By Blood Connected

By Blood Connected
A fanfiction by Vir M.
Chapter 6
“Legends”

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I leafed past the title page, looking for an author or date of publication, but found none.
There were no chapters as far as I could tell, though it appeared to be a historical text of some sort, and the long, thin volume was entirely hand-written. The book was about eleven inches tall and about eight inches wide, but was only about a quarter of an inch thick; the size, length, and shape of a rather lengthy children’s picture book. It did indeed have pictures– gothic styled etchings of flames and demons wielding swords, like a mediaeval, demonic fairy tale.

I flipped back to the first page and began to read.
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Almost four hours later, I was still wrapped up in the book. I read it and re-read it repeatedly, drinking in the flow of the brilliantly written words and the sight of the gracefully drawn images.

The story was this: A demon, The Legendary Dark Knight Sparda, rebelled against his own kind and locked the demons away into their own world, away from the humans. He sacrificed a human priestess in order to trap the king of devil’s on the other side, though by doing so sealed his own powers away. He then reigned quietly over the human world for some time, until his eventual death.

The pictures of Sparda in battle portrayed him as a caped, armored figure with a horned helmet and a large, fearsome-looking sword. In contrast, the pictures displaying him as the calm, kind ruler of humans showed him as a white-haired, monocled man in a purple velvet suit. He was surprisingly handsome for a drawing, and more than once I caught myself staring at his painted features in awe.

I wonder how this got into my things. I pondered for the nth time. It must’ve been on Aeneid’s desk when I got all my stuff outta my bag, then got mixed in with my stuff as I cleaned it all up. I ran a hand through my disheveled hair. I’ll just have to leave it in his office tomorrow; It’d be too embarrassing to admit I took it. He’d make fun of me.

I put the book on my bedside table and glanced at the square-shaped timepiece on my wall: it was already eleven o’clock. I mumbled an oath as I scrambled for my English paper and got to work.

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Over the next three weeks, I never found a chance to casually leave the manuscript in his office. He was always there, watching me, those gas-flame eyes trained on my every move. The tasks he gave me were tedious– I graded endless stacks of paper, shelved astronomical numbers of books in the library, filed copious amounts of paperwork. The tasks were busy work designed to frustrate me; the more tedious they became, the tighter my nerves were stretched. And, since my rope was normally pulled taught by my irascible nature, I became even more snappish and aggressive, earning myself as much as five more sessions a night.

One night in mid-October, I was put to work in the library mending books torn and dirtied books. I had several rolls of clear packing tape scattered about me on the floor where I sat cross-legged, and was reinforcing book jackets and spines when I heard the unmistakable crash of thunder outside. I put aside the book I was doctoring, stood up, stretched, and made my way over to one of the high windows.

The rain was driving itself in sheets, and due to the frigid air, sleet was almost guaranteed to be driving along with it. I felt my blood run cold; I could never make it home in this.

I can probably bunk with Ami in the dorms tonight. I thought. Only one problem though– she doesn’t have an extra bed. I cursed my stupidity at not bringing an umbrella or a slicker and resigned myself to frostbite.

I made my way back to my work-place, thinking about the past few weeks:

“The Slasher” had killed eleven people right outside the village’s limits, and the police had brought in the FBI, though they had no more luck tracking the killer down than the local law enforcement had. I had somehow managed to make it home before dark(which was now the set curfew for citizens) only by a hair as of late; soon I would be traveling home well past twilight. The rainy season had come around (late autumn in these parts was always wet) and more than once I had arrived home chilled to the bone and shaking uncontrollably; God only knows how I had avoided hypothermia.

I sat down one more among the battered texts, heavy-hearted and dreading my trip home. I picked up a copy of The Crucible suffering from a nearly dislocated front cover, shook out a length of ultra-stick tape from a roll, and got back to work.
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About and hour and a half later, I was startled out of my fixing frenzy by the sound of footsteps. I turned; Aeneid was walking towards me over the marble floor, long stride eating up the distance. When he reached me, he bent, and began to wordlessly load the mended manuscripts onto a shelf marked “Sort.” I was very familiar with that shelf; Ms. Saxen always kept books that needed to be put into their proper place on that shelf to keep them safe until she could find time for them.

I gathered the rolls of tape into a pile, then scooped them into my arms so that I could carry them to a nearby table. I looked back at Aeneid; he was standing idly, waiting for me to finish. He spoke:

“Get your things, please, and follow me.” He then turned on his heel and marched out of the library. I trailed after him, wondering where we were going. Our time was about up, he wasn’t going to assign me a new task, was he?

Instead, he lead me to the front of the history wing’s staff entrance: it was a set of glass doors facing a car port, overhung by an awning designed to shield those under it from the weather. It did nothing for the cold, though.. He turned to me as we got outside, and said:

“Wait here, I won’t be long.” And with that, he headed out into the night.

I sat on a bench under the awning, huddling up in my jacket to keep warm, wishing he’d hurry up so I could go home and crawl into my warm bed at last.

About three minutes passed until something happened:
A low-riding, sleek black sports car pulled up in front of me, dripping water onto the pavement, exhaust showing up clearly in the cold air. I didn’t know cars from jack, but even I could see that the car was most likely very, very expensive. It was tastefully simple in design, but still able to convey the quality of its design.

Suddenly, the driver side window rolled down, revealing a very familiar pair of ice-chip eyes.

“Get in.” He said. I blanched.

“Wha-?” He cut me off impatiently.

“You can’t walk home in this.” He snapped. “Just get in the car.”

I did as I was told numbly, circling around to the passenger side of the low-slung vehicle and quickly opening the door.
~~~
The immaculately clean interior was tasteful black leather and smelled like new car, an odd combination of the leather from the seats and musky smell I couldn’t identify. The controls on the dashboard glowed a cool, vivid blue that reminded me of a deeper version of Aeneid’s eyes. The car, all in all, suited him perfectly.

As soon as I got the door closed behind me, he guided the car smoothly out from under the overhang and into the rainy dark, piloting the sleek thing with professional ease The windshield wipers beat out a steady rhythm as they whisked water off of the glass, the engine hummed rather than roared, and the heater was turned to a pleasant, cozy temperature. I turned to Aeneid, shifting in my seat so I could face him, my back leaning into the door.

“Thank you... For the ride.”

“It’s nothing.”

We sat in silence for a moment until I noticed what was connected to the tape player set into the dash:

An iPOD.

I grinned in the semi-darkness, thinking about how out of character the item looked. I was about to reach for the tiny thing when he spoke:

“Pick something.” His eyes were trained steadily on the road ahead of him. “Music, I mean.”

I held thing object in my hand a moment until it booted up, then selected his list of artists. I scrolled through it for a moment, then my eyes opened wide in shock.

//Our tastes are exactly the same!\

Indeed they were. His tracks matched mine almost exactly; new rock and old, metal with a spattering of punk and thrash, indie and alterna in abundance, with the occasional the odd rap song and country title mixed in.

//Weird.\ I thought. //I didn’t think he’d like ANY of this stuff...\

At first I wanted to pick “When You Were Young” by The Killers, but just before selecting it I thought of how romantic it was and how awkward it would be, and changed my mind. Then I thought to pick “Closer” by the Nine Inch Nails, but instantly recalled the awkward subject matter and hastily chose another. Then I found it:

*I'm looking at you through the glass...*
*Don't know how much time has passed*
*Oh god it feels like forever*
*But no one ever tells you that forever*
*Feels like home sitting all alone inside your head*


I sang along softly to the melody of one of my favorite songs, enjoying the pound of the bass through the car’s speakers. I glanced at Aeneid then; he was staring at the road, but he had shifted towards me slightly, and appeared to be listening. Embarrassed, I quieted.

“It’s a good song.” He said suddenly.

“One of my favorites.” I concurred.

*How do you feel? That is the question*
*But I forget.. you don't expect an easy answer*
*When something like a soul becomes*
*Initialized and folded up like paper dolls and little notes*
*You cant expect a bit of hope*
*And while your outside looking in*
*Describing what you see*
*Remember what your staring at is me*


I looked out the tinted window as I hummed along for a moment to the familiar verse, then whipped my head around as another voice joined mine.


*Cause I'm looking at you through the glass...*
*Don't know how much time has passed*
*All I know is that it feels like forever*
*When no one ever tells you that forever*
*Feels like home, sitting all alone inside your head*


His voice was soft, husky, and melodic; it carried a bittersweet, lamenting quality that added a strange poignancy to the lyrics. He sang facing the road, but as the last note drifted off into space, he turned to me.

His blue eyes were solemn and sincere as they bored into mine.

“You’re home.” He said softly, voice low. I peered out the windshield; indeed, we were parked in my driveway– I hadn’t even noticed our arrival. I turned back to him, hoping to offer him a smile and a thanks, but he had turned to face straight ahead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I said cheerily. “And thanks for the ride.” He nodded, not looking at me, face drawn. I climbed out of the car, Stone Sour still playing on the speakers, and ran through the rain to my front porch, shielding my head with my book bag. When I turned back to the driveway, the car was still idling quietly. I waved with one hand as I retrieved my key with the other, but couldn’t see if my farewell had been returned due to the darkness and the tinted windows. The car slowly backed out into the street, then pulled away into the rain. I turned back to the door, fit my key in the lock, then let myself in.

Almost three hours later, a very strange realization came over me.

Somehow, Aeneid had known how to find my house without any directions.

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AUTHOR TIME
Well, hi again, aren’t I updating quickly or what? It is because of this quick updating that I am going to demand something of you, my dear readers:


The whole song bit came to me randomly sometime last night, and I picked "Through Glass" mainly because the tune reminds me of something Vergil would probably listen to. I also think and iPOD would seem material to him, so that’s why I said it was out of character.... anyway.... I have a one-shot on the way about Vergil's iPOD and its similarities to Jira's tastes. Keep an eye out!

Capcom owns Vergil& The Sparda Legend
Stone Sour owns “Through Glass”
Vir M. Owns Jira and Co.