a happy ending. After all, he was finally free... Free to live the life he wanted. Free to pursue the path he wanted, free to do whatever he wanted, free to live his life as himself.

Live his life as himself...? His eyes widened as his train of thoughts sidetracked to a previously unknown railway.

Live his life as himself. Those words stunned him with the intensity of ten Stunning Spells. What did he like...? What did he want to do...? What was his own original set of principles, his own ideals...? What was his own nature, his own personality...?

After walking on Fate's Path, relying on Fate's guidance for so long... that when the route finally ended, that when guidance was rescinded, he collapsed. For he had not learned how to walk by himself. For he had only walked with Fate's help.

After living most of his life as another person, he had, somehow along the way, erased the original entity known as "Harry Potter". He had donned the harlequin mask for so long, that the mask itself have became his face. He had acted for so, so long, that he could no longer distinguish himself from his acts. The lines distinguishing fiction, his play, and reality, his true self, have blurred. His original face, his unmasked face - the being known as Harry Potter, the soul known as Harry Potter, the identity, the ipseity of Harry Potter, the true self of Harry Potter...

In the end, it boiled down to a single question he yearned to find the answer to.

...What was it? Who is the individual known as Harry Potter?

A sense of self could be said to be the equivalent of one's humanity. Defined in the dictionary as the total, essential or particular being of a person, it is the vital qualities that distinguished one from another. In the words, the individuality.

"I am a defective human being."

Harry Potter was a defect as a human. He was a distorted being, one void of a sense of self, one whose heart contained a void. He was everyone and no-one at the same time. He was an illusion, a fabrication formed by human's instinctive ability to adapt, a product of his own dreams. He loves, he fears, he dreams, he hopes, he despairs, he lives and he dies. He feels all of these, yet does not feel all of these. For they were merely sensations felt by an illusion, by a phantom.

Life held no meaning to him. He merely existed for the sake of existing. He merely lived for the sake of living. His existence held no purpose - because the only person that had existed was the Harry Potter, perfectly normal nephew of the Dursleys... and Harry Potter, the "Boy-Who-Lived", the "Chosen One".

Despite his accomplishments, he could not feel satisfaction. For they were not his accomplishments, but instead that of the "Boy-Who-Lived".

He lacked what made up the being of a person, and thus could be called inhuman. For he was not human. A human had a sense of self. He had none.

He was defective, he was distorted. He rejected the existences of these flaws. But they continued to exist, and continued to haunt him. He had no choice, but to accept the existence of these imperfections he had. These imperfections - that stated he had no self, no humanity, no identity, no real emotions.

He yearned to gain a normal sense of self. He wanted to know - what it felt like to feel for genuine?

He turned to food, hoping against hope that they could fill the emptiness in his heart.

He was a void, a void that held nothing. He feels without feeling, and desired without really desiring. For it was "Boy-Who-Lived" who felt and desired.

He recognizes eating as a desire, but only as a necessity for survival. It was a physiological need. The act of eating is simply a procedure of placing food into the stomach to prevent it from becoming empty. Yet, he observed that humans became more emotive when eating. Over food, they laughed, they chatted, they joked, they talked. It was almost... magical how food could bond people together. He watched as people became friends over food. He watched as people bantered over food. And he watched as people brought out emotions over food.

And he wondered: could food give him a sense of self? Could food give him humanity?

He tried and attempted.

But it was doomed to futility from the beginning.

While they could be called delicious and filling to his stomach, none of them could fill the emptiness in his heart. None of them brought any sense of fulfillment to his heart. None of them gave him humanity, a sense of self. He continued to mechanically put dishes served into his mouth to fill his stomach without feeling any real emotions.

And he continued to laugh with his "friends" over food.

my blood itself is deception. Over a ▅▅▅▅ have I crafted.

"Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name..."

God. The almighty, supreme being thought to be omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient. The being thought to have created the universe as we see it. The being thought to have created light, to have created heaven and earth, to have created the sky. The being thought to have created the world, and to sustain the world.

Such a being surely would have the power to change him, right? The priests of the church had spoke of the Lord, had preached of awe, of reverence, of being enlightened with spiritual ecstasy upon accepting the futility's of one's existence compared to the Lord.

Harry Potter turned to religion with fervor, hoping that God would bring him salvation.

He prayed, hoping that God would fill the consuming emptiness in his heart.

The prayer reverberated through his soul with a pale echo, with a dull indifference, as if it had tried to locate his soul but found it lacking, found it hollow. He felt no granting of comfort, no humbling in the appreciation of life. Even as he prostrated and submitted himself before the supreme deity, he felt nothing.

Perhaps it took time. That would be only natural. After all, all wounds requires time to heal. After all, Time was the ultimate force, the force which consumed everything. The force that brought about the beginning and end of eras, the rise and fall of an epoch. Gnawing iron and biting steel, it which grinds rocks into sediments. The impetus that slays kings, ruins mountains, splits oceans. The unstoppable force that would reap all life... in time.

Yes, perhaps he was being too hasty. Even his wound would heal in time.

He could only believe that.

He could not allow himself to think otherwise, for the consuming void was far more excruciating than any other physical wound. It slipped through carefully erected barriers of the mind and attacked the sanity. It was torturous, it was excruciating, it was agony. The nothingness in his heart.

He continued to pray, hoping that someday - some how...

For hope was all he had left - for only hope prevented him from slipping into the abyss of insanity.

"Amen."

Over a thousand personas have I crafted. Unaware of ▅▅▅▅ , nor aware of ▅▅▅▅ .

All men yearns for a family. That is an instinctive desire that have been sown in man's deepest nature.

In his attempts to find his sense of "self", he turned to women, to the fairer sex. He tried his hand at "love", for he believed every human wishes to love one of the opposite sex, bear a child, die peacefully. Thus, he yearned for the same, for he believed it would help him find genuine happiness, that it would cure his distortion. He yearned for a family, but he continued to fail to feel any real fascination for it. He charmed, manipulated, attracted many women in an attempt to "love". He tried with all he had, to "love". He tried to love to earn normal happiness.

In the end, his attempts were still unable to change him. He was still a defect as a human being. He still felt the void, the ever-compassing nothingness within him. He concluded that he did not try hard enough.

He tried again. And again. And again. And again.

Time continued to progress, and over his attempts to find himself, he is now twenty years old.

He tried again. And again. And again. And again.

All his attempts was met with failure.

He gazes at the sky, the ceiling of the world, blankly.

Unaware of truth, nor aware of self. To play many ▅▅▅▅▅ , I have withstood the ultimate pain.

What is a heart? People say that the heart, is the capacity to do good for the world. Be it for the environment, for the animals, for his fellow man, the capacity to do good for all of this fall under the human "heart". In other words, it is the capacity to "care", to do what is "just".

What is an emotion? People say that it is a subjective, conscious experience in which, joy, sorrow, fear and hate is experienced. It is a feeling, a sensation.

What is a soul? People say the it is the immortal essence of a person, the ethereal base which makes up a person. The soul is said to represent everything that is a person.

What does that make me, then? I have no "heart". I feel no inclination to help the poor, protect the environment, save the animals. I merely glance at the unfortunate and feel nothing. I feel no urge to do what is "good". I feel no human morality.

What does that make me, then? I have no emotions. Or perhaps it would be better to say that I feel no genuine emotions. I can express joy, but I do not feel it. I can express hate, but I do not feel it. I can express sorrow, I can express fear... but I do not feel anything. I merely feel... hollow.

What does that make me, then? I have no soul. I am merely a void, a shell, an emptiness.
- Excerpt of Harry Potter's diary, page 52

To play many acts, I have withstood the ultimate pain. Yet, the unmasked face is doomed to never be ▅▅▅▅▅

He stood at the edge of the balcony of Grimmauld Place, Number 12. Under the dark sky, under the pale creamy disc of the moon, under the gentle wind that caressed his face, blank harlequin eyes stared towards the horizon. He gently arced his neck, looking at the lines of his palm, and wondered what was the point of all his attempts to find himself.

...What was the point of all of his futile attempts.

Gently clenching his fist, he concluded that his birth - his existence - was that of a mistake. For no human should have lacked emotions - for no human should have lacked a "heart". Thus, he was not human. Thus, he was a mistake. That was his conclusion he came to after years of contemplation.

Standing up straight, he wondered if he should feel despair at that. Despair at the fact that he was an abomination - an aberration - a mistake that could never be solved.

Yes, he decided. Yes, he should feel despair. A normal person would. Another proof that as a human being, he was a defect.

And as he was a fault in God's judgement, and as he was a bug, a glitch in the world's system, it was best he disappear.

That was the next logical step his own rational judgement jumped to.

He attempted a smile, tried to force some semblance of bitterness into it, and failed.

He lifted his head for a final look at the world. He gazed at the distant forest and saw a solitary bird, a sole raven perched upon a branch, its curious and ominous red orbs connected with harlequin orbs of his own. Its eyes, he noted, seemed not to look at him, but through him to something else it could not look away from.

"The raven is an ebony bird that have been used to signify death since times of yore." He heard a skeletal cackling voice resound through his mind. "To signify me. Did you know that, my Master, my Lord? Kahahaha!"

Death.

Death.

Death.

Chuckling, whether it was in bitterness or in humor was unknown even to himself. As his lips curled up, thoughts of ravens and death rang through his mind, like the tune of a music he found catchy.

"Quoth the raven..."

And harlequin eyes closed, shutting the world in darkness, never to open again.

...Yet, the unmasked face is doomed to never be realized.

"Wake up, Kotomine Kirei. Your wish will finally be granted."

Destiny, fate, the future, is fickle. Like light, it is a strange and ever changing beast. There is an infinite amount of possible futures open to all of mankind.

The tale of heroes and villains in the world is always determined by the circumstances, the events that they are placed in, regardless of their will. Such events, just like rivers shaping the rocks they carry, are the tools that sculpts the path all heroes and villains alike tread. And these events... are, without limit, in their variety.

Indeed, one could say that the Kaleidoscope, which presents an infinite array of colors, represents the boundless possibilities of "what could be" and "what could have been", which in turn, creates the endless amount of "parallel worlds" which theoretically exists.

In this tale, the life, fate, and death of the false priest is decided by an alternate genesis, another "what could have been".

And in this tale, like rocks creating ripples on a river's surface, this minor twist in the creation of the man who desired the entire world to burn in Angra Mainyu's fire changed the world forever.

and so, to quote the raven...
and so, my entire life was surely, that of...

THE REAPER OF SOULS, THE FIENDISH SHADOW, THE MASTER OF DEATH.
NEVERMORE.

~Finale~

A/N: As stated in the warnings, this is a oneshot for now as I am busy with pre-university education. I will of course, attempt to work on my stories if I have the time, but I do plead all of you to empathize with my plight :). Hence, I apologize to any of my fans. (I do not think myself as the likes of gabriel blessing, and Shezza, who produced the wonderful Denarian pieces I fell in love with recently, but I do hope I have some fans, haha.)

Thank you for reading, and I do hope all of you enjoyed it.

RESTIA

Note: I love reviews, constructive criticisms almost as much. Telling me this is "bad" doesn't help me improve. Thank you.