Echoes  II


Labyrinth



It was close to midnight, the round, heavy yellow globe of the moon suspended in 
the dark, navy blue sky, drowning out the pitiful light of the stars, 
illuminating his path as he wandered through the thick Makai woods. It was easy, 
leaping from branch to branch, his limbs so accustomed to the action that they 
fell into the motion without complaint, without requiring his thought or 
calculation to know whether or not a branch was too weak to hold his weight, or 
too far away for him to reach, leaving his mind free to wander the dark 
corridors of memory.
If he closed his eyes and clasped his hands, he could feel satiny, warm skin 
under his fingertips, the silken glide of long red strands as he allowed them to 
slip through his fingers, playing with the blood-toned mane while his beloved 
slept, unaware of his ministrations. He could see bright green eyes, set against 
a pale face, smiling in a teasing, loving, utterly endearing way, and loss cut 
at him, worse than any pain he’d suffered in the past.
He paused, finally, his hand resting on the thick trunk, his balance upset by 
the sudden, jerking stop. The memories and images came faster and harder, 
hitting him like physical blows, and he sank into a seated position, his small 
body curled into the crook of branch meeting trunk as he whimpered in pain. He 
had believed leaving would end this madness, that distancing himself from all 
the physical reminders would banish the mental ones, as well.
Laughter, warm and sweet ... a soft voice, teasing him, saying his name in the 
most coaxing tone possible ... wild red hair, framing a pale face with the most 
intense green eyes ... a smile that warmed his heart like nothing else ever had 
... fingers, gentle and warm, caressing his face, his body ... strong arms 
enveloping him, holding him tightly ... that laughter once more, and his name 
was on lips that smiled and spoke quietly ... splashes of blood, like thousands 
of dark rose petals, rising into the pristine white air, showering down in a 
rain from hell ...
A low growl began in the back of his throat, as he tried to banish it, to shove 
the whole thing away from him, where he could see and feel it from a distance, 
where it would not hurt him so badly ...
It didn’t work. He raised his face to the yellow moon, and for a moment, he saw 
narrow golden eyes that sparkled with age, wisdom, intelligence, and happiness 
...
His scream was more than a cry of grief. It was a name.
“KURAAAMAAAAAA!!!”






Kuraihana started when the sleeping young human beside her jerked into 
wakefulness, his entire body thrashing wildly as she attempted to hold him down, 
pinning one kicking leg and pressing down on his unbandaged shoulder. She 
studied his face worriedly as he moaned something in the half-delirium between 
awareness and sleep, moving with surprising speed on the plain cot the skeleton 
dorei had dragged in as the human’s condition steadily worsened.
Five weeks had passed since the rain-drenched night when the scarred youkai had 
dropped this boy off in her care, telling her that she was not, under any 
circumstances, to allow this human to die; not that her healer’s sensibilities 
would allow her to willingly let him slip into the shadows. Weeks had passed 
since that nasty little event, but she noted no real progress in his state; the 
wounds had only just begun to heal, and now, fevers had set in, flushing his 
pale skin and dilating his eyes, causing him to speak to phantoms that weren’t 
there, or murmur nonsense words to some imaginary lover.
His entire body suddenly went limp under her restraints, one thin hand coming up 
to grasp her own. Huge green eyes, bright with fever, slid open to fix on her 
with an almost desperate passion. They reminded her of the jeweled green leaves 
of the plants her father’s partner had delighted in creating; smoky rims of 
green that lipped a pool of endless black. His hold on her hands was painfully 
strong, especially for a weakened human.
He licked his lips and made some small, pleading sound, unintelligible, but 
plainly asking. Dilated eyes slid to her neck, where her father’s pendant of 
Makai bloodstone gleamed, and a spark of recognition danced in the burning green 
depths. His pale, hot hand moved to grasp at the stone, folding it in his palm, 
and she jerked away, startled, grabbing at his arm, then freezing as she heard 
his hoarse whisper.
“Ku ... ku ... Kuronue ...”
In a flash, she was leaning over him, her hands pinning his shoulders to the 
cot, sapphire eyes boring into emerald ones as she glared at him, both in 
surprise and a time-dulled grief. His hand still loosely grasped the pendant, 
pulling it from behind the folds of cloth at her collar, the weight dragging her 
face down a little. For a moment, in those green, green eyes, she saw the 
briefest flash of sunlit gold; for a heartbeat, it was another’s face, another’s 
eyes, that looked back at her.
She sat back, hard, the chain around her neck snapping with the force of her 
movement. His hand flopped dully onto his body, still holding the pendant with a 
stubborn refusal to release it as they continued to stare at each other. His 
chest heaved slowly, in an uneven rhythm, long fingers twitching spastically 
around their prize. She rubbed at her temple, shaking her head in surprise, 
watching him through the curtain of her dark hair as he uncurled his hand, 
opening it and lifting the pendant into the air, grasping it by the two ends of 
the broken chain, watching as it twirled, catching the dim light and reflecting 
it back as moon silvered fire.
Her words were choked out, her voice barely stronger than his, strangled behind 
a wall of shock. One hand drifted out to touch his hot, sweat-damp cheek, an 
almost-caress that smoothed back the fiery strands, allowing her to see his 
eyes. Wide, black pools, surrounded by their thin shell of bright green, and 
skirting that emerald color, was the sheen of metallic gold.
“Kurama ... Ojisan?” she asked in disbelief, watching as he closed his eyes, 
swallowed, and then nodded, in an affirmation of her barely audible question. 
“But ... but how ... ?”
She was graced with a mere slit of green as he opened his eye to look at her. 
“It ... it’s a long story, chibi-hana,” he told her, his voice rasping 
painfully. “I ... I was shot ... almost killed ... a little over twenty years 
ago. To survive, I ... I broke free of my real body and entered the Ningenkai 
... I was reborn into this body you see here, and I will stay until he dies, 
because I *am* him. We are one; there’s no way to separate us, short of death 
...” he trailed off and began to cough violently, and she moved without 
thinking, propping his head up and allowing him to battle the spell in an 
upright position.
“Kurama-ojisan ...” she whispered again, and he looked at her, eyes lidded and 
narrowed. “Do you want Otousan’s pendant? I - I could give it to you, if you 
wish. I knew he would like for you to have it ...”
His smile was watery as he shook his head. “He wanted you to have it more, 
chibi-hana,” he told her gently. “Early on in our partnership, he made me 
promise that -” he sucked in a huge breath, trying to battle fatigue, to force 
the physical pains from his wracked body, “that if anything should happen to 
him, I was to bring the pendant to you. I might have been a friend - maybe even 
a brother - but you came first. Always.”
Kuraihana watched as his eyes drifted shut, then smoothed the hair away from his 
sweat-beaded brow. The ragged breaths evened out slightly as he drifted back to 
a light sleep, trusting in her vigilance over him as he slept. Studying his 
sleeping face, she could see only the barest resemblance to the youko her father 
had loved like a brother; there was the same dark, almost feminine, tilt to his 
eyes; the same way his body curled slightly as he slept, like a fox drowsing in 
a nap. If she hadn’t been looking for them, she would have never noticed - or 
believed - that this human boy was her adopted uncle.
But he had also known Otousan’s name, a name that she herself hadn’t spoken for 
over fifty years. He knew of the pet name that only her father and uncle had 
called her; he knew of the promise to give Kuronue’s bloodstone pendant to his 
“chibi-hana.” That, more than anything else, convinced her of his identity, and 
she sat there, wringing out the fresh cloths to apply to his brow, watching as 
he thrashed and murmured, lost in the influence of his illness.
Several times during the night, she was certain that she had lost him, when the 
fever drove his body into mindless convulsions, his long limbs thrashing 
ungracefully, his thin chest heaving as he tried to breathe through the clotting 
in his throat. Her touch seemed to soothe him briefly, but then he was off 
again, riding the wave of pain and sickness, his body fighting the disease, even 
as it crept closer and closer to the end of his short human life.
Finally, at dawn, the fever broke. She had never felt so gratified, and as he 
slipped into a healing sleep, she called for a dorei - one more humanoid, more 
pleasant in appearance than the devoted little skeleton - and slipped off 
herself, intending to rest. As she closed the door and the dorei took her place 
by her friend’s bedside, he shifted a little, and she heard him breathe a name 
to the silent room.
“Hiei ...”






The fat, green-skinned youkai looked up, blinking watery yellow eyes over his 
tankard, staring at the compact, dark figure that stood before him. “Lemme get 
this straight,” the youkai slurred, more than half-drunk as he swayed in his 
chair, trying to get to his feet. “You want t’ know if I seen your little lover 
hangin’ around in any o’ the shade’s places?” He belched in contentment, 
oblivious to the smaller youkai’s disgust. “Nope, can’t say I have.” He leered. 
“But if you double the price an’ add a little more on th’ side, I could be ... 
persuaded ... to look harder.” He began to laugh, a harsh, cackling sound that 
was cut off by the sudden pressure of sharp, cold steel at his throat.
“You,” came the cold voice, harder than the ruby gleam of the eyes that bore 
into his own, “are worse than any scum I have ever encountered. You must rely on 
your purse to buy you things that others are given freely. Were you the most 
beautiful creature in the Makai, I would spit upon your offer. Why do I need to 
look elsewhere for companionship, when I have someone in my heart and home who 
would take me in, no matter how I looked, no matter how little I could pay?” 
Something cold and wet splattered on the youkai’s cheek, sliding off to drip on 
the razor edge of the blade. “I don’t think so. I’ll take my money elsewhere.”
With that, his would-be employer was gone, leaving a shaken, sobered youkai in 
his wake. Gingerly, he raised a hand to his throat, rubbing at the cut in the 
thick green skin, then shuddered violently; his nightmares would be forever 
haunted by images of that pretty little youkai, with his flashing, burning red 
eyes, eyes that had promised him a slow, painful death if he overstepped the 
bounds set for him. His hands were shaking as he banged the tankard on the 
table, his voice hoarse as he bellowed for the serving wench to bring him more 
to drink. It would take a lot to erase the memory of that one, however briefly.
Hiei didn’t waste any more time in this tarnished slum; as soon as he had probed 
the drunken street trash for all he knew, and found no word of his lover, he had 
left, eager to distance himself from this broken mockery of a city, where those 
ready and willing to die flocked in droves, searching for the end of their 
lives. He could easily give that release to any and all of them, but chose not 
to associate with them, finding them disgusting, irritating - worse than the 
humans that Kurama found so endearing.
Kurama. He swallowed a lump in his throat; the very thought of his lover’s name 
brought to mind a thousand changing, lovely images; the smiles, the winks, the 
teasing ... he shook his head clear of the fog that hovered around it and 
continued to run, easy, smooth motions that carried him farther away from that 
awful memory, the leering face with its sickly green skin and bloodshot yellow 
eyes; from that rasping voice that made that suggestion in a tone of voice that 
made his stomach churn ...
The Makai forest was dark and still as he entered, blissfully quiet, devoid of 
the noises of the tavern, of the Ningenkai; a lulling solitude that allowed him 
to rest and think. He settled himself easily into the crook of a large tree, 
folding his arms behind his head and staring blankly at the moon. It had passed 
the full stage of it’s cycle, a mere sliver of the burning yellow eye that had 
been silent witness to his grief several nights before. His eyes slid closed, 
wandering back on the events that had driven him up here, to this lonely place, 
away from everyone else.
It had been five days, five long, painful days, since he had left the Ningenkai, 
vanished from his sister’s life. He had been wandering aimlessly ever since, 
searching for his lover, lowering himself down to wandering through empty 
streets, back alleys, eyes scanning the darkness for red hair, silver hair, 
green or gold eyes, trying to sense his lover’s ki in the blinding, suffocating 
mass that populated every city, every village. Each time, he was rebuffed, with 
nothing to show for his efforts but a growing sense of depression and guilt. He 
had lost, and Kurama was the one who suffered for his failure.
From behind closed lids, he could see the same beloved face, eyes closed, 
peaceful, but with a waxen pallor that he had seen thousands of times over, a 
pallor he had hoped to never see in Kurama’s face. In his mind, he knelt beside 
the still figure, taking the cold hands in his own, lips moving, but unable to 
form the words that burned restlessly in his mind. He pressed the limp fingers 
to his lips, and allowed himself the luxury of a single tear, watching 
impassively as the hard black gem struck soft whiteness, starkly visible against 
the plain sheets. With a sweep of his hand, he brushed it away ...
Hiei’s eyes snapped open with a start, wide and unseeing for a few moments. Over 
the pounding of his heart, he could hear a small, grief-stricken keening sound, 
one that he barely registered as his own voice. When the realization dawned, he 
folded his legs to his chest, hugging himself tightly, closing his eyes, 
squeezing back hot, painful tears, his entire small form shaking slightly. 
Dimly, he wished for someone to hold him, for arms to wrap around him, cradle 
and rock him until the pain went away.
It never happened. The only one he would ever allow to hold him, or even see him 
in this state, was gone. Gone, and it was all his fault, his fault ... the tears 
broke free and slid loose, striking the earth below his branch in a hail of dark 
stones. Somewhere, deeper in the shady woods, he could hear the high, clear, 
mournful barking of foxes, which only seemed to sharpen the invisible blade that 
was slowly being pushed into his heart.
Grief made its somber presence known, and tonight, it took the form of a lonely 
boy, centuries old, yet painfully young, who sat under the wan light of the 
sickle moon and expressed his pain in a series of sharp, soft sobs that sounded 
empty and hollow in the night.






The torch in his hand sputtered, the small red-gold flames dancing wildly, 
following every movement and leaving ghostly impressions of itself in the dark 
air. He wandered through the rabbit’s warren of gray passages that doubled back 
on themselves, taking him nowhere. He grunted in minor annoyance, raising the 
torch higher, allowing it’s weak flames to spread out, illuminate a 
loosely-defined circle around his feet.
He could feel another youkai’s presence, the sensation of a powerful you-ki 
dancing at the very edge of his mind, playing on his nerves; a teasing little 
warning that vanished when he tried to fully grasp upon it. It moved and stopped 
when he did, disallowing him to get closer, always staying just far enough away 
for him to be confused, unsure if he truly felt it or not. A low growl of 
frustration pulled itself from his throat as he stalked forward, putting on 
occasional bursts of extra speed, only to find that the other youkai was just as 
fast - if not faster. He slowed, came to a stop, and the stranger’s you-ki did 
as well.
For a few moments, there and was nothing - and then, suddenly, he heard them - 
footsteps, low and tapping, coming closer at a leisurely pace. He flattened 
himself against a wall, waiting, wishing there was some way he could still see 
without extinguishing the torch, who’s bright, merry flames were a dead giveaway 
of his presence. With his free hand, he unsheathed his katana, bringing it out, 
ready for use.
He saw the tall, slender form, with it’s cloak flaring around it, several 
minutes before it walked into the light, revealing it’s face.
Violet eyes, set in a pale face, the lower half hidden by a pale gray, 
spider-like mask. Long, silky black hair spilled out down the man’s back, like 
an extra cape, and one fine dark eyebrow was quirked upwards, in a gesture of 
amused tolerance. A snarl formed in his throat, curling his lips, revealing his 
fangs in a gesture of unconscious defense as he pointed the katana straight at 
the dark figure. “Kisama,” he snapped, spitting the word out bitterly. “How come 
you’re still alive?”
The taller youkai chuckled, the sound bouncing off the blank gray walls and 
echoing loudly. “Now, now,” he said, in a scolding tone, taking a step closer, a 
movement which he responded to by pressing further back, “is that any way to 
treat an old friend? Has Kurama taught you nothing in the way of manners?” He 
shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you, Hiei.”
Hiei chose not to reply, sliding himself further away from his adversary. Once 
the initial shock had worn off, he could feel the anger inside him, raging like 
a beast, red-hot and tearing at his insides. *This* was the one who had dared 
call Kurama, Hiei’s Kurama, “his.” This was the same one who had nearly killed 
Kurama, reveling in the apparent slow, painful death. Hatred rose in a cold 
black wave, mingling with the heated crimson of anger. It took all his willpower 
to restrain himself, to prevent himself from leaping upon the taller youkai, 
from ripping that mocking white throat out with his bare hands.
Karasu watched his progress with what seemed like real amusement. “Don’t go 
away, Hiei-chan,” he purred, holding up a hand. Hiei froze, a single trickle of 
cold sweat slipping down his cheek, watching the glowing, sickly green orbs of 
you-ki surround him, cutting off his escape. This was a scene he often relived 
in his nightmares - Kurama, trapped by the bombs he couldn’t see, screaming in 
pain as they connected with his vulnerable flesh and exploded, spilling his 
blood in wild red splashes ...
Maneuvering his long, slender arm through the threatening bombs, Karasu grabbed 
his chin and tilted his face up, forcing him to meet the narrow eyes. Violet and 
red met and clashed, a heavily palpable friction between them - Karasu’s gaze 
was probing; Hiei’s defiant. He could almost picture the lazy, satisfied smile 
that spread across the face that haunted his nightmares.
“Hn. You’re a pretty little brat,” came the final verdict. “Now that I see you 
up close, I can almost understand why my lovely Kurama chose you over me.”
Hiei choked back a snarl of anger; the possessive tone Karasu used to describe 
Kurama grated on his nerves, raised his hackles, and he wanted so badly to 
plunge his katana into the bastard’s stomach. It was hard to control himself - 
he managed, with great difficulty - but he refrained from doing anything rash. 
He seriously doubted he would be able to move without setting off at least five 
bombs, and the explosions would leave him in a worse position than the one he 
was in now. “Where is Kurama?” he demanded, knowing the question was irrational 
- why would Karasu be here, with him, if he had the redhead within his grasp? - 
but his concern for his lover overwhelmed sensible thought, drove him to 
near-obsessive worry.
A dark brow rose higher. “Why, Hiei!” he murmured. “So eager to see my fox, eh? 
Well, then, I won’t deny you the last pleasure of seeing his beautiful face ... 
enjoy!” He gestured, and Hiei tensed, closing his eyes and waiting for an blast, 
for pain, but got ... nothing. When he opened his eyes again, Karasu smiled and 
pointed downward. The bombs vanished, and so did the ground. Hiei let out a 
startled yelp as he began to fall, unable to stop himself ... he looked up, and 
shook his fist at Karasu’s rapidly vanishing figure, yelling obscenities, 
thrashing in the air.
He landed lightly on the ground, the jarring thump transferred through the soles 
of his feet to shiver up his whole body. Scowling darkly, he straightened, 
noticing that somehow, during his fall, the torch had vanished. And he hadn’t 
even felt it’s disappearance. He frowned, then winced, as a painfully bright 
light struck his eyes. When his eyes finally adjusted, he looked around, a 
sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He might have landed, but his heart 
was still falling.
He was in the arena of the Ankoku Bujuutsukai.
Kurama was on the fighting platform, trapped in a net of sickly-green glowing 
orbs.
The nightmare had just begun all over again.
He watched, his heart ripping itself apart in his chest, throat dry, eyes wide. 
It was hard to tell himself that this was before Kurama had become his; that, 
for all the dying human knew, he was just a friend. His heart tried to convince 
him that it didn’t matter; his throat was blocked with all the things he wanted 
to say; he longed to cry Kurama’s name as the others did. The only consolation 
was that Kurama had survived; a huge stroke of luck, a strike of fortune that 
followed Kurama onto the stage, through his transformation to youko and back to 
human.
Karasu held up his hand, the electric color of his you-ki sparking along his 
fingertips. His blonde hair fluttered in some unfelt breeze, his pale face 
deadpan, violet eyes calm and focused on Kurama’s bloody, beaten figure. “Life 
or death?” he asked softly, ready to deal the final blow.
Kurama said nothing, but the sharpest eyes could see the glittering flickers of 
you-ki around his bent form, swirls of red as the drained fox called on his last 
reserves, dredged up what remained of his strength to help him in one last, 
desperate gambit ...
“DIE!” Karasu commanded, his voice painfully loud in Hiei’s ears as he watched, 
mute. The green lights that surrounded Kurama vanished, to be replaced by the 
huge, glowing ball of ki that shot from the taller man’s hand, hurtling towards 
their side of the arena.
Kurama’s body jerked upwards, glowing bright red, as plants exploded from the 
edges of his aura, hurtling straight towards Karasu, slicing through the other’s 
you-ki, dispersing it like a harmless cloud of seeds. The sharp points struck 
exposed skin, burrowing deeper, sucking deeply, and as Karasu stared in shock at 
the mortal wounds, Kurama’s body toppled, falling to the ground with an 
impossibly loud thud. For a moment, silence - Hiei could hear the sound of the 
plant’s greedy sucking, Karasu’s disbelieving whisper, and the cheers that 
surrounded him, but he ignored them, keeping his eyes trained on the unmoving 
figure.
Get up, he urged silently, leaning forward, the movement nearly imperceptible as 
he glared at the body. Move! You’re not dead - you can’t be dead ...
Yuusuke bellowed Kurama’s name, quickly followed by Kuwabara, but he found 
himself unable to speak. Something had lodged itself deeply into his throat, 
growing with every passing second. He could hear the shrill voices of the 
announcers as they proclaimed the winner of the match, but it didn’t matter. All 
that was important, all that mattered at the moment, was that Kurama was not 
moving. He wasn’t getting up, like he was supposed to.
In a flash, Hiei had left his place at Yuusuke’s side, moving faster than he had 
ever believed he could, his trembling hands descending to lightly grasp Kurama’s 
arm, to turn the limp body over and cradle the redhead against his own small 
body. Blood stained and marred the perfection of pale skin, seeping from his 
hairline and into his eyes, a thin trickle from the corner of his mouth. He 
reached out for the languid hand that lay by the still body ...
... the flesh under his hand was cold - and the slender chest lay, still and 
quiet - he could hear no heartbeat, no rasping breath, no indication of life 
whatsoever. With swift, jerky movements, he released the hand in his, running 
his fingers down the smooth column of Kurama’s neck, searching desperately for 
the pulse, the beat that sent life through the slim body ...
... nothing ...
A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up, his eyes blurred by tears. 
Yuusuke’s grief-filled face swam in and out of vision, a look of indescribable 
loss on his face as he reached out, slowly, to touch the smooth, cool cheek. For 
a moment, Hiei tensed, unwilling to let anyone else touch *his* fox, his love 
and lover, but acquiesced to Yuusuke’s silent request. From the other side, he 
could feel Kuwabara and Koenma, figures offering what comfort they could, boxing 
them in as they mourned the passing of the lost member of the Urameshi Team.
He was shaking uncontrollably, unable to stop himself. He hid his face in 
Kurama’s thick red hair, which smelled of herbal shampoo, sweat, blood, and 
fear. And also, on the very edges of his senses, the revoltingly sweet smell of 
death, of decay. The force of his emotion wracked his body, robbing him of 
coherent thought as he wept, tears falling in a black rain, some shattering upon 
the floor, others striking Kurama and sliding gently to the ground.
The voice he had thought forever silenced, the cry that had been fighting to 
free itself since he had first seen Kurama, caught in Karasu’s web of bombs, 
finally broke from him, a hideous, wailing cry that spiraled upwards, escaping 
his throat in a hoarse scream, vibrating throughout the whole arena. The complex 
depth of his grief, the sounds that echoed inside his wordless shriek of grief, 
the shock of it all, silenced the spectators into respectful silence; no one 
said anything as Hiei held Kurama’s dead body and sobbed.
Abruptly, he snapped awake, the hoarse scream still tearing from his throat, 
draining his lungs of oxygen, draining what little strength remained. He lay 
there, gasping, drenched in a cold sweat, trying to calm himself, to tell 
himself what he had seen was only a dream, a trick of his mind, something that 
hadn’t really happened. And hadn’t he had that dream before? Yes, yes ... but 
always, before, Kurama had been there, his mere presence a comfort as Hiei tried 
to regain lost composure. He could always comfort himself after these nightmares 
by watching his lover sleep, or touching him, holding him and listening to the 
heartbeat and soft breathing, and know, for sure, that his lover was alive.
Now, however ... now, he didn’t even have that weak comfort. He was alone, and 
he didn’t even know if Kurama was alive. He could be dead, his soul destroyed by 
a souleater - a thought that didn’t bear more than a second’s consideration - or 
he could be alive, in pain, weakened and tortured. His mind rolled in incoherent 
grief, fear, shock, and worry; all he could see was Kurama’s face, too pale, and 
the blood, all the blood that stained it, the red that rent and tore and 
destroyed the white ...
Once more, the moon bore silent testimony as the young-old boy wailed his grief 
to the night.