Note: This version is a lot better than the AO3 version because I edited + added bold/italics...
In wanting to live, he has caused his own death. How he fell from redemption and the aftermath of his actions, outmaneuvered in the twisted game of chess known as the Holy War. But..he had never been good at chess, whether against adults or children.
(In memoriam of Suman Dark. Episode 52.)
Notes: I have sinned. remember Suman? Yeah, that guy. This also has a lot better formatting than the AO3 version and a bit more edited than the Fanfiction version. SHAMLESS SELF-ADVERTISEMENT, LET’S GO.
Disclaimer: D. Gray-man is obviously not owned by me as this is, well, FAN-Fiction, and I will never be as amazing as Hoshino-sensei.
'I wanted to see my family.'
'I'm not worth saving. My friends...so many people..I've committed a sin that I can never atone for. There's no point in saving me!'
/You're...You're going to live! Be happy, for them too!/
/I'm praying for your happiness./
He had betrayed his comrades, selling out their names for his pathetic life but he wanted to live, to see Jamie's smiling face and teddy bear clutched in hand, oh, how he had fallen...making a deal with the devil, the Noah, Tyki Mikk, so that he could see them again...Even so..this boy, this Allen Walker, prayed for his happiness. He wanted him to live just as he did.
He remembered on every mission he'd open his pocket watch and glance at the ticking clock, hoping and praying for her recovery. To see her again, bouncing pigtails ending in curls and bright chocolate-brown eyes and laughter, always laughing until she came down with illness and became so weak, so frail...He'd laid a black-gloved hand on her head when he'd left with a tentative promise of return, but he wasn't sure if he'd come back. To the Order, to become another pawn in their Holy War. The price to pay for the medical fees...He'd do anything for his Jamie. To see her up and well, smiling again...
He'd never been good at chess, whether be it against children or adults alike. Loneliness trailed his footsteps within the Order, having been forced to join in the first place. Johnny...their rooms had been nearby and they'd often have encounters in which they'd play chess, often ending in he being the (sore) loser and the excitable young Science Division member winning, and Johnny would rub at his large, swirling glasses in sheepish pride. Every time Suman lost, he'd ignore him, bitter annoyance leaving an acrid taste in his mouth and forming a thundercloud in his sulking the entire time until he was sent on a mission. They'd meet again in the cafeteria, and he'd inquire,
As if the entire incident had never occurred in the first place. It was a pleasant cycle, camaraderie easygoing and occasionally broken by the stunning event of Suman winning, by some defiance of the universe's rules.
The last time that Johnny and he had played he'd lost. Next time he saw him he had to demand a rematch. He had to...
One hundred forty-two and six.
He'd killed them all, even if it wasn't by his own hand, parasitic innocence gauntlet-clad or not.
One hundred forty-two Finders and six Exorcists, Tyki Mikk had smiled with a sinister, maniacal leer, in a pleasant voice as if discussing taking him for tea or perhaps the weather, words ringing out into the resounding silence. Overcast with heavy showers of blood. His comrades...
He'd Fallen. Taking so many more lives for his selfish wish...How he had Fallen...How he would never forgive...the Innocence...as if the face of God was punishing him...atonement for his sins that he could never repay..
Tina Spark. Sol Galen. Gwen Flail. Kazaana Reed. Chalker Laboun.
He'd imagined them all in neat white coffins all in a row, corpses cremated into ashes so their families could not birth demons from tragedy, to make a deal with the devil and resurrect them from the grave...
Guilt overwhelmed him in a deluge of emotion but...but...
(Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.)
/You're safe now, Suman!/
He'd always loved his wife's cooking. He missed the taste of home. Although the Order's food was top-notch, it would never compare to that of his wife's meals, striking a chord of nostalgia in his heartstrings, a chord long left unplucked.
(I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.)
/As long as he lives, hope may be born anew. I want to believe that.../
/Come, Suman. Let's go home...to our families..."/
He could not speak. He could not move or breathe or cry out because cannibalistic, dark butterflies of miasma, purple and black consumed him from within and he could not scream.
Pointed spires piercing the celeste sky speckled with whispers of breeze and impeccable cotton-clouds, from columns supporting colossal buildings and darkened glass, rough stone and cobbled streets and chimney-tops from sloping residences, the leaves of a tree outside ruffling in the breeze a young girl's voice spoke, finally awoken from her seemingly eternal slumber.
Her face was solemn as compared to her enthusiastic cheer, usually infectious, lilac nightgown with ruffles loose against her neck, mahogany hair straight and loose against her back, coffee-brown teddy bear cradled in far-too-still hands, button eyes staring up at her and her mouth opened once again, that solemn little voice far too serious for her age.
"I don't really remember his face, but I'm sure it was my father."
(She wanted to see him again, but not like this...Never like this...Papa, please come home...)
"He was smiling (yet he looked so very sad and why was that?) and waving his hand at me." (Waving goodbye? Daddy, I don't want you to go...)
The doctor's face, of kindly old man with balding white hair stilled, anticipating her final words as she voiced her concerns aloud that...that...
"It was as though...It was though he was saying goodbye."
She turned to look at the window, head resting against the bed rest and the covers rustled as she gazed out to the bright sky she hoped her father was seeing, the same sky...
"My father's out there, somewhere, right?"
Her voice was quiet yet so desolately hopeful, wanting the answer to be yes, yes, with no hesitation, iron conviction and no doubts that he...he...
"He'll come back someday, won't he...?"
She turned back, eyes the epitome of the optimistic phrase, ‘even in tragedy there is hope.’ Fawn eyes depths of brimming worry and mouth open in surprise, waiting desperately in response of his reply.
Her eyebrows were raised when the doctor laid a kindly, elderly hand (all bones and old joints, creaking like an old door hinge, yet she took comfort in the gesture,) pristine white coat rumpling, he finally responded,
"Of course he will, Jamie."
(All he wanted was to go home but he never came back. He promised. Daddy /promised/...)
Somewhere in the forests of China Tyki Mikk was slowly clapping at the grand show, a magnificent scenario that his actors had performed in, yes, they had done well, and it was one of the best performances he had seen in a long time.
Shadowed golden eyes like that of a particularly predatory snake or perhaps a content cat pleased from its now incapacitated prey glowed with pleasure, having caught its canary and toyed with its prey. Grey skin like the ashes of the deceased, the perfect gentleman with an impeccable black top hat, and white collars of a dress shirt tucked into a suit, just below a sinister smirk made to complete his ensemble, spreading wider than humanly possible.
(Technically speaking, he was never really human to begin with, was he?)
His suit was untouched from the (mostly one-sided) battle had ensued, dusting it off nevertheless, he called his farewells with a teasing wave, wanting to laugh harder than he had in a long time. Stygian and deep wisteria, cannibalistic butterfly golems more satisfied with their meal, more than they had been in quite a long time. They fluttered slowly yet menacingly, mockingly, as if in parting.
“Tchau, Suman, vai com Deus!”
dededos
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